The Bellagio's VIP gambling hall reeked of cigar smoke and expensive cologne. Crystal chandeliers cast gold light over the green felt table, where Marcus's hands tightened around his poker chips—fake ones, still rigged with Miller's tracking devices. Claire stood beside him, her dad's FBI notebook clutched so tight her knuckles whitened. Across the table, a man in a tailored gray suit smiled, and Marcus's breath caught.
He looked exactly like Claire's dad—same sharp jaw, same scar above the eyebrow, same silver watch on his left wrist. But when he moved, his movements were stiff, like he was wearing a mask.
"Dad?" Claire whispered, her voice breaking. She took a step forward, and the man held up a hand.
"Easy, kiddo," he said, his accent off—too crisp, not the soft Boston lilt Claire had described. "It's me. But we don't have much time. Chen's men are watching."
Raymond, tied to a chair in the corner, growled against his gag. His eye was blackened, his shirt stained with blood—proof of Chen's "hospitality." Marcus glanced at him, then back at the man. Something was wrong.
Claire's dad had a scar on his right wrist—from a childhood accident with a bike chain. This man's right wrist was smooth.
Marcus cleared his throat. "You said you were Chen's prisoner. How'd you escape?"
The man's smile flickered. "I… made a deal. Helped him move some chips. He let me go. But he wants the ledger—Raymond's book. Said if I bring it to him, he'll leave my family alone."
Claire stepped closer, her eyes wet. "But Miller said… he said you were dead. The warehouse—they found a body."
"Fake," the man said, too quickly. "Chen set it up. To throw the FBI off." He nodded at Marcus. "You have the ledger. Give it to me. I'll get it to Chen. Keep you all safe."
Marcus's fingers brushed the ledger in his jacket pocket. He thought of Raymond's warning—Chen's men will say anything to get the book. He thought of the scar.
"Can I see your wrist?" Marcus said, nodding at the man's right arm.
The man froze. "What?"
"Your right wrist," Marcus repeated. "Claire told me about the bike chain scar. When you were ten. You fell off your cousin's bike, and the chain cut you. It's shaped like a crescent."
The man's face paled. He stepped back, and the door to the gambling hall slammed open. Cole—Miller's former partner, the one who'd gone rogue—strolled in, a gun in his hand.
"Nice try, Marcus," Cole said, grinning. "But this isn't Agent White. This is Pete. He owes Chen $50,000. Played the part for a chance to wipe his debt."
Claire stumbled back, tears streaming down her face. "Where's my dad?" she yelled, her voice cracking. "What did you do to him?"
Cole shrugged, holstering his gun. "He wouldn't play ball. Refused to tell Chen where the ledger was. We found him in the warehouse—already dead. Wolf's men did it. Or maybe Chen's. Doesn't matter now."
Raymond struggled against his ropes, his eyes blazing. Marcus grabbed Claire's arm, pulling her behind him. "You're working for Chen. This whole time."
Cole laughed. "Miller's a fool. Thought he could trust me. Chen pays better. And when he takes over the New York games? I'll be his right hand." He nodded at Pete. "Take the ledger. And the girl. Chen wants her—insurance against Miller."
Pete lunged for Marcus, but Marcus dodged, pulling the ledger from his pocket and tossing it to Claire. "Run!" he yelled.
Claire sprinted for the door, but Cole blocked her path. He grabbed her arm, and Marcus tackled him to the ground. The gun slid across the floor, and Raymond—finally free of his gag—yelled, "The window! There's a fire escape!"
Marcus grabbed Claire's hand, and they ran to the window. He kicked it open, and the cold Las Vegas night air hit them. Below, Sophia's Impala was waiting, its lights off.
"Go!" Marcus said, pushing Claire onto the fire escape. He turned to face Cole, who was already standing.
Cole grinned, cracking his knuckles. "You're gonna regret that, kid."
Marcus grabbed a poker chip from the table—one of the real ones, weighted with cocaine—and threw it at Cole's face. Cole yelped, and Marcus ran onto the fire escape.
They jumped into the Impala, and Sophia hit the gas. As they drove away, Marcus looked in the rearview mirror—Cole was standing in the parking lot, yelling.
Claire was quiet, staring at her dad's notebook. She flipped to the last page, where a photo was tucked—Agent White holding a young Claire, both smiling.
"He's really gone," she whispered, her voice hollow.
Marcus put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry. But we'll get Cole. We'll get Chen. For him."
Claire nodded, wiping her tears. She opened the notebook to a new page, scribbling down Cole's name and a description. "Miller needs to know. He deserves to pay for what he did."
Sophia glanced at them in the rearview mirror. "My dad's safe. Miller's men picked him up. He said… he saw Chen's plans. New York. Next month. A big poker game. He's gonna smuggle more cocaine—enough to flood the East Coast."
Marcus's throat tightened. New York. Where Claire was going to law school.
He looked at Claire, her face hardening with determination. "We're going to New York," she said. "We stop Chen. For my dad."
Marcus nodded. He thought of the anonymous email—"I'm waiting. Your old friend." Chen's partner. Waiting in New York.
The game wasn't over. Not yet.