Wild Card (A Sinatra Thriller Book 2)

by Alan Lee

  “You arrested him in the past?”

  “No. Couldn’t find him. Got two of his guys, though.”

  “Arresting Petrov will make you Solntevskaya enemy number one. Are you sure you want to be on their radar?”

  “They already know me, Beck. I’m in these guys’ nightmares.”

  “The NSA considers them the most well-organized crime syndicate on earth. Maybe he’s small potatoes in the overall architecture but—”

  “Anatoly is here for the poker tournament. Has to be.”

  Beck set her phone down and watched the crowd of Russians at the reception desk. Five men and one woman. “You have a plan?”

  “Arrest Anatoly. He’s on my bucket list anyway. Then I take his seat at the tournament.”

  “If the tournament is invitation only, it might not work that way.”

  “For me it will. Plus Anatoly’s seat is already paid for, saving America a million dollars. Dios mio, I’m so good at my job it’s scary.”

  The Russian mob left the registration desk and moved for the elevator bank. They moved as one, dressed in black, with bleary and suspicious glares.

  “Now what?”

  “Now we get your gun, Beck.”

  11

  Manny flirted with Liza at the desk long enough to discover Anatoly Petrov had two rooms on the top floor. 2502, a king bed; 2504, two queens.

  Petrov would be in 2502 with his wife or girlfriend.

  Beck strode the empty hallway on the twenty-fifth floor—warm with low lights and scented with fresh magnolias—holding a welcome basket and a bottle of champagne. Manny hugged the wall, Glock held low in his right fist.

  “This won’t work,” she whispered.

  “You always say that. And it always does.”

  “What if his whole gang is in one room?”

  “No way. They’re tired from travel. They’re lying on their beds, switching television channels. Petrov is alone with the woman in his room. Knock, hold up the basket, and when he opens the door move out of the way.”

  “You need backup.”

  “Focus, Beck. You’re the backup.”

  They neared 2502 and heard raised voices. A man’s and a woman’s. Angry cries piercing the walls.

  Russians, always shouting.

  Beck froze. 2502 opened and a man stormed out, chased by a woman. Anatoly Petrov’s face was red, his fists on his hips. His jaw jutted and he refused to look at the woman, who trailed with a shaking accusatory finger, just as angry.

  She snapped, “Ty glupets. Khvatit igrat' v karty i byt' muzhchinoy!”

  Petrov spun and struck her. Openhanded smack across the right cheek—savage, sudden, and loud. Beck gasped; Manny winced. Petrov raised his hand again but paused—they weren’t alone in the hallway. His eyes locked on Beck. The Russian woman staggered backwards, holding her face and following his gaze.

  Petrov said, “Privet! Kto ty, chert voz’mi…” He paused and his eyes shifted to Manny. His entire body jerked, like he’d suddenly been filled with more air. Truth and awareness thundered.

  Manny moved first, pivoting around Beck.

  Petrov opened his mouth to shout.

  Beck dropped the basket and bottle. Went for her gun, a smooth and practiced motion Manny noted in his periphery.

  Half a scream from Petrov, then he choked, Manny’s arm circling his throat. Windpipe crushed by a strong bicep and forearm. Petrov kicking backwards and they crunched into the hallway wall. Manny hammering the Glock grip into Petrov’s skull.

  Beck kept focus on her responsibility—the woman, imperial and amused despite the carmine handprint on her cheek. Beck closed the distance and pressed the muzzle of her Glock 27 against the woman’s forehead, and said, “Don’t try it. Because I will.” With steady pressure, she backed the woman into 2502.

  She knew this wouldn’t work.

  The Russian lurched forward, Manny on his back. The door to 2503 opened, an older woman peeking at the commotion. Manny and Petrov crashed through her door into the suite’s sitting area, knocking her aside.

  The Russian dropped and twisted out of Manny’s grip. Squirmed loose like a fish. Fled across the room, flinging books and remotes, Manny dodging. He tried to shout but Manny kicked him in the chest, knocking the air out. Manny grabbed a lamp and cracked Petrov’s head with the heavy base; the smaller man sprawled across the bed.

  His lights dimmed. Went limp.

  Manny sprang across the room and closed the door.

  The older woman, cowering near the sinks, whispered, “It’s you, from the poker table.”

  Manny wiped his mouth. “And it’s you, cute rich lady in the hot outfit. Sorry about the mess. The guy’s Russian—he deserved it.” Manny glared through the peephole.

  Anatoly Petrov’s squadron of guards emerged from their room, guns drawn, to inspect the ruckus. A hulking, intimidating crew dressed in black. The leader knocked on 2502 and tilted his ear to listen.

  “Vse v poryadke?”

  Inside 2502, Beck kept her gun trained on the woman. She whispered, “I know Russian. No games. Tell them you and Anatoly are fine.”

  The woman smirked. She bore the stripe on her face proudly, like a badge of disdain for the lesser woman. She called, “My v poryadke. Spasibo.”

  We are fine, thank you.

  The men trudged back to their room, grumbling about the common Petrov outbursts. Manny watched from the peephole and wiped his forehead.

  His plans always worked.

  “How long before they know you’re missing?” Beck asked. They’d returned to their room, 707.

  The woman sat on the swivel chair, legs crossed, still smirking. Without taking her eyes off Manny, she coolly replied, “We have lunch reservation at noon.”

  Vee ‘ave lanch reservation.

  Manny said, “Anatoly’s here for the poker game. Right?”

  “I know you,” said the woman. “Anatoly know you. You’re American agent.”

  “I’m the American agent.” Manny indicated Anatoly on the bed, wrists bound, still insensate. “Poker game?”

  For a Russian, the woman was exceptionally beautiful, Manny thought. Tall and strong, stark blue eyes common to her country. Puffy lips and outrageous cheekbones. Her body had been the beneficiary of surgical enhancement. She said, “Yes, he came for cards. Stupid game for boys. Anatoly spoke of you. Only American he feared. And now you are here.”

  “What’s your name?

  “Varvara.”

  Manny rolled his eyes. That wasn’t a name. Crazy Russians.

  “You’re his wife?”

  She nodded. “Da.”

  “What time does the poker game start?” asked Manny.

  “For cards? Why does matter?”

  “I’m taking his place at the game.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “What will you do with Anatoly?”

  Vat vill you doo?

  “He’s under arrest for trafficking and racketeering and tax evasion and a host of other offenses,” said Beck.

  Varvara ran her eyes up and down Manny, casual and slow. “You arrest my husband.”

  “Da. You play along the next few hours and I’ll release you when I’m through.”

  “When you are through with me.”

  “Free to go. A controlled purchase."

  She made a pouting displeased face. “I do not want to be free.”

  “Explain.”

  She wet her lips with a soft sucking sound. “I will stay with you. After.”

  “Nope,” said Manny.

  “I will.”

  Beck shook her head. “No way.”

  “Then I do not play your games.”

  “You cooperate or I put you in a dungeon. Get it? I only need you a couple days,” said Manny. “Help me and no jail time, except when you visit your husband.”

  “Visit?” She laughed, mean and without pleasure. “I am slave to husband. I am servant to cruel man, a killer. I run away befor
e and he cripple my sister as punishment. I want out, American agent, before he kills me.”

  Beck shared a glance with Manny. Plot twist. This was a bad idea. She said, “You seek asylum? Protection?”

  “Da. And for sister.”

  “Easy. Work with me, Russian mama, the next few days. Get me in the tournament. Then America will take you someplace Anatoly’ll never find.”

  “Stay with you, American agent, and then I vanish?”

  “Right.”

  Her smile intensified, a tight provocative curl. “Then I am yours.”

  Beck pinched the bridge of her nose between her eyes and sighed. “Of course you are.”

  Anatoly Petrov came awake as Manny dumped him into the trunk of his Tesla deep in the jungle of the MGM’s underground parking garage. His ankles and wrists were bound with plasticuffs, his mouth taped closed.

  He writhed and grunted in the small space, eyes wild and searching.

  Manny patted Anatoly’s cheek. “You besmirched America, comrade. Now you rot in her jails. You like that, besmirch? I know all the great words. If I win, I’ll send you unlimited cartons of cigarettes.”

  Anatoly roared quietly as Manny slammed the hood.

  He slid into the driver’s seat and punched the address of the FBI headquarters in Washington into the car’s processor. The vehicle hummed to life, ready to go. Unbelievable—the car would deliver Anatoly autonomously.

  Maybe Weaver herself would haul him out of the trunk, a feather in her cap.

  But then what? Manny wouldn’t have a car. Hm.

  He punched more buttons on the screen, searching through commands. He needed the car to deliver its package and return. Could that be done?

  His eyes stopped on a feature—‘Shadow Mode.’ He skimmed the instructions for the car’s shadow feature—it allowed a phone to be paired to the Tesla, and the car would shadow the phone using location services, doing its best to follow the phone while sticking to roads and speed limits.

  Good grief, he wasn’t ready for the scary infinite future.

  He paired his cell phone with the Tesla, and new commands popped on the console. The car would deliver its package and then return to the phone—presumably coordinating with the phone’s GPS—where it would park.

  Ay dios mio.

  He stood and closed the driver door.

  Without sound, the car reversed, shifted gears, and drove into the garage labyrinth. Vaguely audible, Anatoly kicking in the trunk.

  12

  Because this was a formal occasion with at least nine million dollars at stake, Manny wore the blue sports jacket instead of the cream; dark trousers; his shirt tucked in but the top two buttons loose; leather boat shoes, no socks; brown belt; leather watch; the entire outfit bordering on too tight but finding an elegant equilibrium to highlight his physique.

  He emerged from the partially hidden sink area of their hotel room and Varvara took a moment to catch her breath. “You…are American agent, da?”

  “Yes, but I care more than the others.”

  Varvara needed to change but they couldn’t return to the twenty-fifth floor in case the Russians were wise to Anatoly’s disappearance—they’d be prowling soon, if not already. They took her downstairs and she selected a backless satin red gown with plunging neckline, hourglass figure on display. She emerged from the dressing room and requested Manny help her with the necklace.

  “Help her, Sinatra,” said Beck, a wry twist to her lips. “If you don’t, she’ll fall out of the dress. She’s barely in.”

  “It is hard to find dress that fits me,” said Varvara, watching Beck in the mirror. “I do not have your cute body, which can fit into anything, like a little girl.”

  “Now your husband’s in jail, I hope those things are paid off,” she muttered. “It’d be a shame if you’re broke and default on the loan and have to give them back to the surgeon.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “I bet.”

  Manny grinned to himself. He enjoyed spiteful Beck.

  Varvara touched Manny’s hand. “Your name is Sinatra? Here, you take.” From her purse she produced two tickets, entrance into the poker game, starting in thirty minutes.

  Eyes alert for the Russian hit squad, Manny followed the directions on the back of the tickets to the high stakes area—blackjack was already in top gear—to an unmarked hallway beyond. Varvara walked beside him, clutching his bicep, while Beck trailed. Both women wore heels and Beck scrutinized Varvara to pick up hints. Like balancing on a tightrope.

  They reached another doorway, barred by two MGM security personnel. Beyond, a poker table glowed under a chandelier.

  “Tickets please, sir.”

  Manny delivered them.

  The guard gave Manny a second look. “Anatoly Petrov?”

  “I am Varvara Petrov,” she said, still holding Manny’s arm. She raised her chin a degree. “Anatoly will not be at game, so I transfer ownership to Sinatra.”

  Vill not be.

  “Yes ma’am.” The guards stepped aside but halted Beck. “Tickets please, Miss.”

  “I’m with…” Beck made a soft sucking sound at her teeth, irritated. “I’m with Varvara Petrov.”

  “Her tickets are used, ma’am. You need your own.”

  Beck and Manny searched each other’s eyes. Unforeseen obstacle. Manny needed her in the room, helping watch for cheating or other shenanigans. How could they—-

  “She’s with me,” said Rocky Rickard. He came out of the room and shook the guards’ hands like they were old friends and he kissed Beck on the cheek. He fingered her dress’s long sleeves and said, “A sapphire Sophia Kah. Well done, Annie Doyle. You’re more vixen than you let on. You’re here for the poker game?”

  “I came to watch. Do you play?”

  “Yes but without skill or any hope of winning. I’m here as a bachelor—please join us as my date. Losing will be a treat with you in attendance,” he said.

  Manny, watching this, was again charmed on her behalf.

  “With pleasure.”

  Rocky took her hand and led her into the room, explaining the private poker salon had been decorated in imitation of Bobby’s Room at the Bellagio—vaguely oriental, low aureate lights, saffron walls, jardinieres in the corners, divans and ottomans for the spectators, doors hidden by filigreed screens the color of qing. Two lengthy televisions ruined the atmosphere, set into opposite walls—one television for sports, the other displayed tournament statistics.

  Rocky greeted Manny and shook his hand. “Mr. Sinatra, I had the pleasure of watching you play cards last night. You’re still green but you play with a controlled rage. Already you’re a better player than me, and that’s not false modesty.”

  “Señor Rickard, you’re in the tournament? The house always wins, right?”

  “Usually, but I’ll be playing as myself, not as the house. Trust me, my money is dead.”

  “What are your intentions with Annie Doyle?” He indicated Beck, who looked as though she debated homicide.

  Rocky laughed, that warm and genuine timbre. “It’s not her you should worry about, Mr. Sinatra. You should worry for me. I fear Ms. Doyle is more than she lets on, and I’m already in her clutches.”

  “And don’t you forget it,” said Beck.

  She and Rocky still held hands and Manny noted she squeezed his fingers.

  Rocky kissed Varvara on the cheek and said, “Privet, moya lyubov'. Tvoyego muzha zdes' ne budet?”

  Good to see you, my love. Your husband will not join us?

  Varvara replied, “Net, on zaderzhivayetsya. Sinatra igrayet za nego.”

  No, he is delayed. Sinatra plays for him.

  “Very good. Come, Señor Sinatra, let me introduce you around.”

  By all means, thought Manny. Benjamin Curtis hadn’t arrived yet, but if the invitation of Anatoly Petrov was any indication, the room was full of bastards waiting for handcuffs.

  Rocky presented Manny to a pair in the corner. “Gentl
emen, my friend Mr. Sinatra, a last minute addition, taking the place of Gospodin Petrov. Sinatra this is Oliver Wright and his hired muscle. Mr. Wright is a pro from across the pond.”

  Manny shook hands with Oliver Wright and said, “You’re British?”

  “English, which is even better, sir, I believe.” Oliver Wright was too pale but he had a great chin and icy blue eyes a lesser man would’ve found intimidating. Manny shook the hand of Mr. Wright’s bodyguard, also too pale but with enough muscles to compensate. Mr. Wright said, “A late entry? No one died, I hope. I’d hate to miss the fun.”

  They moved on, Manny retaining the impression Mr. Wright was more trouble than he appeared. Dangerous men could be spotted, if one had practice.

  Rocky Rickard introduced him to an oil magnate from Texas, nicknamed Sparks, and to Manny’s surprise the older woman from last night’s poker table. She was playing today for a million.

  With a sly wink she told Rocky, “I know Sinatra, Mr. Rickard. In fact he was in my room just this morning, weren’t you, love?”

  “All too briefly.”

  “Wasn’t it, though. You young men have no staying power. And yet you were passionate enough to leave my bed a mess.”

  Everyone laughed—aren’t we hilarious, us degenerates swapping innuendoes!

  “You know these two, I’m sure,” said Rickard, bringing Manny to another set of men.

  “I don’t,” said Manny and he shook their hands. “Sinatra.”

  “You’re joking,” said Rocky, dubious. “Truly, you don’t know them?”

  “Celebrities, I assume? Don’t be offended. I know nothing of that world.”

  “This is Phil Ivey,” said Rocky, clapping the first man on the shoulder. He was black and handsome, maybe mid-forties, a striking resemblance to Tiger Woods. “Widely considered the best poker player in the world.”

  “Pleasure. I’m considered the worst, Mr. Ivey,” said Manny.

  “And this is Tom Dwan, an online poker prodigy who’s been stealing millions at the poker table at Macao.”

  Tom Dwan was younger, early thirties, pale and pasty enough to be British, but he greeted Manny with a mumbling American accent.