Alex Archer - Gabriel's Horn

“Get someone up here!” Garin barked in German over the cell phone.

The seat belts had snapped tight and kept Annja from being thrown from her seat. Liquid fire traced her chest as the straps jerked the breath from her lungs.

Men boiled from the car that had rammed the front of the limousine. All of them carried assault weapons and pistols. They darted through the glaring headlights as they raced to surround the limousine. Annja saw at least two green-scimitar tattoos.

“Apparently your friends haven’t given up,” Garin growled.

“They’re not my friends,” Annja shot back. But she couldn’t imagine why Saladin’s men—if they were Saladin’s men—were so driven to get to her. More than that, though, she didn’t know how she and Garin were going to escape.

Quiet and composed, contemplative almost, Roux sat at the Texas Hold ’Em table in one of the casino’s private rooms. He smoked a big cigar and watched the other players.

Six men and one woman still remained at the table. Only four of them, including Roux, were still in the hand currently being played out. The other three had thrown their hands onto the felt tabletop in disgust and studied their dwindling pile of chips. The game was all about skill and luck and husbanding the resources on the table.

Roux studied his own stacks of chips. They looked positively anemic.

The dealer politely called Roux’s name. At least, the man called the name Roux was currently employing. The identity was a conceit that could conceivably backfire on him. He tried his best to live in the world without a paper trail. However, in order to qualify for the Texas Hold ’Em tournaments and other games he liked to play, he had to provide an identity that had some depth and texture. That was inherently dangerous.

“In or out, sir?” the dealer asked quietly. He was an older man with a jowly face and short-clipped hair. All night he’d acted as a seasoned veteran with cards.

Roux seethed inside. The cards had been so good to him at first, and now they ran cold. He didn’t know if he could trust what he was seeing, and he hated to take long shots. It was absurd and intolerable.

He kept his frustrations locked in, though. Even so much as a deep breath could have given away crucial knowledge about him to the other players. Those behaviors were called “tells” in the trade, and they were dangerously destructive to a player.

Declan Connelly was an Irish launderer worth millions. He sat solid and imposing on the other side of the table. As if he didn’t have a care in the world, he sipped his whiskey straight up. He could drink for hours—and had been—and still play as though he were stone-cold sober.

He’d also apparently brought the luck of the Irish with him. He’d hit on combinations during the night that had at first appeared all but impossible.

“C’mon, old man,” Connelly taunted. “You’re squeezing onto them chips like they’re the last ones you’re likely to see in your lifetime.” He snickered. “’Course as old as you are, I guess maybe that could be the case.”

Roux ignored the insult and concentrated on his cards. He wasn’t going to let himself be baited.

Two queens—hearts and diamonds—had shown up in the flop, the spill of the initial three community cards across the felt. Roux felt certain Connelly was holding another queen in his two down cards because the river was widely split unless someone was holding a queen. There was nothing really to build on in the river and more than likely winning the hand would depend on pairing up cards. The third card was the jack of spades.

“We really need to get on with this,” Ling Po said. “I’d like to get in another hand before I go for the massage I’ve scheduled.” She was British and from old money. Besides her money, she also possessed her youth. She was in her twenties and was a beautiful porcelain doll of a woman.

“Now, honey,” the big Texas wildcatter, Roy Hudder, drawled, “you ought not rush a man at two things in this life. One’s romance and the other’s poker. Give the old-timer a little breathin’ room.”

Roux hated being called old-timer by the Texan. Hudder was in his sixties and dressed like a television cowboy in a rhinestone-studded suit. Eyes flicking over the cards showing on the table, Roux knew that he still had a chance to put his hand together.

He held the ten and the king of spades as his hole cards. Together with the jack of spades showing, he had a chance at a royal flush. Provided that the next two cards dealt were the right ones.

Roux knew that his luck hadn’t been running like that. It was just that he couldn’t let go of Connelly’s constant heckling.

“It takes nerve to play this game, boyo,” Connelly said. He bared his teeth in a feral grin. “Maybe you’ve already spent yours, eh?”

Roux called, matching the bets that had been made on the table.

The dealer burned a card and slid the turn card onto the felt. The ace of spades stood neatly beside the two queens and the jack.

Now a potential straight lay in waiting. Some of the betting picked up pace.

Roux reluctantly parted with his chips. One card in his favor didn’t mean much. And he hated bidding on luck, but he couldn’t walk away from the table.

“Growing a spine, old man?” Connelly taunted.

Roux ignored him.

The dealer dealt the river, the final community card that finished the seven cards the players had to make a hand from.

It was the queen of spades. Roux couldn’t believe his luck. He kept his face neutral and didn’t move.

Connelly’s left nostril twitched. It was a tell Roux had spotted hours ago. The man definitely had a queen among his hold cards. He now had four of a kind.

The bet went to Ling Po. She raised the stakes a little.

Roux pushed the rest of his chips into the pot. “I’m all in,” he said.

Ling Po tossed her cards onto the table and Hudder did, as well.

Connelly stared at Roux from across the table. “So now it’s just you and me, old man.” His grin grew wider. “You’re so desperate you’re trying to buy this pot, aren’t you?”

Roux said nothing.

“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” Connelly asked. “A big bluff at the end to show everybody you’re not afraid to lose your money.”

Roux returned the man’s gaze without comment.

Connelly cursed. “Bit of theatrical nonsense is what it is.” He tapped the table with a forefinger. “For you to beat me, you’d have to have the ten and king of spades. But you don’t have them, do you?”

“The bet is to you, Mr. Connelly,” the dealer informed the big Irishman politely.

With an impatient wave, Connelly quieted the dealer. “You’re just smoke and mirrors, old man. I still remember that bluff you tried to run when we opened this game.”

Roux had done that purposefully because the pot had been small enough that getting busted running a bluff wouldn’t cost much. And he’d gotten caught doing it, as he had intended.

“I hate bluffers,” Connelly said. “Either you have the cards you need to win, or you need to go home. This game’s about luck and skill, not about drama.”

“Actually,” Ling Po said, “I prefer a man who knows how to make a production of things. Otherwise this game becomes tedious. Except for the winning and losing, of course.” She folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. “That’s what we’re all here for, right, Irish? The winning and losing? So are you going to talk and try to figure out if our friend is bluffing, or are you going to play cards?”

The red in Connelly’s face deepened.

Roux knew the woman’s words had seared Connelly, and they had sealed the deal. Although Roux had fewer chips, by going all in he’d shoved enough into the pot that losing a matching amount would seriously impact Connelly’s game. Roux was counting on the hand playing out and doing that very thing.