Page 60 of Four Cards Exposed

Guerrero was still gloating when James threw his own punch—a blow to the point of the chin that smacked Guerrero’s teeth together. Blood erupted from the man’s split lip. It dribbled down his chin, unchecked.

“Come get me, Guerrero,” James drawled, his hands high in front of his face.

Suddenly, the yellow lights overhead flickered, plunging the room into darkness. The ship rolled in the storm. People screamed. Somebody ran past Susan—almost throwing her to the floor in the process.

She’d only just gotten her balance back—in those stupid heels—when the ship rolled again. Her hip struck something hard.

Pain flared from her hip, all the way down her leg.

And, much worse than the pain, was the fear.

Thick enough that she could smell it.

Suddenly, she was back in the airless trunk, slammed from side to side like a puppet. Her stomach tightened. Around her, people screamed, but she barely heard them, lost as she was in a panic of her own making.

A small whimper escaped her, like the sound an inflatable toy makes when the air inside it is released.

Susan dug her nails into her palms.

No.

She wasn’t going to let this fear overtake her—she wouldn’t let it dictate her life. This was exactly what James and Lorraine had been worried about, that she wouldn’t be able to cope with her fear. That, when push came to shove, she wouldn’t come through.

I will come through.

Blindly, she made her way towards what she hoped was the fighting ring. The last place she’d seen James.

A different set of lights flickered on—small, dim emergency lights—bathing the lounge in a reddish light.

A man pushed by her, and she followed him with her eyes as he joined a crowd of guests swarming the doors. Pouring their way through, looking more liquid than solid. Moving on instinct.

Susan blinked and looked away from the doors. She turned towards the fighting ring. A silent, frozen tableau met her eyes.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw James standing there with Guerrero. No longer fighting, they glared at each other down. Their feet were spread shoulder-width to weather the ship’s movement.

And they’re not wearing heels.

Why am I still wearing heels?

Shaking her head, Susan stepped out of her shoes. Her toes curled onto the cool floor. Being barefoot was preferable to breaking her ankle.

Several other men stood close to James and Guerrero. Moore was there, barking into his phone, a scowl on his face that could melt an iceberg. Beside him stood Miguel Mendoza, slim and elegant in his tan suit despite the mayhem going on around him. And, standing shoulder to shoulder with him, another man, a thicker, older, sturdier copy of Miguel.

Ernesto Mendoza.

Susan’s mouth dried out. Lorraine had shown her pictures of the man, but they didn’t do him justice. His face was long and angular, tanned almost everywhere except for the spot over his lip, where a white shadow pointed to a recently removed mustache. But it was his eyes that commanded all of her attention. In the flickering lights, he looked more reptile than man.

And then the silence broke. A dozen bright flashlights lit up the space, each one held stiffly by men and women dressed in tactical gear.

“FBI! Don’t move! Stay right where you are!”

Even Susan, who had been expecting this, froze.

“No! No!” Miguel cried out. “You betrayed us!”

“Miguel!” Ernesto roared. Something flashed behind his cold, reptilian gaze.

A knife glinted in Ernesto’s hand, its blade curved like a tusk.