Wild Card (A Sinatra Thriller Book 2)

by Alan Lee

  “Bien sûr!”

  “Stop crying, Louis. You’re just not very good.” Beck felt sharks in frenzy bumping the glass at her feet.

  Louis the French butcher turned a shade of red close to purple. He held the knife as if ready to throw.

  Beck said, “You have no proof of anything, Louis.”

  “The bitch bet it all with eight! She knew I had a seven. How else could she do it?”

  “You haven’t acted yet, sir,” said the dealer, using the firm and crisp voice hardened over the years.

  “Moving all-in with eight.” Louis jammed his knife directly into the green felt and spit onto the table. “Bullshit.”

  “I told you, I have an Ace,” said Beck. Very carefully, while Louis watched, she lowered her glasses into her lap, as if trying to hide them.

  His eyes rounded. “There! It is her glasses, you idiots!”

  “Stop it, Louis. My glasses are fine.”

  “Stop the lies or I cut out your tongue, American.” Louis laid his hand on top of the knife. “I cut it out right now.”

  Two members of Black Jacket moved forward at the direct threat. Got close enough to grab him if necessary.

  Louis glanced at them and then at Rocky. Rolled his eyes and groaned. Stood up straighter and cleared his throat. Smoothed his shirt and jacket. “A joke. Calm down, idiots. But she cheats, Monsieur Rickard. She sees markings with her glasses.”

  Another Black Jacket guard came to stand behind Beck’s chair.

  Jennifer Harmon made a sighing noise and rubbed at her forehead.

  “A serious accusation, Louis,” said Rocky. “I sincerely doubt the cards are marked.”

  “They are! And she just put her glasses away.”

  Rocky smiled sadly at her. “Ms. Doyle, where are your glasses?”

  “In my hand.”

  “You’re being accused of cheating. Absurd, I know. But…would you mind? If I see the glasses?”

  She raised them and the Black Jacket guard took them. He handed them to Rocky. With a last, regretful look at Beck, he peered through the glasses at the table. Examined the cards. Got closer and moved the cards around, and then handed them to a Black Jacket guard and said, “You see anything?”

  The big guard went through the same inspection. “Nope. Normal glasses.”

  Rocky said, “I’ve had enough, Louis. One more outburst from you and you will be ejected in third place.”

  Louis looked crest fallen. “But…the glasses? She bet her eight. She knew I had seven.”

  “She bluffed you out.”

  “I never said I had an eight, Louis. Where’d you get that idea?” said Beck.

  He spit again. “Va te faire foutre.”

  “One moment, please,” said Rocky as the dealer prepared to push the large pile of chips to Beck. “Ms. Doyle brings up an interesting point. You keep shouting she has an eight. Why? Where’d you get that information? She hasn’t revealed her cards.”

  “Because…” Louis’s countenance of anger slackened. Instead of outrage there was sudden concern. “Because I am a professional, and you Americans are not, and I guessed.”

  “I have a theory,” said Beck, sliding her glasses back on. “I suggest the cards are marked. And he can see them.”

  The two Black Jacket members behind Louis were staring hard, looking as though they wanted the accusation to be true, as though teaching the Frenchman a lesson would be cathartic.

  “Bullshit,” said Louis.

  “Ms. Doyle, the hand is over. You win the pot. Would you mind telling us, do you have an eight?” asked Rocky. Louis made a slight twisting motion, like he wanted to stop time.

  She peeked at her cards and then turned one up.

  An eight.

  “He knew,” said Beck. “He absolutely knew I had an eight. I believe he is wearing tinted lenses and he’s been marking cards. It would explain a lot.”

  “Vous êtes des imbéciles, how would I mark cards?”

  Jen Harmon burst, “It’s his watch! He’s always playing with it. One hand twists the knife, the other fiddles with his wrist. Look at his watch and I bet you’ll find a pad.”

  “Louis, I’d like to see your watch,”said Rocky.

  “And you can jump up your own ass, Monsieur.”

  “You can hand me the watch or Black Jacket can remove it.”

  “You know what I think,” said a Black Jacket guard behind Louis. He and the other man grabbed Louis and forcefully removed the watch. “Let’s do it the hard way, for fun.” Louis looked on, helpless.

  Rocky examined the thick watch. The handsome laugh lines around his eyes tightened and he handed it to Jen Harmon.

  She gasped. “I knew it!”

  “You’re marking cards, Louis.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “If I have Black Jacket pull contacts out of your eyes, I’d use them to see the marks. Right? You’ve been cheating this whole time.”

  “You want my contacts? Fine. I give you them. Release me. Relâche moi.”

  The men let go of his arms.

  Louis did not reach for his eyes. Instead one hand slipped quickly into his jacket and came out holding a device.

  Beck knew it immediately, as did the guards.

  An M67. A grenade.

  The world seemed to suck in on itself.

  Before anyone could react, he removed the safety clip and tugged out the pull ring, arming the device. Only his pressure on the spoon kept the grenade’s fuse from igniting.

  Screams in the enrapt audience broke the horrible spell. Rocky took a step away, hands raised. Jen got up and walked backwards, cursing.

  The men of Black Jacket made no move to get the grenade. They knew they weren’t quick enough; all he had to do was release and the spoon would fly.

  “You Americans, so nosy and stupid. Except you, little bitch,” he said, pointing at Beck with the hand holding the grenade. “Except you. So I think maybe I take you with me.”

  34

  Louis the French butcher tugged his knife loose, circled the table, and pressed the tip of the knife firmly into the flesh under Beck’s chin. “Get up.”

  She did, hands raised.

  “Don’t worry, Annie.” Rocky looked like a man watching his future slip away, watching his fortunes evaporate, but keeping a brave face. “We won’t let him leave with you.”

  “Leave?” Louis laughed. “Américains stupides, I do not leave.”

  “I expected you to demand a boat.”

  The audience of spectators was silently fleeing through the exits.

  “No, Monsieur Rickard. I have many enemies. I came here to win or die trying. Gagner ou mourir en essayant. My money has been taken from me, and so I play poker. But I know your Black Jacket and your American mob, they will never let me leave.”

  “Release her and we’ll figure this out, Louis.”

  “Lies. I am dead man. I know this, you know this. And so.” He made a little shrugging motion. “I take her with me.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” With his knife, he drew a line down Beck’s cheek. The scratch pinked and a drop of blood appeared. “It is the French way. I surrender. But I need little bitch to keep me company. The only one smart enough to beat me.”

  “Louis, stop. She is important to me. Quite valuable. I’m willing to bargain. A fortune.”

  “More lies, Rickard.” He raised the grenade into the air. “What is your American phrase? Last words?”

  “Yeah,” said Manny, standing at the exit, dripping water and glaring down the sight of his pistol. “France sucks.”

  He fired three times. The first two caught Louis in the spine, and the third drilled into his skull. The grenade tossed up, safety spoon flying. The device’s striker hit the cap and the fuse ignited.

  Four seconds until detonation.

  Manny already moving, charging through the room. He caught the grenade before it impacted the floor.

  Louis fell, dead, against the poker table and tumbl
ed onto the glass.

  Three seconds.

  Rocky grabbing at Beck and hauling her backward. Beck screaming for Sinatra. Black Jacket guards running for the exists, not quick enough.

  Two seconds.

  Manny fell on top of Louis. Shoving the grenade under the corpse. Pinning the explosive device between Louis’s abdomen and the glass.

  On all fours, Manny pressed the body tight against the floor. Louis would absorb much of the flack.

  Sudden eerie silence. Then, “Sinatra!”

  Manny gave her a half grin. “Coast Guard’s coming. Stay away from the sharks. I knew you’d win, Beck.”

  The fuse reached.

  35

  Ignition. The grenade ballooned outward and erupted. Metals shards hurled through Louis and embedded into the glass. Slivers of the casing pierced Louis and reached Manny’s abdomen but they weren’t lethal, only painful. Manny’s face and the front of his jacket and shirt splattered red.

  The glass beneath the body fragmented. For three seconds nothing happened. Only echoes. Then loud snaps seemed to ricochet from the deep. The floor split in jagged cracks, spider-webbing outward from the detonation. Hydrostatic pressure mounting. First a small spray of water. Then a thick gout.

  Manny shouting, “Where’s Curtis?”

  Beck frantic. “I don’t know! I lost him!”

  The floor surrendered. Great wedges of glass broke upward into the poker room and the sea came in. The poker table tipped sideways and bobbed in the roil. Chairs sinking. Liquor bottles sliding off shelves. The entire yacht groaned.

  Manny up and scrambling across thick glass like an ice floe. He reached the far side as more of the bay overwhelmed the room. A thundering swirl rose and caught Beck and Rickard as they stumbled for the exit. The television monitor broke free from the wall and fell on them.

  Dimly he became aware of his cell ringing in his pants. It was Weaver calling. Thank God for waterproof phones.

  He could barely hear Weaver over the flood. “I got eyes on Benjamin Curtis!” she said. “He’s being dumped into a boat off the port bow. Look for my drone, he’s directly under it.”

  Manny above deck now, the evening sun blood orange. Partiers screaming, donning their clothes, hugging each other. Crew members shouting for the emergency life rafts.“There’s enough room for everyone! Remain calm!”

  Manny fought against the crowd, making his way forward. There! Weaver’s airborne drone whining and hovering fifty feet in the air. He couldn’t see the governor yet.

  Only The Innocent’s captain had turned the yacht for Hart-Miller but already her propellers were too far submerged. She moved sluggishly, the island too distant.

  Manny sprinted along the rail, looking over. A white speedboat with three men aboard, directly under the ship’s prow. Oliver Wright was using a small barge pole to push his boat away from the yacht, cradling his injured hand.

  Manny grabbed the rail and hopped over. He intended to land on Oliver Wright and collapse the man’s legs, hopefully break them, but the turning yacht and bobbing boat threw off his aim. He landed hard in the center, next to Governor Benjamin Curtis. The man’s wrists were bound with tape, and so were his feet. Mouth gagged.

  Oliver felt the impact and swiveled. Manny reached for his gun.

  The Englishman already had his out. Aimed it at Manny. “Enough, Sinatra.”

  Manny stopped. Raised his hands.

  The guy at the wheel said, “Yo, what’s going on?”

  “You don’t bloody well give up, do you, Sinatra.”

  Manny gave a slight shrug. “Not much of a reason to yet.”

  “You’re bleeding everywhere.”

  “It’ll take more than a grenade.”

  “Hey,” said the guy at the boat’s controls. “What is this? Should we offer to ferry passengers? That yacht’s sinking, you know.”

  They ignored him.

  “The game’s up, Sinatra. I got my man and we’re off for the horizon. You’re a good chap, lots of nerve. Maybe the only American with any. Jump overboard and I’ll let you live.”

  “Me jump?” Manny snorted. “Why? I won.”

  “You have?” The man chuckled and waggled the pistol. “Doesn’t appear so.”

  “America versus England? A foregone conclusion.”

  “Hey! Someone tell me what’s going on!”

  Manny turned his head to the boat’s pilot. “Who’re you?”

  “Kevin. Out of The Bay’s Best Boat Rentals. Guy with the gun rented me for the whole day. Who’re you?”

  “Sinatra. I’m a federal agent. This is an assassin from England, trying to kidnap an American governor. You up to speed?”

  “Your name’s Sinatra? He’s kidnapping a governor, that a joke?”

  “Look for yourself.” Hands still raised, Manny nodded at the governor. “That’s Benjamin Curtis.”

  “Who?”

  Oliver Wright laughed. “Ah yes, the politically intelligent and sweaty masses of America. Last chance, Sinatra. Else I’ll shoot you.”

  “I’m not jumping and no you won’t. England doesn’t have the guts.”

  “England doesn’t have the guts? Such an insufferable Yankee thing to say. Because our culture isn’t obsessed with violence, we don’t have the guts. Such arrogance.”

  “Yo, for real? This guy, he’s an assassin?”

  Oliver continued, “America is on the decline, amigo, thanks to unmannered inbreds like your governor. It appears you must learn your lesson the hard way also. See you in hell, Sinatra.”

  Before he could fire, Kevin the pilot from The Bay’s Best Boat Rentals revved the engine. The speedboat heaved and jerked several feet in reverse, causing Manny to stumble forward. Oliver Wright, facing the stern, staggered backward, off balance. He fired once wildly in the air, his heel caught the bow chair. Unable to halt his momentum, he fell overboard headfirst into the bay. Kevin the pilot took his hand off the throttle and the motor returned to idle.

  Manny gave him a nod of thanks. “Gracias. Good timing.”

  “Guy’s talking crap about America.” Kevin jerked a thumb at himself. “My parents are from Spain. They hate the limeys. Can’t shoot a federal agent on my boat, even if I don’t give a damn about no governor.”

  Manny removed the pistol from his shoulder holster and went to the rail, where Oliver Wright bobbed. “Swim away, England. Swim all the way to her Majesty and don’t come back. Or next time you and I—”

  Oliver Wright shot at him without warning—he gave an extra kick with his legs, aimed with his left hand, and yanked the trigger.

  The bullet came horrifyingly close to Manny’s ear. He felt the air snap like an angry hornet. He raised his own pistol. “Missed. If only your good hand wasn’t already ruined by someone more attractive and intelligent than you.”

  Manny shot him twice, a bullet destroying each icy blue eye, and Oliver Wright sank under the swell.

  “Holy shit,” said Kevin the pilot. “You…you just shot him!”

  “Long overdue.”

  “You hate England, huh.”

  “Not really. But it makes the pain easier to bear.”

  The yacht had sunk approximately eight feet, bringing the deck close to sea level. Passengers were climbing easily into life rafts. Manny heard a crew member telling someone the captain thought it might sink no further, emergency buoyancy measures kicking in. Much of the boat was still airtight.

  Manny dialed his cell and Weaver answered. “Where’s Beck?”

  “I’m searching the decks with my drone,” came her reply. A tone of urgency audible. “I don’t see her.”

  “She’s still below?”

  “I think she might be trapped.”

  “Damn.” Manny hung up. Twisted out of his jacket and kicked off his shoes. “Don’t go anywhere, Kevin.”

  “You got it, pal.”

  “Got an airhorn?”

  “Sure.” He tossed Manny a marine grade airhorn can.

  “You see th
at woman waving on the rail? Gorgeous brunette, lots of plastic, her dress barely surviving? She’s Russian. We pick her up, por favor, after I come back.” Manny turned to the water, sucked air, and dove in.

  He’d fallen in earlier as he tried to board Only the Innocent, but still the water shocked him; temperature felt like mid-fifties. He could see maybe five feet, and then visibility was absorbed by muck and silt.

  Shark-like shapes swarmed the gloom, indistinct until they swam close enough to touch and rub against him. Aggressive and heavy bull sharks. He depressed the airhorn’s trigger to release a strident and gurgling blare and the predators darted away.

  Manny could obviously never admit it to anyone but sharks terrified him.

  He swam under the yacht, the air pressure in his lungs causing him to float upwards and scrape along the hull and barnacles and seaweed. More bull sharks here, thick bodies, long fins, gray on top, watching him with wide eyes. Long powerful breast strokes pulled him near the yacht’s center, his hands making occasional contact with rough scales.

  He found Beck and Rocky by accident, bumping into them. It was nearly black under Only The Innocent.

  Beck was injured and maybe unconscious; she wasn’t moving. Rocky tugged at her with one hand, stroked at the water with the other, and kicked at circling sharks. Ay caramba, how long had they been under? The water must’ve sucked them down.

  Manny’d been holding his breath for at least twenty seconds and his lungs began burning. He issued another blast with the airhorn, a long warble that hurt his ears. He took hold of Beck, and he and Rocky both kicked hard through the gloom.

  His foot touched a shark behind them.

  Another materialized in front and knocked away the airhorn can. He snatched but missed and it lazily floated upward.

  They reached the sunlight, still fifteen feet below but out of the shadows, and Rocky screamed bubbles. Manny turned—a fat bull shark, the biggest yet, had Rocky by the calf. At least eight feet long, three hundred pounds. Red blood making a faint cloud. Rocky, his leg held fast, flailed in terror. It was a useless protest against a predator in his realm.

  Fear like an iceberg in Manny’s chest.