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“You’re the hunter.” He nods, quickly realizing who I am. “Mr. Zappia said he was expecting you.”
I say nothing.
He clears his throat and extends an open palm to me. “If you’re carrying, you need to give it up now. No weapons in the casino.”
“Since when?”
His eyes twitch but he keeps his hand out. This kid is either new around here or very creeped out. Maybe both.
I don’t push it. I reach behind me to retrieve my pistol from my belt. “What happened here?” I ask him.
He takes the gun from me. “Mr. Zappia is upstairs,” he says, sliding out of my way. “He’ll tell you what you need to know.”
I move to pass him, but he juts out ahead of me again.
“Wait…” His eyes fall to my chest. “You need to raise your shirt.”
I keep an annoyed eye on him as I reach to untuck it from my belt. “Looking for wires, mate?”
“Not exactly.”
Tattoos.
I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s been months since Snake Eyes was exposed but a worldwide manhunt for its members is still a top priority.
I pull my leather jacket aside and present my bare chest to him. His eyes instantly fall to my abs where the now infamous cobra tattoo would be if I were a member. I’m not one, but it’s oddly flattering that he assumes that I could be. As horrible as they are, Snake Eyes agents are the best of the best.
Or were, I suppose.
“All right,” he says. “You can go on up.”
I take a step around him toward the stairs, my eyes scanning from one corner of the room to the other. It’s strange seeing a casino during the day when the tables are empty and the air doesn’t smell like cigar smoke and cheap booze.
It’s even stranger when it’s a damn crime scene.
As I ascend the stairs to Zappia’s office, I get a better look over the catwalk. The higher I climb, the more bloodstains I see. They’re scattered around the room, mostly hidden behind tables. I count six total.
Make that seven.
What the hell happened here?
“Allen…”
Enzo Zappia greets me in front of the office doorway. His face is sunken and gray. Black circles surround his eyes, making him look far older than our late-twentysomething age group. He’s seen some shit, that’s for sure.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
I shrug. “Your old man called me.”
“Is that Archer?”
Enzo glances over his shoulder. “Yeah, Pops.”
“Bring him in.”
We step inside and I notice Enzo limping toward the couch in the corner. His foot is wrapped up in a white bandage with thick, red blood seeping through the straps. He plops down, hissing in pain.
I stay standing in front of Antony Zappia’s desk.
