Page 25 of Deadly Hands

“Thank you.” Reuben grabbed his phone, noting a text from Nikon:

‘Remember—professional demeanor only. No unnecessary conversation.’

Reuben typed back:‘So no juggling, then?’

Three dots appeared, disappeared, and then:‘Focus.’

That single word carried more weight than it should. Reuben pocketed his phone, squaring his shoulders as he followed Sergej to the elevator. Whatever game Nikon was playing, whatever test this might be, Reuben would figure it out.

The drive to First National Bank took twenty minutes. Reuben spent them cataloging details: the second SUV trailing them, the earpiece Sergej kept adjusting, the way their route avoided the main streets.

All standard security protocols, but something about today felt different. Heavier.

First National loomed ahead, all glass and steel reaching toward the clouds. But as they pulled up, Reuben spotted a familiar black sedan with tinted windows parked across the street. His heart skipped—Nikon was here, watching.

“Fourteenth floor,” Sergej said as Reuben stepped out. “Ms. Simmons is expecting you.”

The lobby screamed old money—marble floors, brass fixtures, security guards who actually looked like they knew what they were doing.

Despite all of this, Reuben kept his stride confident as he crossed to the elevators, channeling the same energy he used at high-stakes poker tables. Just another business meeting. Just another hand to play.

Ms. Simmons met him at reception, her smile professional but tight around the edges. Late thirties, plain navy suit, wedding ring too loose on her finger. Reuben figured she’d lost weight recently—stress, maybe?

“Mr. Hoyt.” Her handshake was firm, but her palm was damp. “Please, come in.”

Her office overlooked the city, though she kept her back to the view. Another tell. The paperwork waited on her desk, neat stacks that screamed ‘trap’ to Reuben’s poker-trained instincts.

“I hope traffic wasn’t too bad?” Small talk. A classic opener when someone’s stalling.

“Not at all.” Reuben unbuttoned his jacket as he sat, letting his smile turn flirtatious. “Though I’d brave far worse to meet with someone as lovely as you.”

The compliment landed wrong. Her laugh came too quickly, too high. “Oh, you’re too kind. Now, about these accounts...”

She launched into an explanation of the paperwork, but Reuben was more interested in what she wasn’t saying. The way her eyes darted to her computer screen every thirty seconds. The slight tremor in her hands as she pointed out signature lines. The fact that she hadn’t offered him coffee—standard protocol for important clients.

“Just sign here, here, and initial here.” She slid the papers closer, her pen extended like a peace offering.

Reuben took it, letting their fingers brush. She flinched. Barely noticeable, but definitely there.

“Actually,” he leaned back, twirling the pen between his fingers, “I’d love to review these more thoroughly. Perhaps over coffee?”

Her face paled slightly. “Oh, I—I’m afraid our cafe is closed for renovations.”

Lie. He’d seen people with coffee cups in the lobby.

“That’s a shame.” He kept his tone light, playful. “I always think better with caffeine. Especially when handling,” he glanced at the paperwork, “eight-figure transactions.”

The blood drained completely from her face now. “Mr. Hoyt, I—”

A sharp crack split the air. Before Reuben could process what was happening, Ms. Simmons screamed and crimson bloomed across her shoulder. The window behind her desk was spider-webbed with bullet holes.

Pure survival instinct kicked in. Reuben dove for cover behind her desk as three more shots rang out. Glass shattered. Something heavy thudded nearby—a body?

Panic erupted in waves outside Ms. Simmons’s office. The sound of running footsteps thundered past her door as terrified shrieks echoed down the hallway. Someone was shouting about blood. A woman’s voice rose above the chaos, screaming for security. Shock seemed to freeze Reuben in place, his body refusing to process what was happening around him.

Strong hands suddenly grabbed him, hauling him up from behind the desk. The familiar scent of Nikon’s cologne cut through the metallic scent of blood in the air. Nikon’s voice, commanding and sure, sliced through the mayhem: “Move. Now.”

The next few minutes blurred together. Nikon’s arm around his waist, half-dragging him through emergency stairs. Security alarms wailing. Ms. Simmons’s sobbing, the sound sharp and hysterical, fading behind them. The crack of more gunfire, then silence.

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