The Room Behind the Felt

The tires hit the metal grate of the bridge with a steady hum. Below, the river looked like spilled motor oil. Victor drove with one hand low on the wheel, checking his mirrors before taking the ramp toward the Brooklyn waterfront.

“Bellweather is past the navy yard,” Tessa said. Her knuckles were white against the door handle.

“I know where it is,” Victor said.

They pulled into the gravel lot behind the warehouse ten minutes later. The building was four stories of dark brick with arched windows boarded up from inside. A red neon sign buzzed over a steel service door.

Before Victor cut the engine, headlights flared from a black van by the loading bay. Two men stepped into the light with pistols drawn.

Victor didn’t reach for his gun. He switched off the ignition and looked at Tessa. “Don’t speak until I tell you.”

A heavy hand wrenched the driver door open. Cold river air rushed in, smelling of salt and diesel. A man with a scar along his cheek shoved a barrel against Victor’s neck, reached inside his coat, and took his pistol. Another man grabbed Tessa’s elbow. She pulled free and flattened her sleeve with stiff fingers.

They were marched down a back hallway smelling of floor wax and stale beer into the private poker room.

A green felt table sat under a low brass lamp. In the corner, taped to a straight wooden chair, sat Liam.

Tessa stopped.

Liam’s left eye was swollen shut, purple and weeping. His collar was ripped, blood drying in dark spots across his chest. When he raised his head, his chin shook.

“Tessa,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“Quiet,” Gabriel Costa said.

Gabriel stood by a mahogany credenza, pouring whiskey into a lowball glass. His gray suit was immaculate. His jaw tightened once before he smiled. Behind him, Sebastian Rourke leaned against a gun safe, flicking a gold lighter with his thumb.

“You made a mess of the tower, Victor,” Gabriel said. “Expensive.”

“You bought the tracker,” Victor said. He kept his eyes on Gabriel. “You burned your own ground.”

“Yours,” Gabriel said. He placed a heavy laptop onto the green felt and opened the screen. The blue glow showed an offshore corporate portal. “Thirty-two million. The twenty-eight you locked down, plus four for the trouble. Call it interest.”

“Let the kid go,” Victor said.

“When the wire clears,” Gabriel said. He looked at Tessa. “She found the routing numbers in twenty minutes. She can move it.”

Liam jerked against the tape. “Don’t, Tess.”

Gabriel pulled a snub-nosed revolver from his waistband and pressed it to Liam’s temple. The steel clicked against bone.

“Sit down, Miss Montgomery,” Gabriel said.

Tessa walked to the table and pulled out the chair.