Foresight (10 page)

'Yeah it's her, can you fucking believe it?' one of them said. 'Apparently she's the one who's been jacking the tables for the past six months, got something like $800,000 from us! And now the silly bitch has the nerve to sign herself up for the Jepsom game!'

As Robin slinked into the bathrooms, his heart racing, his mouth dry and hands shaking, he stared into the mirror, looking at his reflection, his eyes transfixed, as if he was trying to read himself, trying to capture a subconscious thought that might help them out of this mess. He stood quietly, his mind churning over his limited options, looking desperately for a solution. Finding no better options, he slammed his hand against the towel dispenser and yelled loudly, before storming out of the bathrooms, and walking in the direction of the poker table.

Chapter 09

'Looks like your case of 'beginners bad luck' has well and truly cleared up', sneered Shaun, losing yet another hand to Clara, the fourth in a row. After a shaky start, her ability to focus her attention on the individual players had improved drastically, the weeks of training finally paying off. She was far from being at her most comfortable, and the task of reading each player individually whilst still keeping a close enough eye on the game had given her a stress headache, but she was finally relaxing into the game, and had won enough chips back to start being taken seriously. Her tactic had been simple enough; once she'd been able to hone in on an individual player, she'd read them and spot the honesty or deception in their action, instantly deciphering their poker face, and instantly allowing her to make a safe decision. She just had to act the part of the 'lucky winner' as much as possible, which so far she'd felt pretty confident she was doing.

'What can I say, I guess Vegas brings out the best in me?', she grinned, stacking her winning chips into neat little piles.

'I'm pleased for you Miss', said Sanderson, having just casually ordered another drink. 'But if you feel like sending any luck my way it would be greatly appreciated'
 

Clara smiled, still surprised at the sincerity of the man, before switching her attention back to the game. She glanced at Jepsom, a face like thunder, fuming at the prospect of using yet another hand to Clara, before looking across to the dealer, who had paused for longer than usual. The dealer glanced around, smiled at a colleague walking over, before addressing the table.

'That's the end of my shift, it's been a pleasure playing with you all.'
 

A small, quiet round of applause went around the spectators, as the two dealers made their speedy switchover, a move so well timed it was clear they'd all done this a thousand times before. As the first dealer lifted herself off of her stool, brushing past the new dealer, the pair spoke quietly to one another, no more than a few words, and as the dealer who was leaving the table spun around to look at Clara as she left, a feeling of absolute panic began stirring up in Clara's stomach, as if she'd swallowed a pin, and it was scraping around inside of her. As she stared back at the pair of dealers, having read their thoughts, painfully aware of the conversation they'd been having, movement caught her eye behind them, as three men in smart black suits began making a beeline for the table. She turned to her left, spotting one more in that direction, and a further two heading over from the right.

'Whoa, looks like something's going down', whispered Shaun, leaning over to speak to Clara. 'Someone's sending in the heavies!'
 

He laughed to himself, unaware that they were headed to the very table he was playing at, blissfully unaware that he wouldn't be playing any more hands with Clara this evening. She smiled a nervous smile, before running over the situation in her mind, wondering how she was going to alert the agency to her situation, and wishing she knew exactly how many of the agents were outside ready to help them.

Robin moved toward the table with more purpose than he'd had in a long time. With each step he was coming closer to frantic, bumping into stools and almost knocking over a waitress as he flew across the casino floor. His plan of keeping his actions subdued in the vein attempt to avoid making a scene had been thrown into chaos, with even Robin realising that avoiding a scene was now impossible. He'd actually wondered whether creating a scene might be his best means of making their exit, and fumbled around in his jacket pocket as he walked looking for his phone, his quick fire plan being to convince Clara and those around her that an emergency family call had come through, perhaps someone had been in a horrific car accident, and the hospital were on the phone, and they were so sorry but they'd have to go immediately, and that they'd wished they could stay but the family had to take priority or something along those lines anyway. He found his phone, snatching it out of his pocket and playing with the screen to bring it to life, thumbing his way through the contacts list, ending on Boal as he toyed with the idea of just admitting defeat, just dialling out and asking Boal to come and collect them, like a couple of 15 year olds at the Police station waiting for their parents to arrive, but he knew deep down that they'd be in far greater trouble if Boal deemed them unsuitable for the programme. As much as he wanted to just bail out now, he decided it would be better to try and redeem something from this awful evening, to claw back some sense of achievement. He held the phone in his right hand, the poker table in plain sight, as were the team of security staff in front of him, closing in on Clara.

The hand that landed on Clara's shoulder caught her by surprise, mainly due to the fact that it belonged to the sole security guard who had approached the table from behind and not from the front or side. The situation was worrying, but Clara couldn't help but be impressed with the speed and efficiency with which these guys had moved in on her. This clearly hadn't been their first 'grab and exit' manoeuvre. She jerked in her chair, sweeping her head around to see the security guard, who by now had one hand on her shoulder, his other hand gripping a clump of her dress and using it to forcibly pull her out of her seat, trying to mask his actions so as to keep the fuss to a minimum. Clara, still playing innocent, a feeble hope that acting as though she was totally unaware of why this was happening might save her, squealed out an angry,
 

'Excuse me, what do you think you are doing to me?!'

'You need to come with me maam', said the security guard, by now pulling her aggressively away from the table, making it obvious that there wasn't going to be any time to stop and talk about the situation. Clara looked at the other players on the table, all wearing identical faces, the pose of a 'rabbit caught in headlights' that we'd all like to think we don't do in situations like this, then spotted Robin about 10 metres away from the table, not moving, just staring back at her.
 

She read him;
'I'll get you out of this'
, he thought.
 

Then a stinging feeling in her right abdomen, then nothing.

Chapter 10

Clara's eyelids flickered, her eyes straining to focus, as if someone had just pushed the reset button on a computer and she was having to reboot from scratch. Her vision jerked around the room, trying to pick a spot to fixate on for a moment, to give her some idea of where she was or how she'd gotten there. Her head pounded with a headache the likes of which she couldn't ever remember experiencing, and her torso, around the appendix, stung as if she'd been attacked by a particularly angry bee. She established that she was in a room, cold and grey but not at all run-down, fairly modern in fact. In front of her was a desk, a few papers and other bits scattered across them, with another desk further in front of her and to the right, a computer and phone as well as the usual office bits and pieces sat on top of it. A wall-planner hung from the wall, initials and circles across the days, looking as if it was mapping out a rota of some description, and various documents were pinned to a noticeboard including codes of conduct and a white A4 document entitled
'Spotting a Roulette Cheater'
. Clara tilted her head, switching her view to the left of the desk in front of her. A range of security equipment was scattered randomly across the table, a pair of handcuffs, a billy club and a tazer. Her mind wondered, as if a segment of her memory had just been unlocked, deleted footage that had just been rediscovered, feeling the pinching, burning sting in the side of her body, realising that she'd been tazered back out in the casino room. She surmised therefore that this must be the back room of the casino, the part that patrons hope to God they don't ever see, the part that you come to when the casino think you're trying to fuck them over, and the part that you hope you walk out of in Police custody for your own safety.

The door to the office, a basic wooden one with no window, swung open and a man about 6ft 2 in height walked in. He had short, cropped hair, wore a smart shirt and trousers and had tattoos across the top side of his hands. He stopped as soon as he crossed the threshold of the room, and unbuttoned his cufflinks, rolling his shirt sleeves up past the elbow, not making eye contact with Clara at all. As he finished altering his shirt, he gently pushed the door shut behind him, before bounding over to Clara, and hitting her with an open-palmed slap, the full weight of his swing behind it, across her face. She winced and yelped, partly the shock of being hit, partly the outpouring of fear as the desperation of her situation became evermore apparent. Her head reeled sideways with the force of the hit, her ear thumping as her hearing vanished. She yelled out angrily, as if trying to intimidate her captor, who waited until she was sat fully upright before hitting her again, just as hard as before. Clara felt a tear roll down her nose, dripping onto her knees and the floor below her, the occasional droplet of blood joining the pool of moisture on the cold, hard concrete. She glanced up just in time to see the man raise his hand again, before another voice bellowed, just distinguishable even with her battered hearing.

'Enough!'

And just like that, the man paused, before gently lowering his hand. Clara looked across slowly, tilting her head with caution in case another strike was headed in her direction, and saw a second man had entered the room. He was a similar height and build, maybe a touch shorter, but just as sharply dressed wearing a designer suit. He had long grey hair, immaculately kept, and a neat grey beard. His eyes were dark and cold, his brow wrinkled and aged, his hands adorned with the same style of tattoos as Clara had seen far too many times recently. He patted the first man gently on the shoulder and whispered something into his ear, before the thug left the room without looking back, closing the door as he left.

The old man pulled out a chair, brushing down his trousers before taking a seat and crossing his legs. He sat by the desk with the phone, pushing a button on it's front and speaking into the hands-free mic.

'Coffee', he uttered, in a deep Russian accent. He paused and looked at Clara, his eyes burying deep into her mind, the hatred, anger and violent character that she saw feeling almost as hard-hitting as the punches.
 

'You want anything?', he asked.

 
Clara froze, unable to hold his gaze any longer, her eyes glued to the floor in front of her. He leant back toward the microphone.
 

'And a water'
 

He let go of the button and sat back in his chair, sitting quietly for what felt like an eternity before the door opened, and a female entered, placing a small espresso and a glass of water in front of the man, leaving the room as quickly as she arrived. The old man lifted the dainty cup and took a long sip, emptying the contents and putting the cup back on the table.
 

'I love espresso', he said. 'But you fucking Americans can't make good espresso. Your coffee shops. Bullshit. Only place where you get fucking good espresso is Little Italy.' He paused. 'You ever been to New York?'

'Sure', mumbled Clara quietly, her voice broken and her spirit in tatters.

'Shit hole', replied the man. 'Only good thing about New York is good espresso and Brighton Beach. You know Brighton Beach?'
 

He waited for a response, almost as if he knew everything there was to know about her, as if he was teasing an answer from her, filling in the blanks of a story he already knew the majority of. Clara hesitated to answer, the old man thankfully answering his own question.
 

'I know Brighton Beach. I have lot of friends and family there. Is good town, good people. My friends and I, we arrived in New York when I was just a boy. We couldn't get work, nobody wanted to know. My mother was a cleaner, my father worked on ships, and my brothers and sisters and I were always hungry. My father told me to work hard and I would be rewarded, but the American dream is only for Americans. I am no fucking American.'
 

He pushed the glass toward Clara. 'You want drink?', he asked. Clara remained still, head down. 'We try to carve out little bit of life for ourselves. We work hard, we buy land, we build.' The man stood up, walking calmly over to Clara, his right hand lifting her head up by her chin to face him, her eyes bolting away from making contact with his.
 

'So tell me, what makes you think you have right to come to my Casino and rob me?'
 

Clara stuttered, trying to remain calm and confident as she answered.

'I've barely even won a hand tonight, I was just...'

'Tonight?! Fuck tonight! Tonight, we got the better of you, you clever bitch. Tonight, who knows what you walk out with, but we stopped you. We got you. But what about all the other times? You must have known we would catch you sooner or later?'

'Other times?', Clara asked in genuine confusion. 'What other times?'

'It's no problem, you play stupid little girl', said the man. 'We know all about you. The roulette tables last month, the slot machines the month before that. How big is your team? We know it takes more than one person to take as much as you've taken.'