Wild Card (A Sinatra Thriller Book 2) Read online

  “Ah! Sí, my injuries. I should have won the tournament, no? The American, he cheated.”

  Manny knew for a fact the Prince had deliberately thrown the match, helping his friend Mackenzie August, but only a handful of people on earth knew the truth.

  Louis Bernard, the French butcher, made a scoffing sound. “Of course the American cheated. They all do, the ugly bastards.”

  His accent was thick—Uv course zee American cheated. Zay all do.

  Louis continued, “Just take a deep breath through the nose, and you can smell it on them. The sweat and lies. The American stench.”

  “A Frenchman,” chuckled Manny. “Disparaging the odor of America?”

  “Oui? So?”

  “At least in this country people use deodorant.”

  “That’s right.” Jennifer Harmon said it with a laugh as she peeked at her cards. “I’m American and I don’t smell bad. I hope.”

  “It is the reek of dishonesty and desperation. No amount of cologne can help you.” The butcher sneered.

  “It is also the tobacco and pornography and super-sized happy meals, I believe, sir,” said Oliver Wright. “All the trademarks of this odious country.”

  Manny glowered, shifting in his chair. “Perhaps you meant to say America smells like democracy and eagles and freedom. Maybe spent gunpowder from saving Europe’s ass over and over.”

  “What’s it matter to you? You’re from Argentina, you stupid son of a bitch,” said Louis the butcher.

  “Yes. Or is your nationality something else, sir?”

  “Argentina by birth. American by choice. Doesn’t matter where a man’s from…” Manny shifted his gaze between Oliver Wright and Louis. “Only a fool doesn’t love America.”

  “Just like America’s current president? A fool who loves America. Or at least the hamburgers and prostitutes,” said Louis. “America, home of the world’s ugliest whores, no, Green Card?”

  Manny’s blood pressure rose. Calling him Green Card. For reasons beyond his understanding, the name rankled him.

  From her vantage in the lounge on the second floor, Beck listened to the entire conversation without the aid of her earpiece. The Frenchman, the Englishman, and the Italian—elite hitmen in the dangerous underworld. Plus Sinatra. All of them proud and violent, all of them more than they appeared.

  She possessed a thorough understanding of Manny Martinez. In many ways he was remarkably simple—he loved his country, he loved his job, and he had a deep regard for himself. Quietly suffering insult to any of the three went against his preternatural instincts, his base values.

  The other alphas at the table angered him, the way a lion would be furious at an intruder.

  How long would he allow it? His shoulders were already tense, his chin up. The back of his neck had turned red.

  She stood and moved away from Varvara and clicked on her earpiece for the first time. Whispering, “Sinatra, you need to block them out. You must relax. You aren’t here to generate rivalries or prove you have the biggest gun. You’ll give yourself away and lose the game in under an hour if you don’t.”

  Manny rose abruptly and stepped back from the table. He told the smirking Europeans, “You came here to play, amigos. Better than some forsaken rainy hamlet in your third world countries.”

  The Prince, listening to the argument, laughed and raised his glass of dark liquor. “Well said, Argentina. And after all, the loveliness of American women covers all her sins, in my opinion.”

  Manny went to get a drink and to cool off, itching under the weight of a thousand eyes. He growled at the bartender, “Make me the most American cocktail you got.”

  “American? Like what, sir?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “Maybe a Manhattan?”

  “It’s not even lunch, señor. Be serious.”

  The bartender pursed his lips in thought. “Hmmm…a mint julep.”

  “Gah.”

  “Long Island Ice Tea?”

  “Ay dios mio, America needs better cocktails. Mint julep, por favor.”

  He returned to the table as Hinata took a large sum of money off Miami. The statistics updated on the big monitor, revealing that she was in last now. The gallery above murmured.

  Oliver Wright had his phone out, the generic replacement. He held it in his injured hand, browsing a map with his other. “I’m curious, Sinatra. Where in Argentina are you from?”

  “A little place. You never heard of it.”

  He waggled his phone. “Yet I’m eager to learn.”

  “I was raised in a village called Santa Elena before moving to Buenos Aires.”

  “Santa Elena,” he said slowly, zooming in. “Yes here it is. What is this river it’s near, sir? Surely you played in it as a lad.”

  Manny grinned. “This a trap, amigo?”

  “It would only be a trap if you had something to hide.”

  “Santa Elena sits beside the Paraná River.”

  “Hmm. Good fishing?”

  “Should be. But it’s polluted. Price of modern industry.”

  “What’s a boy from a tiny village doing owning a luxury line of men’s accessories?”

  Manny sipped his mint julep and set it inside the table’s cupholder. “I grew up making wallets from the hide in Santa Elena, amigo. It was destiny. Keep working hard and one day you can afford my stuff.”

  “In fact, I believe I’ll buy now. I have your website here. Which wallet do you suggest?”

  “Cheapest one. The Continental. That way you won’t starve. Plus the money clip is smallest—your need is not great, señor.”

  Jennifer Harmon chuckled and asked Manny, “Wow, do you two know each other?”

  “Not well. He’s grumpy because I shot him in the hand.”

  Jennifer Harmon’s mouth fell open. “You’re kidding…”

  “It is funny, isn’t it señorita, even though it’s not a joke.”

  She turned her astonishment onto Oliver Wright. “He really shot you?”

  “Beginners luck, love.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “I was trying to kill his friend, naturally.”

  “You were trying…I swear, this poker tournament gets more insane each year. I can’t even tell people because they don’t believe me.”

  Oliver Wright said, “Tell me, Mr. Sinatra, why is the life of Benjamin so valuable to you, the owner of a men’s accessory boutique?”

  Manny’s head felt like it was spinning. He’d entered a realm where assassinations were openly discussed. Somehow, his true identity was still largely a secret. “He’s a friend. Why’s he so valuable to you?”

  “I’ve got a million reasons.”

  “You can’t have him.”

  “And yet you brought him. You can’t stop me.”

  “I already explained this,” said Manny and he sipped his drink. “The British are awful at everything. I am not worried.”

  Oliver Wright winked at Jennifer Harmon and said, “We’ll find out.”

  “Seriously,” she muttered to herself. “Who would believe this?”

  Manny played his first hand, holding Ace Jack. He hit a pair of Aces and took the rest of Miami’s money. She was gone with barely a peep.

  Eight players left.

  Two hours into the game, Rocky Rickard proclaimed a break for late lunch. The crowd overhead had thinned, returning to their various games.

  The Prince waved for Manny’s attention. “Signore, I see you brought a pistola. Can you shoot that thing?”

  “Some of the time. Ask the Englishman.”

  “We have a few minutes before the game begins again. There’s a range below. Come. You and I, a contest.”

  “With me? A humble wallet salesman?”

  “You the salesman, and me the simple boxer. Maybe neither of us hits the target, no?”

  “You’re a simple boxer with an Italian Beretta M9?” said Manny.

  The Prince patted the holster on his belt with pride. “Ah, you noti
ced, eh? Maybe the Englishman would like some revenge. Come, Oliver Wright, amico. Join us at the range, where we’ll pretend we are lesser men.”

  “If you insist, sir,” Mr. Wright replied.

  “This should be good,” said Manny. “The English can’t aim even with two good hands.”

  In his ear, “Sinatra, you’re here for a poker game. You’re here to keep Governor Curtis alive. Going into a dungeon with professional assassins isn’t wise.”

  Wise? Who said anything about being wise?

  This was for king and country.

  23

  It wasn’t a dungeon. The underground system was digital and state of the art. Spectators could help themselves at the bar and watch from leather couches. Classical music filtered from overhead speakers.

  Two men occupied the range already, comparing stats on the monitor and discussing their pistols. Manny, the Prince, and Oliver Wright came through the double soundproof doors. Something about the look of them caused the two incumbents to lower their voices and leave soon after.

  There are men in this world unlike the rest. And best avoided.

  The three shooters shrugged out of their jackets and collected ammunition at the well-stocked locker. Manny took .40 rounds for his Glock. 9mm rounds for the Italian’s Beretta and Oliver Wright’s Sig Sauer P226.

  Mr. Wright nodded at Manny’s smaller Glock 27. “Argentina doesn’t carry pistols for men?”

  “It’s compact, señor. Like your little country.”

  The Prince assumed propriety of the firing range controls and activated targets at fifteen and twenty-five yards. There were three bays, one for each man. They donned headgear and warmed up, firing at the hologram silhouettes.

  To a practiced eye, a shooter’s soul is revealed at the range. Manny had such an eye.

  The Prince had never been in the military, never been meticulously trained. His pose was similar to a Chapman stance—his dominant arm locked, cheek tucked into his shoulder. He leaned back instead of forward, a mistake by those who watched too many movies, Manny thought. Yet the man didn’t miss much; he made up for lack of professional tutoring with raw talent and hand-eye coordination. He rang up the score of a professional.

  Oliver Wright’s stance impressed Manny. Firing with his non dominant hand, he kept his elbow crooked, weight forward, knee slightly bent. He fired with the barrel canted. Without a doubt, a man who’d spent untold hours on a firing range under the tutelage of masters. His score with his left hand bordered on absurdity.

  Manny preferred a classic Weaver stance. His body bladed, shoulders back farther than some, weight forward, using the push-pull grip. He emptied his magazine, all shots blasting through the silhouette’s center mass, bullseyes.

  Echoes faded. Wisps of gun smoke curled around ceiling vents. The Prince returned to the controls.

  “No cameras down here, amigo,” said Oliver Wright. He ejected the magazine and slammed in another with one hand. “No microphones. And our time runs short. I want the American governor.”

  “Too bad.”

  “You’re no Argentinian salesman, Sinatra. Speak plainly.”

  “You can’t have Curtis. I’m in the way, Señor Wright. But so are others.”

  “You mean the District Kings. Even with one working hand, I’m not worried about them. And I see no reason for you and I to kill each other, sir.”

  “Then hands off the American governor. Or, I should say, hand.”

  “Are you new at this?” Wright grinned, a belittling smirk. Manny debated flossing the man’s teeth with his Glock. “Men in our profession, we work out agreements, Sinatra. Back down and you get a cut of the profits. Surely you see how this benefits us both.”

  “Our profession? I’m no assassin, cabrón.”

  The Prince returned and gave them each an arm band. “So Sinatra you will…what? What will you do? Kill Mr. Wright and the entire army of Kings? Do not be crazy, my friend. Do not throw your life away. You, I recognize as having the soul of a lion. You are not ready to die.”

  “You’re after the governor too?”

  “Me? No. No no, I’m here for other reasons. But I know bad odds when I see them.”

  “What’s in this for you, Sinatra?” asked Oliver Wright.

  “Pride.”

  “Be serious.”

  “Because you don’t have any, hombre, doesn’t mean I don’t.”

  Oliver Wright neared the end of his patience. Manny saw storms building behind his eyes.

  “Come! Another round,” said the Prince. “Then we must return for cards. Put on the arm band. This time, the first man who misses receives a zap.”

  Manny knew the drill, a common one in special op groups. He’d practiced on similar ranges with the marshals. The arm band would deliver a strong electroshock, like a stun gun, to the loser. The immanent pain added stress and threw off your aim. Excellent training for live fire situations.

  The Prince slid his on and tightened it. So did the Englishman.

  Manny rolled up his sleeve and checked the band’s small monitor. His discharge wasn’t lethal but it would hurt. He was the best shooter here, he knew. And yet…

  Good thing Beck wasn’t watching. This was stupid.

  The Prince returned to the controls. “Signore Wright! You only have one arm so I give you an extra miss. You understand?”

  “Fair enough, sir.”

  “Ten seconds.” The Prince initiated the countdown and walked back to his bay. Numbers ticked on the display in front of Manny.

  A loud buzzer sounded. Hologram targets flickered at random distances in the fifty meter range. Their guns flashed in turn, angry fire, a shattering triple crash. Again and again. It was gratuitous showmanship, genitalia comparison in all its glory. A sonic embodiment of testosterone and insecurity.

  They each were shown eight targets. Nobody missed. So no one received a shock.

  The buzzer sounded.

  “Reload, my friends! Ten seconds! Divertimento!”

  Manny ejected and slammed in a new magazine. It took him two seconds. With his one good hand, Oliver Wright required six.

  Another buzzer. Targets farther away this time and smaller. His mind and fists operated in concert, an invisible terminus projected like a laser. The weapon was a violin in his hands, creating a symphony.

  Manny was on his sixth round when the Prince missed.

  The holograms vanished, the lights brightened, and the Italian cried in pain. He dropped to the floor, sitting on his butt. “Merda, che male!” His body spasmed and he winced, holding his right arm with his left hand.

  Oliver Wright halted the program before it reset.

  The Italian chuckled and wiped his eyes and stood, still shaking.“Dio mio, that hurt more than I thought. I admit it, my friends, you two are better than me.”

  “From what I hear, sir, you don’t rely on pistols.”

  “Correct. Weapons for barbarians. Give me a knife, signore, any time.” He shook his arm and said, “Enough for me. Let us return.”

  Mr. Wright glanced at Manny. “One more round, Sinatra. Game? You and me.”

  “You want to get shocked, I’m willing.”

  “Good luck, friends. I’m getting a drink. I’m low on chips and need the courage.” The Prince yanked open the door and walked through, shaking his hand and pulling on his sports jacket.

  Leaving Manny alone with Mr. Wright.

  The Englishman pressed buttons on the screen.

  Manny said, “Make it interesting. Increase the voltage.”

  “You read my mind, sir.”

  Manny reloaded.

  Oliver Wright finished toggling the system, stepped away from the controls, and said, “Let us cut the bullshit, Sinatra. You’re no bloody salesman. You’re an American agent. Tell me the truth and I’ll let you live.”

  “Let me live?” Manny waggled his pistol, already loaded. Mr. Wright’s wasn’t. “Generous of you, amigo.”

  “The truth, Sinatra.”

&nb
sp; “To hell with you, Englishman.”

  The buzzer sounded, signaling the start of the next round. Manny’s arm band glowed green. But Oliver Wright’s did not…

  …uh oh. Manny realized the trap.

  “You English bastard.”

  Oliver Wright had started the program but hadn’t activated his own band. The only device armed and ready to deliver a payload was strapped to Manny’s bicep.

  Oliver had also sped up the program. Manny had no chance. Targets flashed. Sensors waited for incoming rounds. But Manny wasn’t in position. He failed. His arm band ignited before he could rip it off.

  Fifty thousand volts flooded his body.

  24

  Manny, electrocuted and falling. Sensorium overwhelmed, systems mutinying. Pistol clattering to the floor.

  The muscular tissue inside his right arm and shoulder contracted uncontrollably; the rest of his body tried to obey but couldn’t. Like being squeezed by God.

  The blast of energy only lasted two seconds but the resultant aftereffects held him tight.

  Oliver Wright calmly removed his own arm band. “I gave you a chance, sir. For the truth. But you were too obstinate to comply.”

  “Y-y-you…”

  “Stubborn and dishonest. Just like the American you are. How disappointing. Explains the Glock. A plastic toy favored by Yankees. I assume you’re special forces? Or some equivalent agent? No matter. I’m taking the governor.”

  “You aren’t—”

  The buzzer sounded again. The obliterating shock repeated itself, resetting Manny’s mind and wracking his body. Although a less powerful discharge than what he’d received during his police training, it was still enough to incapacitate him temporarily.

  “The system is set to repeat itself. I hope this lesson is not lost on you—the subjects of her Majesty are not to be trifled with. Nor is the sovereignty of England. Benjamin Curtis must learn his lesson the hard way.”

  What galled Manny the most was his inferior position. Representing America, he was flat on his back looking up, couldn’t even form a sentence. The Englishman smiling down, smug as hell.

  When all was said and done, Manny promised himself, he would be looking down at Oliver Wright, and not the other way ‘round.