Ava McCarthy - Hide Me

‘But their equipment’s pretty sophisticated, isn’t it?’

‘Yep. That’s half the problem. Shuffle machines, smart card shoes, self-activating cameras. Technology has dulled their edge. I don’t need goddamn automated robots, I need proactive surveillance.’ Riva wheeled around to face Harry. ‘What’s the matter, are you afraid?’

Harry stopped in her tracks. ‘Afraid of what?’

‘The cheaters. You should be. They can be dangerous.’

Harry blinked, and Riva waved a dismissive hand.

‘Oh, not the small-time hustlers, they’re usually harmless. I’m talking about organized crews. Colluding professionals. You think you’re watching them, but half the time they’re watching you.’ She must have read the unease in Harry’s face, for she went on: ‘Just stay in the casino. Nothing can happen in front of the cameras.’

A small shiver scampered down Harry’s spine. Riva glanced at her watch and frowned.

‘Look, do you want the damn job or don’t you?’

Harry hesitated. Good question. She pondered it for a moment, then came to a decision.

‘Yes, I want the damn job.’

After that, they’d retired to Riva’s office to agree terms, and Harry had started billing hours to her new client the following day.

‘No más apuestas.’ No more bets.

Harry whipped her gaze back to the table. The American had gone, his place taken by a blond guy with an easy smile. She watched him flirt with a redhead beside him, then noticed that the fat punter had joined them from the other game. He was standing next to her, still playing castanets with his chips. Harry glanced up at the balcony. Riva had disappeared.

Harry puffed out a breath. She shouldn’t have taken the job, but she’d had her reasons, none of which she cared to examine now. She glanced at the players. Privately, she wasn’t convinced Chavez would use an electronic device. Sure, people tried them: laser scanners predicting where the ball would land; radio transmitters designed to control the spins. But that didn’t mean any of them worked. And what the hell did Riva expect her to do? Scan the room for electronic equipment? Triangulate in on radio emissions? With everyone carrying mobile phones, there wasn’t a lot of point.

‘Treinta y cuatro, rojo, par.’

The dealer placed his marker on number thirty-four. The fat guy rubbed his eyes, then went back to clacking his chips.

Harry’s brain lurched.

The fat guy rubbed his eyes.

Her mind groped with the fuzzy déjà vu, but couldn’t slot it into place.

‘Well, hey! Looky-here!’

Harry stared. The American was back.

‘A lucky five hundred on number thirty-four.’ He laughed and toasted the other players with his drink, setting his ice tinkling. ‘I just keep on reeling ’em in!’

Harry gaped for a moment, then snapped her gaze back to the fat guy. He’d rubbed his eyes before the last win, too, but so what? Maybe he had an allergy. She studied his pasty profile and suddenly, his hands grew still. He turned his head a fraction towards her. If he’d been a dog, he would’ve pricked his ears.

He knew she was watching him.

A shiver twitched between her shoulder blades. She slid a glance at the dealer. He’d called in the floorman who supervised his section of the room. They consulted together, but not for long. Harry watched the American collect his winnings. He’d made €35,000 in less than half an hour.

Movement snagged her gaze at the edges. The fat guy was smoothing a hand over his hair, as though a sudden wind had tossed it. Then he pocketed his chips and lumbered away from the table. Almost in the same instant, the American strolled off and headed for the cage to cash out. To anyone else, their behaviour was random. But because she’d been watching, to Harry it was an orchestrated move.

Collusion.

Her heart rate picked up. The American had joined a long queue at the cage. He wasn’t going anywhere, not for a while. The fat guy, on the other hand, was heading out of the room.

Harry threaded through the crowd, tailing him into the foyer. She dropped back behind an oversized pillar, watching him blunder through knots of cocktail drinkers as he made his way out the door.

She chewed her lip, debating the wisdom of her next move. Then she eased out from behind the safety of her pillar and followed him into the dark streets of San Sebastián.

Chapter 2

‘You will come with me, señor.’

Marty froze. The hand on his shoulder was heavier than a sandbag. He swallowed. Made himself smile. Then he looked up at the plain-clothes security agent.

‘Be with you in a sec, pal.’ He gestured at the roulette table. ‘I’ve a bet riding here.’

Fingers crushed the tendons in his shoulder. ‘You just lost, señor.’

Sweat trickled down Marty’s back. The ball was still spinning. He tried to shrug, but the hand was cramping his style.

‘Hey, what the hell,’ he said. ‘Wheel’s been against me all night, anyway.’

He winked at the redhead beside him and got to his feet, still craning his neck to look the agent in the face. The guy must’ve been six-seven, six-eight at least. Marty could see his own blond hair and stupid grin reflected in the agent’s mirrored shades. What kind of jackass wore those things inside? Maybe he should mention it. You’re a jackass, you know that? The agent grabbed his arm and Marty kept his mouth shut.

The guy’s grip was like a tourniquet. He hustled Marty through a herd of Japanese tourists, then propelled him across the room. Balls plink-plinked, playing hopscotch on their wheels. The agent shoved him through an unmarked door and into a deserted hallway, and when he locked the door behind them, the skin on Marty’s arms puckered. He’d been back-roomed before, but never in one of Riva’s casinos.

He flashed on the image of her leaning against the balcony. The sight of her had jolted him, he didn’t mind admitting it. She looked good. The cheekbones were still high, the body still well put together. It was the first time he’d seen her in nearly twenty years.

The agent’s fingers dug hard into his biceps, jerking him towards a door near the end of the passageway. Marty read the nameplate:

V. Toledo, Director de Seguridad.

His gut tightened. Jesus, not that prick again.

The agent opened the door and shoved him into the middle of the room. Marty squinted against the harsh fluorescent light. The place was whiter than a dentist’s surgery, with the dead-air quality of soundproofed walls.

‘Sit down.’

Marty’s stomach relaxed a little. The bald guy behind the desk wasn’t Victor Toledo.

Marty shoved his hands in his pockets and stayed standing. Keep your mouth shut. That was the rule of survival in situations like these. On the other hand, an innocent person might have said something by now. He cleared his throat.

‘Look, what the hell’s going on here?’

The bald guy glared. His features were large and blunt, as though thickened by a punch in the mouth. Marty jutted out his chin.

‘I’m a paying customer. That goon of yours—’

The agent’s boot sideswiped the back of Marty’s knees. He felt the crack, the dead legs, then crumpled into the chair behind him. For a moment, he lay sprawled, his chest thumping. Then he eased himself upright, not looking at the agent, and straightened his jacket and tie. The bald guy glanced down at a file on his desk.

‘Name?’

‘Roselli. Who the hell’re you?’

‘Age?’

‘I’m not talking till I see some identification. How do I know you’re not just a coupla hoods?’

The bald guy’s head jerked up. Marty’s armpits prickled with sweat. Then the guy pushed a casino ID across the desk. Alberto Delgado, Seguridad de Gran Casino.