Something tapped at Marty’s brain. His eyes shot back to the tourists, and he recalled how they’d blocked his exit from the table. He stared as they flocked across the floor. Soon, he’d be completely hemmed in. With that kind of coverage, the camera was going to miss his sleight of hand.
He leaned back and let out a long breath. Then his pulse jolted as he realized something else.
This was Franco’s table.
Shit.
Marty’s gut clenched. In another thirty seconds, they’d catch Franco’s move. Marty scanned the players, spotting Fat-Boy in position. There was Cowboy, placing his €500 bet.
Marty dragged a hand over his mouth. He’d been following that sonofabitch Franco for weeks and had nicknames for all his crew. Then he noticed again the pretty, dark-haired girl standing on the sidelines. He’d seen her clock Fat-Boy’s eye-rub and his swift exit signal, but she didn’t seem part of their play. Surveillance, maybe? But who’d be dumb enough to tangle with Franco?
He slid a glance at Delgado. The asshole had him cornered, but not in the way that he thought. If Marty let the tape run, he’d probably be in the clear. On the other hand, they’d hit on Franco.
He watched the roulette wheel and his breathing speeded up. Where there was gambling, there was cheating. And where there was cheating, there was money up for grabs. Marty had been down on his luck for ten years, and for a while now he’d figured that coat-tailing on Franco was his only way out.
He held up his hands. ‘Okay, forget it, you’re right.’
Delgado narrowed his eyes. Marty licked his lips and went on:
‘I stole his stupid chip. You can stop the damn tape.’
Delgado’s face turned crimson. Slowly, he got to his feet and made his way round the desk, his gaze pinned on Marty.
‘You think you can make fools of us? Waste our time?’ He snapped his fingers at Luis. ‘Maybe you should see what happens to thieves in this casino.’
Luis snatched Marty’s arms and wrenched them behind his back. Marty’s shoulder muscles screamed. Delgado strode towards him, rolling up his shirtsleeves, and Marty tensed his gut.
Somewhere on the screen, that bastard Franco was making his move and Marty was going to pay for protecting him. Sweat slid down his face.
But hey, what the hell?
After all, once upon a time they’d been friends.
Chapter 3
Harry nudged through the crowds, following the fat guy along the cobbled streets of the Old Quarter.
Glasses clinked from the tourist-filled bars, and the air was thick with the salty scent of sausage. Harry fixed her gaze on the figure ahead. He must have been a hundred pounds overweight, but it didn’t seem to slow him down.
She picked up the pace, trying to fix her bearings. Navigational challenges were never her strong point, and she hadn’t been here long enough to tag many landmarks. She scanned the medieval-looking buildings. There were plenty of signs, but most of them in Basque, with its unintelligible x’s and k’s.
Up ahead, the fat guy moved like a barge, parting the crowds in a backwash behind him. He made a sharp right, and Harry trotted after him into another lantern-lit alleyway.
She recalled how he’d smoothed a hand over his hair at the casino. If her guess was correct, it was some kind of signal, a cue for his accomplices to cut and run. Right now, he was probably headed for an emergency location, or maybe back to wherever he was staying.
Just stay in the casino. Nothing can happen in front of the cameras.
She flicked a quick glance over her shoulder. All she planned to do was pinpoint an address. At least then she’d have something to offer Riva before terminating their arrangement.
Harry winced. Backsliding out of a job made her insides squirm, but the truth was, Riva didn’t need her. Harry’s expertise was in computer security, investigating forensics and security breaches for criminal and civil litigation. At least, that was the whitewashed version. Actually, she’d been a hacker since the age of nine and that was still what she did best. But whatever her skills, she certainly wasn’t equipped to crack open a ring of casino cheaters.
She huffed out a breath, picking her way over the cobbles. The maze of laneways reminded her of Temple Bar, Dublin’s alleged Bohemian Quarter, though the cobbles here were easier on her feet. The thought of her native Dublin triggered another squirm. Ever since her return from Cape Town a few months before, she’d had trouble settling back into her hometown. All her ties were there: her parents, her sister, her friends, her business. And Hunter, of course. The detective who’d recently stirred her body chemistry, brewing up something she didn’t quite recognize. But still, Dublin left her feeling displaced. Like a jigsaw piece tidied into the wrong box.
The truth had crystallized during a rare phone call with her mother.
‘A vagrant, just like your father,’ her mother had said. ‘You’ve moved three times in the last twelve months. Different homes, different countries, different jobs. Are you the same with men? Hopping from one bed to the other?’
Harry’s cheeks stung at the memory. Jesus, weren’t mothers supposed to be on your side? But at least the woman’s hostility had made her face facts. Harry’s sense of dislocation wasn’t new. Nothing like having a frosty mother all your life for making you an outsider in your own home.
Glass shattered on the cobbles behind her. Harry squeezed through a scrum of tourists, still keeping tabs on the fat guy. Her feet ached, and it occurred to her she was wasting her time. Maybe he was just a regular punter who had nothing to do with Franco Chavez.
She squinted through the alleyway. The fat guy shot a glance over his shoulder. Then he dipped his head, switched gears and put more distance between them. Harry frowned. Had he spotted her?
She hung back, her eyes roaming the busy tangle of streets. Tiers of wrought-iron balconies loomed above her, and every alley seemed to converge on a Gothic church spire. Her back tingled. She was worryingly far from her navigational comfort zone.
Something tugged at her gut, willing her to turn back. Was there really any point in following a guy who knew she was there? She slowed her pace, giving in to the notion. Then suddenly the fat guy stopped and spun around.
Harry jerked to a halt. Goosebumps erupted along her arms. He was staring right at her. His gaze drifted over her shoulder, his eyes widening. Then he whirled away and barrelled down the laneway.
Harry whipped her head around. What had he seen? She scoured the narrow backstreet, searching for false notes. She peered at the tourists, at the local Basque vendors, but nothing seemed out of place.
Was someone else following him?
She snapped her eyes back. He’d almost disappeared, and she took off after him at a jog, not sure of her intentions. She followed him to the end of the laneway and found herself on the edge of a large, open square. Sandstone buildings enclosed it on all sides, with rows of balconies rising up like seats in an amphitheatre. At ground level, the square was bordered by a colonnade of shadowy archways.
Harry felt her limbs relax. Finally, a place she recognized: the city’s old bullring, Plaza de la Constitución.
She slowed to a walk, scanning the area. It was less crowded in here, and the place scattered echoes like an empty church. You could still see the numbers over the shuttered windows from a time when the balconies were rented out as seats.
Harry spotted the fat guy scurrying for cover under the walkway of arched porticos. She hesitated. The porches looked gloomy, in spite of the lanterns dotting the colonnades. Better to stick to the safety of open country. Besides, he had to emerge sooner or later to exit back onto the streets.