Page 17 of Four Cards Exposed

“What’s downstairs?” Susan asked, trying not to look too eager.

Her heels sunk into the plush carpet as she followed Guerrero down the wide corridor.

“Wait for me,” she said. “I can’t walk that fast.”

“Sorry,” Guerrero said gruffly. He led her down two flights of stairs, moving slower this time. “There. The lounge is through that door.”

Guerrero’s bulk moved aside, and Susan was finally able to see inside the room. The space was about the same size as the casino above, but much darker. There were no glimmering chandeliers in this area. Instead, the illumination felt cold, almost industrial. Like being inside an aquarium.

She felt the energy crackling inside the room even before she’d stepped fully inside. Whatever was happening here, it was electric—every single person in the room seemed to be focused on the same point in the center of the room—a stage, surrounded by … bleachers?

“What is this, Guerrero?” Susan asked uncertainly. “What’s going on here?”

“No más preguntas.”

No more questions.

“Follow me,” Guerrero ordered. All of a sudden, he seemed to be in a hurry. Susan knew what that meant: Miguel Mendoza was somewhere nearby. He was the only one Guerrero wanted to impress.

Pow.

From the stage came the sound of somebody pounding a slab of meat.

Not meat.

Flesh hitting flesh.

Somebody grunted.

The crowd cheered and vibrated.

A fight.

This is what these people came to see.

The smallish crowd at the casino upstairs suddenly made sense. The gambling and the drinking sweetened the deal, but these people were here to see blood.

“What is this?” she whispered. Guerrero’s hand curled around her elbow, but Susan dragged her heels, unwilling to get closer.

“Don’t get squeamish on me now, Milena,” he whispered. “Get to the bar. The girls there will tell you what to do.” He left her and moved towards a group of men. Miguel Mendoza was one of them. Susan recognized the linen suit and the black, gelled back hair. He was standing close to the fight, but far enough that he wouldn’t get blood on his fine clothes.

Around them, the brutal fighting noises continued.

Susan allowed her momentum to take her towards the bar, which was raised off the ground, before turning around.

In the center of the room, two men faced one another, like gladiators in a small arena.

The man facing her was a tall, golden Viking, with spiky reddish hair and a neck so thick it was like an extension of his square head. Large, colorful tattoos of mythological creatures covered his chest. Susan shivered despite herself as he flexed his biceps and bared his teeth at his opponent.

“Relax, sweetie, you’ll get used to it soon enough,” a woman said beside her.

“What should I do?” Susan whispered.

“Take these empty glasses and load them onto the basket. Just like that.”

Susan did as she’d been told, but she couldn’t keep her eyes off the fight. The second man hadn’t turned around yet, so all she could see was his bare back. His skin glistened with sweat, highlighting his well-developed muscles. He was as tall as the Viking and muscled, but leaner—with broad shoulders and slim hips that reminded Susan of a swimmer, rather than a fighter. His dark hair was thick and long enough around the neck that it would curl around his shirt collar, if he were wearing a shirt.

Susan smiled at the thought.