She tabled the drink, glanced at the feed. The mahogany door loomed close, a single, older woman positioned outside. Tall, athletic with the kind of stance that spoke of years of disciplined training. She studied McGuire as he angled toward her, her hand lingering over the pistol strapped to her thigh.
Riven inhaled when one of the lieutenants focused the vault door, gaze looking for trouble. “McGuire, tie your shoe.”
He took a step, then crouched, fingers working his lace. He didn’t fumble, just adjusted the leather ties until she sighed, gave him the green light. A roll of his shoulders, then he continued, stopped in front.
The woman, Leona, if Savvy’s intel was right, swept her gaze up and down him, tilting her head as she frowned, her voice fading in and out over the mic. “Can I help you?”
McGuire’s voice crackled, the line going dead for a second before hissing back, the last word of the passphrase coming across in broken rasps. Riven tapped her earpiece, but only static played over the airways.
She looked at Patch. “They must use a jammer near the vault area. I’m only getting snippets.”
Patch lifted a beer to his lips. “I’ve got a visual. He’s still five by five.”
Riven frowned, wishing the damn feed would stop buffering. That endless circle forever spinning. She took a breath, calculated all the ways she could reach McGuire’s position in under ten seconds, when the feed cleared a bit.
Leona inched closer, shook her head, then stepped aside, opening the thick, wooden door and waving McGuire in. He started walking, glimpses of security boxes and glass walls flashing on her cell before everything cut to black as the massive door clicked shut.
She pushed out a slow breath. “We’re through the looking glass. Five minutes max before this becomes a rescue mission.”
Patch didn’t answer just tapped his watch, joined the people at the table cheering on the main player, his gaze constantly shifting toward the door.
One minute, then two.
She rolled her shoulders, watching for any sign that they’d outstayed their welcome when one of the goons at the baccarat tables stopped scanning — retrieved his phone. He stared at it, frown curving his mouth, tension bleeding into his muscles as he tapped his buddy, held out the message.
They looked at each other, the first guy talking into his sleeve before taking a few steps, searching the crowd with the same intensity she’d witnessed in Colombia when she’d burned her cover.
Riven hit her comms. “Patch, we’ve got a problem. Lieutenants at the baccarat have been activated. ThinkingMartillojust got off a message. I’m on my way down.”
Patch nodded, breathed on a pair of dice when some woman in a crop top and belt pretending to be a mini skirt held out her hand. He followed the roll, deftly slipping sideways down the table without drawing too much attention. He stopped a few feet in front ofMartillo’smen, hand drifting toward his right side — the Sig hidden in an ankle holster.
Riven stood, made a show of dabbing some gloss on her lips, when the air shifted behind her. As if it had been pushed aside. She dipped her head, took a quick peek. An insanely large man stood at the top of the stairs, hair cropped short, piercing brown eyes staring at every face.
Bram Keane.
A bit older than in the photo Savvy had sent, but she recognized his silhouette — the shape of his jaw, the same jacked-up physique. She took a step, slipped behind a bulkhead before he looked her way, placed her because she bet her ass he’d been sent to finish what Herrera’s men had started.
She clicked her mic. “Keane’s here.”
Patch’s gaze snapped toward her, mouth pinched tight, tension spreading across his shoulders. He glanced at the mahogany door, then back to her when a tendril of smoke curledout from a service corridor behind him, a red glow staining the frosted window in the door an eerie crimson.
“Shit, Patch?—”
The fire alarm shrieked, strobe lights flashing in ten second intervals, painting the casino is frantic bursts of white. The crowd paused as if taking a collective breath, looking at each other in disbelief, drinks half-raised, chips still pinched between their fingers, before chaos erupted. People surged toward the exits, one massive wave of messy buns and gaudy shirts. Air hissed out the overhead sprinklers before they fully kicked in, doused the room in a chilling cold.
Riven scanned the floor, picking up on three men moving with tactical precision against the flow, all dressed in firefighting gear, minus the oxygen tanks and other equipment — pegging them as fake — heading for the big wooden door just as McGuire stepped out, leather book clutched in one hand. He took two steps before he got caught up in the panicked crowd — carried along by sheer force.
The feed from his camera flickered, the images a sea of suits and strobing lights. He’d get his weight beneath him, then get shoved off-balance again. She tried the mic, but it was useless, the constant wail echoing through her earpiece.
A table hit the floor behind her, the percussive thump vibrating up through the carpet. She chanced a glance over her shoulder.
Keane.
Gaze narrowed on where she’d been sitting, his massive arms swinging as he bore down on her position.
No time to think. She simply slipped off her shoes, inched back until he’d have to twist to spot her. His footsteps pounded closer, steps no longer hushed by the carpet, then he appeared at the corner.
A well-placed heel to his eye had him reeling back, raking his fingers across his face. A kick to the groin dumped him on his ass, gave her the opening she needed to palm the railing — vault down to the lower level.
