Shit. What’s the count? It was minus four, but the stack didn’t match.
Dammit—the dealer’s working off four decks. I thought he was working out of three. He must have added a deck when I was placing my bet.
“Hit,” I said, risking going over twenty-one so I could get a better idea of what I was working with.
Two of spades, adding to my jack of hearts and eight of clubs.
“Looks like your luck hasn’t run out,” the dealer said with a smirk. “Twenty for the lady.”
There was luck and then there was cutting it too fucking close.
Cheers rose up as I raked in more chips. I bagged half and kept half on the table. One more hand, and then I could worry about Jude.
He promised he would find me. He reassured me time and time again that I could do it on my own.
I just didn’t know that I wouldn’t have a choice. After the night at the Four Horsemen where he had caught John Valentine drugging my drink, I had come to rely on the peace of mind I had at knowing he was near.
I had trusted him long before he had proven to me that I could.
He trusted me to keep going.
The dealer called for everyone to make their bets, but his eyes lingered on me. “What’s it gonna be, gorgeous?” A teasing twinkle glimmered in his eye. “All in?”
Nerves bubbled inside of me like an insidious pool of lava on the precipice of eruption, right before a slow smirk curled at the corner of my mouth. “Nice try.” I slid two thousand dollars’ worth of chips forward.
I could turn it into another twenty-grand in the blink of an eye.
A hand landed on my shoulder. I glanced to see who it was. Blue suit. Black leather ID holder.
FBI.
Chips tumbled to the ground as my hands were yanked behind my back. “Amelia Hawthorne, you’re under arrest for accessory to fraud.”
Someone grabbed Jude’s backpack from where it was tucked away at my feet. I was yanked out of my seat as the chaos of the casino seemingly ceased to exist.
WereMiranda rights just something actors did in police procedurals? Did the FBI have to read you your rights, or were they exempt or something?
It seemed like something I should know.
Then again, I had never been arrested before.
I had never been stuffed into an unmarked SUV before.
I had never been marched into the FBI Las Vegas Headquarters before.
It all seemed to be very by the book. That was, until the handcuffs were taken off.
I was ushered into a room with a cozy couch, soft lighting, and potted plants, and was offered my choice of coffee, water, tea, or a soft drink.
Now I really had no idea what was going on.
One minute, the woman who had cuffed me at the blackjack table was being rather gruff and curt. The next minute, she was apologizing for how tight the handcuffs were and urging me to help myself to the little basket of snacks on the coffee table in the room where I was sequestered.
Hello, whiplash.
Much like the casino, there were no clocks in here. I had no sense of time, though it had to be well into the middle of the night.
Or maybe we were nearing dawn . . .
