Page 101 of Dirty Damage

He folds the cash into his palm and shrugs. “Your funeral.”

The door to the back room creaks like something out of a horror movie. The dank smell is even stronger back here—stale beer and the kind of desperation you can taste.

A single bulb swings overhead, casting shadows that dance on the water-stained walls.

“Thatmudakis setting us up,” Artem hisses in my ear.

“I know.”

“Then why the fuck are we sticking around?”

“Because we have time,” I say calmly.

We turn a sharp corner and I spot the poker table through the haze of smoke. Four men are hunched over it, but I hone in on Drew Anton immediately.

His lean, lanky build and white-blonde hair are even more distinctive in person than in the pictures that my security team tracked down. When he clocks us, he leans back in his chair, an oily smile stretched across his face that makes me want to shake Sutton and ask what the hell she was thinking.

“I don’t remember inviting more players to this game,” he drawls.

“We invited ourselves.” I grin tightly. “Kind of like you did last night.”

The other players shift in their chairs, hands drifting beneath the table where their hardware waits.

Amateur hour. If they were any good with those guns, they wouldn’t telegraph their moves like scared children.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, man,” Drew says, but there’s a tremor in his voice that betrays him.

So I show him what I mean.

I slam my hands on the table and flip it, sending cards and chips and drinks flying everywhere. The men jump back, falling over themselves in surprise.

One fumbles for his gun, but before he can get a grip on it, I’ve fired a warning shot.

Into his head.

The sound echoes off the walls as he drops, painting the floor sticky red.

“Anyone else feeling brave?” I survey the room. “I’m willing to stake my life on who the best shot in this room is.”

The smile has been wiped clean off Drew’s face. “Whatever you want with me?—”

“I want nothing to do with you,” I interrupt, stepping over the dead body. “You’re the one who decided to play with fire by attacking me last night.”

“That wasn’t me,” he stammers. “You’ve got it wrong?—”

I grab his shirt, yanking him close enough to smell his fear. “The patch on your jacket says otherwise. Want to try again?”

Suddenly, his expression shifts. His upper lip curls. “You don’t understand what you’re walking into,” he spits. “Old Gordy upstairs has already called for backup. You really think you can take on twenty guys?”

Behind me, Artem checks his watch. Our window is shrinking.

“I think,” I say, tightening my grip until Drew whimpers, “that you should be more worried about what I can do to you in the next thirty seconds.”

A bead of sweat trickles down his face. “What do you want?”

“The Martineks. Are they running this show?”

“No.”

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