Page 7 of Four Cards Exposed

“I’m taking care of them,” he growled quietly.

“And we want to help you continue to do so,” Sean came in smoothly. “There’s a bigger fight this weekend, if you’re interested.”

Three days from now.

“How much?”

“Fifteen thousand for you. Thirty if you win.”

“I’m interested. Tell me when. I’ll be here.”

“Not here,” Sean said, looking at Miguel Mendoza. “This is a different kind of fight. We’re going to do this on international waters. Three hundred guests will enjoy a night of gambling, drinking, and fighting. All legal.”

International waters.

Are they moving the drugs this way?

If not, this would be another waste of time. The FBI wasn’t interested in gambling and bare-knuckle fighting.

“Sounds like fun,” he drawled.

Mendoza laughed, showing bright white teeth. “You haven’t asked who you have to fight.”

“For thirty thousand, I’ll fight Zeus himself.”

“Fifteen. It’s only thirty thousand if you win.”

James flexed his thick arms and curled his upper lip, baring his teeth. “Believe me, I’ll win.”

“I like this man, Sean. I really do. I have high hopes for Friday night.”

* * *

It was midnight by the time James arrived at the shitty apartment block he called home. At this time of night, his street was deserted. His ribs protested as he slid off his motorcycle, but James blocked out the pain. He had bigger concerns.

His next meeting with his handler was on Monday—after his fight on the boat. There was a mechanism for him to call an emergency meeting, but any deviation from the plan carried with it additional risk.

He’d go to the boat on Friday night, then tell his handler afterwards. Hopefully, he’d be able to share some real news, after months of nothing to show for himself except a new set of bruises every time they met.

James stared up at the ugly concrete structure. Sean Moore owned the whole building, and was letting him stay cheaply—as long as he fought and won. He assumed he’s get kicked out fast enough if he stopped winning.

It was a hypothesis he couldn’t afford to test, at least not now.

He pushed the building door open—the lock had been broken when he’d arrived three months earlier, and there was clearly nobody who considered it their job to fix it—and let himself inside. Yellow flickering lights assaulted him.

He walked past the broken elevator, which he knew one of his neighbors was using as a storage unit, and made his way to the stairs. His hand was already on the railing when a soft noise stopped him.

A small figure huddled in the dark space under the stairwell—hunched over something. Even from the back, James recognized Dom, his upstairs neighbor. He’d often woken up listening to the boy playing basketball in the room right above his own—a room he shared with at least three or four younger siblings.

Before the boy had a chance to slip away, James grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him out into the light.

“Let me go!” the boy screamed, kicking out with his legs and elbows, still clutching something in his cupped hands. A small, sharp elbow caught James on his bruised ribs, and he swallowed a curse.

“It’s me, Jam—Jay,” James said, shocked that he’d almost broken cover.

I must be more tired than I realized.

Still holding onto the collar with one hand, he leaned forward to discover what the boy held in his hands. James’s heart pounded.