Page 93 of Dating Goals
She ducks, and the extinguisher smashes into the window behind her, cracking the glass.
“Sorry!” I call out. “I was trying to help!”
“Your help is noted!” she shouts back, delivering a rapid sequence of punches to Scarface’s ribs. He staggers back, momentarily dazed, and trips, arms windmilling, and crashes into the already-cracked window. The glass spiderwebs further but holds.
The assassin hangs suspended in the shattered frame, jaw slack with surprise. Then Elodie pokes him in the chest with one perfectly pointed fingernail and lets gravity do the rest.
With curses that fade quickly into the distance, he disappears from view.
Elodie stands at the broken window, hair whipping in the wind, looking like a model in a music video.
“Well,” she says, turning to me with perfect composure. “That was inconvenient.”
I stare at her, mouth hanging open. “You just…He’s…Did you kill him?”
Elodie brushes a strand of hair back into place. “He’ll survive. Probably.”
“Probably?!”
She shrugs, retrieving her heels. “Men like him. They are…resilient.”
I stare at the broken window, then back at her. “You pushed him off a moving train!”
“Would you prefer I’d let him stab you?”
“But…the…window…” I sputter.
“Yes, it is quite drafty,” she says, straightening her dress. “Come along, Griffin. We have a poker game to prepare for.”
20
GRIFFIN
After our train adventure, Elodie and I arrived in St. Moritz with just enough time for me to be fitted with my spy gear. A nearly invisible earpiece that makes me feel like I have a mosquito permanently lodged in my ear canal. Agents Bruderlin and Showalter are in a secret room guiding me through tonight’s events along with a professional poker player named Victor Hahn.
“Ready?” Elodie asks, adjusting my bow tie. She’s acting far too familiar for my taste, but I suppose that’s the undercover ruse.
“As ready as a goalie facing a five-on-three power play,” I mutter.
She smiles like she understands the reference, but I know she doesn’t. “Remember, I’ll be right beside you. Your lady luck.”
Our tournament is in a private room in the Casino St. Moritz. Two men guard a set of mahogany doors. They check our invitations, then step aside to let us enter.
The space is intimate but imposing. Dark wood paneling, plush carpet that swallows sound, and at its center, a sunken area with a large oval table covered in green felt. A bar wraps along the far side.
A man in a tailored suit approaches us. “Mr. McGregor, we’ve been expecting you. I am Joseph, the floor manager. The game begins in fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you,” I say as Joseph directs us farther into the room.
My earpiece crackles to life. “Testing, testing. Griffin, this is Agent Showalter. Can you hear me?”
I give a subtle nod, hoping the camera they’ve told me about catches it.
“Good. Don’t respond verbally unless you’re alone. Just scratch your chin if you understand.”
I reach up casually and scratch my chin.
“Perfect. We’re all set. The cameras are operational.”
