Simple in theory. In reality, dangerous as hell. He had no idea what Petrov would do to them once they made contact. Would he hear them out or just want them dead? Edge didn’t like bringing Skye into such a volatile situation, but she had been in it from the start. He knew she wouldn’t back off now.
Skye slipped her arm through his, and they left the suite. As they stepped out of the elevator, the clank and clatter, bells, whistles, and flashing lights of gaming machines, along with the roar of the crowds at the dice tables, followed them toward the front door. If Petrov was at the Four Winds tonight, they could launch their campaign.
If not, they would find another way to reach him.
Edge thought of the big bed waiting for them when they got back to the hotel—assuming they managed to stay alive—and his blood rushed south. Either way, the night would not be boring.
The hotel limo dropped them off at the Four Winds Supper Club, which was even more stylish than advertised on its web page. The two-story, free-standing building was designed with an art deco theme, the interior entirely done in black and white.
The restaurant itself was a circular room with linen-draped tables on raised daises surrounding a glossy-black dance floor. A three-piece orchestra played 1940s music, and a bar ran the length of one curved wall.
Edge set a hand at Skye’s waist to guide her over to the bar, then helped her up on a stool with a curved black leather back. The waiters all wore tuxedoes, including the bartender who arrived in front of them.
“What can I get you?” He was mid-forties, dark-haired with a neatly trimmed mustache and pointed goatee.
“I’ll have a vodka martini,” Skye said. “Two olives. Beluga, please. Gold if you have it.”
Top-line Russian vodka. Edge flashed her a look of approval. She was casting a lure for Petrov, and as beautiful as she looked tonight, it might just work.
The bartender made a brief nod of his head. “No problem.” He turned to Edge. “And for you, sir?”
“Glenfiddich. Neat.” The bartender slipped silently away, and a few minutes later, reappeared. He set their drinks on the bar in front of them.
Skye took a sip of her long-stemmed, chilled martini. “Delicious. I love martinis, but I rarely drink them. I like to save them for special occasions.”
Edge thought of what he had in mind for her in the suite later that night—hopefully after they’d made contact with Petrov. He definitely intended to make it special.
The restaurant was packed, every white-draped table filled with elegantly dressed men and women. It was a mixed crowd of older and younger successful businessmen and women, and hip, monied late-twenty, early-thirty-year-olds in outrageously expensive designer clothing.
Edge spotted a couple of muscle-heads in white dinner jackets who looked more like cage fighters than doormen. Skye’s gaze followed his, and she cast him a knowing look. These were the same type of goons who’d worked for Henson.
Her glance slid off to one side. “Edge, we’ve got company.”
He spotted the red-haired, red-bearded man walking toward them.Dutch.The guy knew who they were. He had been in Blancha Springs, as well as New Mexico. Two of Petrov’s thugs fell in behind him as Dutch skirted the dance floor, made his way to the bar, and stopped right in front of them.
Edge just smiled. “Well, look who’s here. If it isn’t our old friend, Dutch.”
He was as tall as Edge, with wide, thick shoulders. Skye tipped her head back to look at him. “You never know who you you’re going to run into in a place like this,” she said.
A knot bunched in Dutch’s cheek. “Mr. Petrov wants to see you.”
Well, that didn’t take long. Hell, they hadn’t even gotten to finish their drinks.
Edge took a sip of his scotch. “Tell him we’d love to have him join us. Tell him we’ll buy him a drink.”
“Let’s go,” Dutch said. The other two men moved closer, boxing them in. “Now.”
Edge stood up and helped Skye down from the barstool. In one way, he couldn’t have planned it better. He figured Cross would be doing a happy dance. In another way, they were walking a very thin line.
According to Cross, the DEA had people in place in the restaurant, but at this point there was no way to contact them. He hoped wherever they were, they were prepared to step in if the whole thing went south.
“This way.” Dutch led them up the center aisle into the impressive, black-and-white, marble-floored entry. A staircase wound up the wall on the right.
“Upstairs.”
They headed in that direction, reached the landing at the top, and started down the hall. Dutch paused in front of a pair of closed, ten-foot-tall doors and did a quick pat down, found the gun in Edge’s shoulder holster, removed it.
“Got anything else?” Dutch asked.
