Chapter 4
T
he world had changed.
The predator moved slowly along the edge of the current, between the cold and warmer waters. It was in unfamiliar territory, filled with quick, darting prey. The ocean was still rich with food, as it had always been. Even now the predator could smell three different prey species, two upcurrent and another floating in the warmer waters to its side.
The predator worked its jaws slowly, its jagged fangs rubbing against each other, making a sound like a glacier moving across a field of rubble.
It was beyond famished. The hunger was alive, clawing its way out of the stomach, up through the nerves and into the brain. Urging a single directive, over and over, like a separate, frantic pulse.
Attack. Attack.
It had worked its way south along the food-rich current, first pursuing the maddening, twisting little seals. It had streaked after the dumb sharks that turned away at the last moment, lain in ambush for the large, too-fast fishes that streaked away and left it tasting only their terror-streaked wake. In desperation, the predator had descended to the ocean floor where there was only the semblance of light and attacked the long pale serpents that dwelt among the trenches that reeked of sulfur and even these creatures were too fast for it.
This last hibernation had been a long one. It could feel age in its bones, could sense the shift in its world, a curve of evolution it could not quite bend to. A sense it had been left behind.
It was not slower, not weaker. If anything, this last period of decades-long hibernation seemed to have rekindled the predator’s body. But the world had moved on, and this was no longer the predator’s predictable kingdom, filled with prey that relied on its mass to repel attacks rather than its speed to avoid them.
Yet even now it felt something stirring inside its mind, a feeling of awakening.
An
awareness
.
It turned in a slow circle, eyes trained up at the wrinkled ceiling of the ocean. Smelling, watching, processing. Hearing its body crying to go on the hunt, to attack, but not giving in. Not yet. It was reveling in this new process. A thought wending its way through the predator’s bloodthirsty cortex like a single phosphorescent algae twisting through the night seas.
The predator had evolved to attack large prey, to gorge on massive amounts of flesh and then rest. So when it had finally seen large prey, sunning itself on the surface, it had risen out of the depths and attacked. It had gone for the tail flipper, which had been finning rapidly.
The predator had ripped away chunks of the helpless prey, but the exoskeleton yielded nothing but a mouthful of splinters. In anger, it had struck again, and again, and eventually the prey had started to sink and then, only then did the outer shell yield morsels of food, little bits of flesh falling into the ocean.
It had turned out the exoskeleton was filled with the predator’s favorite food.
It had smashed other shells as it worked its way along the current. It was good food, but not enough; soon its snout was gashed and sore from attacking the tail fins, and its stomach was still too empty. After striking a half dozen of these interesting but unsatisfying prey, the predator had gone in search of something that was more meat, less splinters.
It had failed.
Now the predator moved down into colder, darker water, the habitat it preferred when not hunting. As it descended the water column, the thought grew brighter, took on substance. As the sea diminished to a uniform gray the thought joined another, formed into something more.
A plan.
For centuries the predator had dipped in and out of consciousness, hibernating in periods of leanness, awakening to gorge and reproduce. Its species’ natural lifespan was long, longer than the sea turtles they sometimes hunted, and the hibernations extended that lifetime exponentially, allowing them to survive long after its contemporaries had been reduced to calcified mud. It was not a difficult existence: Each time it awoke, the Arctic sea life offered the twin blessing of abundance and unwariness, entirely unprepared for the presence of this new uber-predator. But now food species were gone, either permanently or temporarily, jettisoned throughout the great expanse of waters by new currents.
Yet it had found some success. The exoskeletons of the floating prey were hard, but they were not dangerous. The tailfins were an annoyance, but an easy target for disabling the prey. There was not always much meat inside, but then again the predator had only approached moderate-sized species. Perhaps larger shells would result in enough food to fill its belly.
Perhaps the predator had been too conservative in choosing its victims.
It blinked, green eyes regarding the dull slate of the ocean with a new intensity. The thought was primitive, beyond abstract, existing only in a series of sensations, both remembered and anticipated. But something else had just registered in its mind, an illumination, a thought of how things were, and . . . how they could be. And for the first time in the long, violent existence of its species, the predator became aware of itself as a being separate from the ocean, separate from the air it breathed and the seawater that bathed its rough hide.
It was distinct from the prey it chased, and fundamentally superior to it.
The predator started to rise back up through the water column. The water lightened, and soon its body began to cry once again for it to attack. The predator swam faster, its serpentine body powering towards the surface.
Chapter 5
D
estiny Boudreaux stood near the corner of the
Nokomis
’s bar, staring at the three men sitting around a low table in the center of the room. Talking and gesturing, their movements and words slow and easy. Going over some contract or business deal, she supposed, acting all refined and gentlemanly now. She could hear the slight squeak as the bartender, Remy, dried out the brandy snifters with a dish towel behind her.
“That tension, I feel it building,” Remy said softly, his Acadian accent a pleasant, familiar sound. “Building up right here in front of me, jus’ like a storm cloud on a summer afternoon. You behave now, hear? Little ass-grab don’t mean much, grand scheme of things.”
Destiny turned slowly, careful to keep the easygoing smile on her face. Remy wasn’t big, maybe five-eight and a buck-thirty, a few inches taller than her, ten pounds heavier. Skin the color of coffee with milk, his dark hair falling back around his ears. Big hands for the rest of his body, his long fingers reaching around the snifters and placing them in the overhead slots above the bar.
“A grab is one thing,” Destiny said. “That asshole over there”—she nodded toward Richard Latham, who was lighting a thin cigarillo—“was digging right in.”
Remy looked down at the snifter in his hands, twisted the towel in. “You serious?”
“Like a goddamn gopher.”
“He—?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t get where he was trying to go.”
“I thought he just goose you, way you jump like that.”
“I should kick his ass.” She was still putting on a good face, but the smile felt heavier every second. “I really should.”
“Oh yeah?” Remy looked up at her, his hands still doing their thing. He had kind eyes, but Destiny had seen lots of guys with kind eyes do nasty things. Kick a guy in the face, or a woman, then look at her with those pretty blues or browns or greens and say,
We gotta get the fuck outta here.
“Yeah.”
Remy spun his drying towel in a tight spiral, then flipped it over and around his wrist and began to rub the bar down. It was a nice oak bar, she thought, but the guy who had finished it had done a shitty job with the epoxy coat. There were little air bubbles stuck in the clear coat, trapped for eternity because the carpenter hadn’t stuck around for an hour to pop them free with a hairdryer as the epoxy hardened. She had seen it done right before, at a small bar outside Reno, and she had been amazed at how the epoxy had given the long walnut bar a richness and depth that she would never have expected. Her first real job, the carpenter her first real boyfriend. And now, more than a decade later, how many little bubbles were cemented in her? More than a few.
This bubble now, though, it was still rising. Still ready to pop.
Remy caught her by the back of her shirt as she started toward the table.
She turned, angry, and Remy let her go, holding up one finger. She took a breath and he nodded, then looked to the men in front of them until she followed his gaze. They were talking softly, elbows on their knees. When she turned back to Remy, he raised his eyebrows.
“What?”
“You know
what
,” he said. “You gonna kick ass, you do it then, his paw down your skirt. He expect it then, maybe let you get a couple licks in. You go after him now, one o’ them big bastards just scoop you up, throw your pretty little butt overboard.” He paused, considering. “’Sides, them boys look like they got hard heads. You jus’ hurt your hand.”
Destiny looked at the row of men standing along the far wall, seven of them in all. Four of them had come in with Latham and looked like crosses between NFL linebackers and mercenaries, close shaven and hard-faced, their pectoral slabs bulging through their black shirts. The other three had come on board with the older dude, Hamilton Prower. Prower was, she thought, the only man in the room who knew how to dress. He looked to be in his late sixties, with a ruddy complexion and a heavy New England accent, his portliness somewhat concealed by his tailored suit. He seemed very cheerful compared to Latham, his blue eyes watching and absorbing, his mouth ready to smile. He had a cane that he used constantly, though he didn’t seem to have much of a limp. The cane, like the rest of Prower, was dressed up nicely: burnished walnut shaft, with gold inlays near the handle.
Prower’s bodyguards were smaller, ordinary-looking men, their eyes roaming the room constantly but always coming back to the slick-looking dude talking now, Frankie Rollins. One of Prower’s men, Hornaday, seemed to be the boss of the smaller bodyguards, just as the scary-looking dude with bloodshot eyes seemed to be in charge of Latham’s men.
Another man stood apart from the guards and the three men at the tables. Tall and thin, slightly cadaverous, he had the look of someone not used to standing while others sat.
One thing all these guys had in common, she thought, there wasn’t one of them going to fool her with kind eyes.
“Hard heads, huh? Better hand me a wine bottle.”
Remy’s face was impassive. “They doing business, girl. Go on, see if they want a drink. This good money, hon. You and me both.”
She bit at her lower lip, closed her eyes for a moment, sealed in the anger. Another bubble, locked into place, never to pop. She reached down, adjusted the short black skirt that was her uniform, along with a white silk blouse and high heels. Nice clothes, but uncomfortable as hell and part of the reason she felt less like a hostess, which was how Frankie had described this gig, and more like the kind of girl who would do whatever, whenever, as long as the price was right. The other reason she felt vaguely whorish was because when Latham slid his hand down her skirt—not the first time something like that had happened—she hadn’t punched him. Which
was
a first.
She glanced back at Remy. “Why are they paying us so much?”
“How much you getting?” Remy asked.
She pursed her lips. Ten grand for four days’ work, plus expenses. She knew working girls in Vegas, better looking than her, that would consider this a solid gig. And they’d damn sure be doing more than delivering drinks and picking up smelly ashtrays.
“More than the going rate, let’s say.”
He grinned. “My first thought? Your job, it be something kinky, but now I see kinky and”—he peered at the brass name tag on her white blouse—“Mizz Destiny, they don’t go hand in hand. Least not on the job.”
“No, Frankie would have picked a different crew for that.”
I hope
, she added silently. “He’s got a game set up.”
“’Course he do. Frankie always got a game set up,” Remy said, his voice dropping down until she had to lean closer, smelling rich coffee, dark rum, his light aftershave. “Always working something. This something maybe a bit more on the hush-hush. Word from the crew is we running out thirty-five mile, twenty past the Line.” His eyes went thoughtful, then cleared and he straightened. “But we ain’t gonna talk about all that crud. He paying us good, and I ain’t asking nothing.”
“How far are we out now?”
Remy shrugged. “Been moving for two hours, we out in it.” He pointed with his chin toward the table. “Go on, girl, be nice. Them boys look like tippers, especially the old dude with the cane. You want, feel free to share with your Uncle Remy.”
* * *
“Tell me again how it goes,” Hamilton Prower said. “I want everything to be perfectly clear in my mind.” He had his cane clasped between his knees and was leaning forward, his expression open and frank.
Frankie nodded, leaned forward. To his side, Latham’s face flickered with annoyance.
Well, no wonder the bent-nosed prick was annoyed, Frankie thought. They had been over the rules several times before they boarded, even signed a contract that Frankie knew would never show up, much less hold up, in any court of law. The format and structure of the game was his design, tweaked by Latham and Prower, yes, but simple to the point of banality. He’d run other games other ways, depending on his clientele, sometimes with exotic stakes or conditions. This one was as straightforward as it got. Cash for chips, and they played until the chips were gone. The chips winner got the pot, and the loser . . .
That was always the question, what the loser was going to do.
“We’ll cross the international line about five o’clock,” Frankie said. “That’s fifteen minutes from now. You’ll hear the captain send a message over the intercom, hear the rubes cheering upstairs. After that the party gets going upstairs. It’ll probably go on until two, three in the morning.”
“And our game starts at seven,” Prower said.
And ahh game stahts at seven.
Frankie wondered if the accent was real. It was the kind of Nor’eastern drawl you expected to hear in a backwater tavern, not from a partner in one of Boston’s top legal firms.
“Seven sharp,” Frankie said. “We’ll be well out to sea, no Coast Guard to worry about. The game is five-card draw, no wild cards. I got both your antes in my account.” He swallowed the last of his drink, jingling the ice cubes to signal he wanted another. He wanted another look at the girl he’d hired, too. “There’s a thousand dollars in chips for your initial stake. You get one buy-in, at the same cash-to-chips ratio, a thousand-toone. No minimum, but we set the max at two grand, got to vote it in. You can buy in a third time, but that’s it.”
“Agreed,” Prower said. “And the dealer? You said there would be a dealer. Impartial.”
“I did,” Frankie said, leaning forward as if this were the best question yet. As if they had not already discussed it several times. “The man flaked out, didn’t pass the background check. Of course, you get that money refunded.” Frankie paused, set his glass down gently. “He lied to me, gentlemen,” he said. “He didn’t mention his stint at a certain casino that was shut down by the Nevada State Gaming Commission for fraud, or that he was indicted and pled down to conspiracy to commit. He wasted my time, and yours. He is resting uncomfortably at the moment.”
Prower’s eyes opened slightly at this, in consternation or admiration Frankie could not tell. Nor did he care. It was all bullshit; he had any number of dealers who would jump at the chance to make good money for dealing this child’s game, but none he wanted to pay thousands to, and nobody whom Prower and Latham would both trust. The bartender and the cocktail waitress were necessary, both of them with a reputation of honest work and minimal gossip. The girl, Destiny Boudreaux, he might have to get to know better. She was built well, and the light green streak she wore in her dark amber hair did something to him. He’d worried a bit about the color in her hair, wondering if Prower—who seemed not only well on the road to dribbling insanity, but also a bit of a prude—would object. But the old bird, who obviously fancied himself some sort of East Coast aristocrat, had not spared her more than a passing glance.
“It’s fine,” Latham said. “I’m not a card shark, and I’m comfortable enough assuming Mr. Prower isn’t, either. What say you, Hamilton?”
“Certainly,” Prower said. “A fair enough resolution.”
“Good,” Frankie said, leaning forward. “Listen, it’s an unusual solution to your problem, I get it. But the game itself is straightforward. And remember, it’s just a game. Luck and skill, and you’re playing for chips. You don’t have to worry about what happens after. That’s what I’m here for.”
Latham’s lips peeled back in a thin-lipped smile. “You can stop selling now, Frankie. I already paid you my million bucks.”
Frankie glanced back at the bar. Destiny and Remy were talking again, not paying any attention to them. He turned back to Latham. “I just want it clear, there’s no turning back.”
“We’re a little far out to sea for a course correction,” Prower said. “In more ways than one.”
“You’ll shake on that?”
Frankie put his hand out over the table, between the two men. Hamilton reached out first, his hand hot and dry in Frankie’s. Latham shook next, his palm cooler and sweatier, the exact opposite of what Frankie had expected. Another minor surprise, and he needed to quit being surprised. These two guys, no matter what they looked like, were stinking rich. Men who would show the faces that worked best at the time, who might thrive on deceiving friends and enemies alike.
Then Latham and Hamilton shook, and to Frankie it seemed that Prower and Latham regarded each other as kings might, not enemies or friends, just a man who was not his to boss around and so somebody with no place in their own life. But a man who must be tolerated nonetheless. Frankie could feel the appraisal each took of the other, neither man minding the other’s stare, so deep was he within his own calculations.
“A handshake means a drink,” Destiny said from behind them. “Right?”
The three men turned slowly, all at once. And the moment was broken.
“Yes,” Frankie said. “One more drink for these two gentlemen.”
Destiny reached deep inside herself to control the eye roll. “Okay,” she said. “Let happy hour begin.”