Page 5 of Silent Schemes
Let them watch.
I’m not here to hide.
Scoping the room takes three seconds.
The table near the stage has a pit boss I don’t recognize, maybe on Cross payroll.
A drunk in a bolo tie is losing badly to a pair of twins with identical tells—eyebrows twitch before every raise.
Dealer’s on the take.
I make a mental note: be an easy take, if that’s what I am here for.
Butshe’sthe only thing that matters tonight.
Sienna Cross is impossible to miss.
Even if you’ve never seen her, you’d pick her out: too perfect, too composed, like a predator playing at prey.
She’s at the far blackjack table, flanked by men who think she’s a gift.
Her dress is black, slit to the thigh.
Not for attention—there’s a glint of steel at the holster on her upper leg.
She wants me to notice, and I gladly oblige.
She sips from a martini, pinky out, head thrown back in a laugh.
Not real, but close.
She’s good.
Her hair’s black as night, long and loose except for a single streak of silver that runs from temple to ear.
Most people would think it’s dye.
It’s not.
Stress does things to people, even the young and deadly.
She leans in toward the old man on her left, whispering something that makes his face go slack.
He thinks he’s in love.
She’s already calculated exactly how much it would cost to ruin him, down to the decimal.
I watch her play for five minutes.
She pretends to drink, but never actually swallows.
She loses every third hand, just enough to keep the others from suspecting, but her bets are precise: she’s counting, always.
Her finger taps the felt whenever she’s about to win.
The pattern is invisible unless you know what to look for.
Iknow what to look for.
