Chosen (The Chosen Few Trilogy #1) (13 page)

“
Yes,
”
Belinda said to me.
“
And yes,
”
she gave Lucy a wink.
“
She doesn
’
t know Jack or Sawyer though. I already asked.
”

I snorted.
“Women
.
"

1
9

MONACO, EUROPE

Stars shone in the night sky and the air was alive with easy chatter
.
Lysette Cohen swung her long, bare legs out of the rented limo. It had been a short drive from her apartment in the principality
’
s centre to Monaco‘s least famous casino. If all went well tonight she
’
d be leaving with another year
’
s rent.

She preferred to enter through an inconspicuous side door rather than follow the obvious route taken by secur
ity guards, celebrities, and
tourists.
After all, she thought, in her calf length, sheer, split-to-the-groin Donna Karan
dress;
she was noticeable enough as it was.

She’d styled her black hair upwards in a complicated do. Diamonds twinkled at her ears and ic
ed her neck, none of them as striki
ng as her blue
-
eyed gaze. She looked a million dollars- the look that blended in and said, somewhat perversely, that here in Monaco she wouldn
’
t be remembered beyond tonight.

“
Thank you,
”
she mouthed to the guard who ushered her into the casino’s inner sanctum
.
Once inside she was s
urrounded by an unmatched
elegance and a sense of contained excitement. The ultra wealthy played it to the bone here and the air was ripe with sophistication. Lysette threaded her way through roulette tables and Black Jack stations, heading towards the back of the casino, where the real game was played.

Poker.

A game she’d
played it twice in her life. She
’
d learned only the basic rules off the internet. But her winnings to date were over two million Euros.

“
New player?
”
The question was asked as she sashayed past an assured looking young man dealing Black Jack. Her slightly mocking expression told him she knew
his
game. Half the men
work
ing
here had learned their craft in order to bed gorgeous, wealthy women. It helped their cause that half the women who came in here had married for money.

Ly
sette ignored the man as
she laid eyes on a playable table. Two spaces were available. She sidled into one.

“
Bhouka,
”
she said, affecting an accent which she
’
d perfected listening to CD
’
s.

Whilst Lysette waited for the dealer to get on with it she
studied
the players. Time to get serious. Gucci Tie was to her left, a vacant Playboy bunny
stood behind him,
dangling a heavy wrist of Bvlgari swag over his steroid-enhanced shoulders. Gay Blonde was to her right, nicely-ripped boyfriend standing to his left. Stud Muffin was dead ahead, a playful smile lighting his eyes. The only other player was Old Hag, a conventional wealthy crone in her late sixties, wearing too much make-up, too much hair colouring, and definitely too little clothing.

Lysette watche
d the dealer- Secret Transvestite
- toss down the cards. Her method of keeping track of everyone she met was to give them nicknames. It also afforded her a bit of private fun.

Her drink was placed before her along with two cards. Her hole cards. She checked her luck, a pair of threes, and flicked them back down, turning her attention to the other players. In truth she hadn
’
t a clue about body language, she hadn
’
t a clue how to look for
‘
tells
’
, she just had a
…
gift.

A
gift that had taken her out of H
ell, and saved her life.

Lysette kept her eyes low, trying to stay inconspicuous. Even so she knew Gucci Tie wasn’t happy with his cards, Gay Blonde was staying neutral, and Stud Muffin was trying to hide a smile.

Old Hag pulled out. Everyone else stayed in.

Lysette smiled sweetly. She didn
’
t dislike these people. She just wondered at their indifference. Two years ago she
’
d had been trapped in a living nightmare- penniless and adrift, and trying to endure the nightly ordeal of watching her husband, Richard, drink away their joint wage and punish her for it with his ready fists.

Now she sipped her drink. Strong liquid burned the dry ash of memory from her throat. The dealer flipped over four cards. No one looked too impressed. But then they wouldn
’
t, would they.

Lysette started to
push.

Her life had changed one snowy January n
ight. Richard had come home after
a particularly bad day, banging through the door with a fresh pizza and a dangerous attitude. Ten minutes later he was on straight whisky. Without knowing what she was doing Lysette had pushed. At least, that
’
s what she called it later.

Pushing.

When she
pushed
she rea
d people’s minds. And at that moment
she’d read her husbands
’
.

That night, he would either break her for good, or kill her.

Lysette was running within the hour, running for her life and her freedom. To all intents and purposes she disappeared, flying to Paris and then taking trains and taxis, contactin
g no one. She took no baggage
- nothing that would tie her
to her past. She would never allow anyone into her heart again.

And so she
’
d ended up
at this poker table, a stranger among strangers. This was her life, this loneliness. Endured, respected, required.

Her power was both
savior
, and curse. How could she ever love again when she could read everyone’s thoughts?

Lysette pushed.

Gucci Tie had
nothing;
he was bluffing his way to an early exit. Gay Blonde was running for a flush, but didn
’
t think he was going to get it. Lysette guessed that a round of extravagant betting would soon send his well-shaved arse into his boyfriend
’
s willing lap. But Stud Muffin, hmmm
…
he was the danger here, in more ways than one.

Lysette wanted them all to stay at the table for a few
more
rounds to raise the stakes. She shuffled her chips and clipped off a small stack.

“
Four thousand.
”
Her voice was even.

There were a few smiles, a smirk from Old Hag. Good. They thought she was a pretty girl with a sugar daddy out to donate a few
Euros
. Predictably, they all stepped up to the cause.

It wasn
’
t pretty. She fleeced them. She read them,
pushed
them, played on their fears, and th
eir desires. By the time she
finished most of them were drunk, and Stud Muffin was as edgy as a pig who
‘
d won a Busman
’
s Holiday in a bacon factory.
Slowly she moved
her chair back and took her sweet time about dropping the dealer a hundred. She left the table, feeling Stud Muffin
’
s eyes on her clear
across the floor.

At the gate, she cashed out. Took a banker
’
s cheque and slipped it between the soft velvet folds of her designer purse.

Outside, the limo was waiting. She stopped for a moment to take in the crisp night air. The smell of success and filthy money greeted her, but best of all was the sweet scent of freedom. She unfast
ened her hair, letting loose a
black cascade around her shoulders and down to the middle of her back.

Alone was good. To be able to
push
was good. It ensured she would never be ensnared again.

T
he man who approached from the tree-line looked uncomfortably hot and grossly out of place. Lysette eyed him as he walked towards her. She told herself all was well.
The guard was six feet to her left by the big doors.

“
Lysette Cohen?
”
the man huffed as he reached her.
“
Christ knows why I had to wear this bloody tie to speak to you
outside
the bloody casino.
”

“
Who are you?
”
Fear slid uncomfortably down her spine like a caress of skeletal fingers.

“
I
’
m so sorry, Ms
.
Cohen,
”
the man
’
s voice was unmistakably English. An ex-private school boy for sure.
“
My name is Geoffrey Giles. I represent a company called Aegis.
”
He yanked off his tie and blinked at her.

“
I really need to talk to you, Ms Cohen.
”

“
You don
’
t need to,
”
Lysette stopped pushing, suddenly feeling light-headed.
“
I just read everything in your head. And saw the truth of it. The first pure truth I
’
ve seen in three years.
”
She smiled at the
man’s
priceless confusion.
“
I don
’
t mind going to York with you,
Mr.
Giles, but you
’
ll have to put a different name on my passport to get me there.
”

20

MIAMI, U.S.A.

Marian Cleaver crossed into the wealthy Coconut Grove area of Miami, arriving at the shopping mall a few minutes later. The scene could be described in two-no-
three
words.

Utter fucking chaos.

Cleaver flashed his I.D. to get inside the perimeter. Police cruisers were strewn everywhere. Unmarked vans took up several spaces in the parking lot. Police and plain-clothes made up the bulk of manpower, but there were others scattered around he didn
’
t
recognize
, most likely agents from covert agencies trying to stay anonymous.

   Beyond the staging area he saw palm trees
on fire
,
their splayed branches crackling and spilling
blazing
globules
ont
o the sidew
alk. Beyond
them flames licked through the
mall’s
shattered windows. Cleaver could see inside the main entrance to the food court. Tables and chairs and fake palm trees and benches and other debris had been piled high, and was the source of inferno. Vague shapes danced and flitted around the bonfire. Occasionally a shot rang out.

Cleaver unclipped his cell phone.

   Thankfully his contact at Aegis
a
nswered quickly.
“
Yes?
”

“
I
’
m at the mall
, Myleene
. No sign of Gaines.
”

“
Is anyone with you?
”

“
Not from Aegis. Not yet. I don
’
t have much time. What
’
s your input here?
”

“
Eldritch
is
coming to you.
We just aren’t ready
to commit everything
yet
.
”

Cleaver
watched
a tower of smoke plume
into the sky. He jammed a finger in his right ear as Miami PD ran by, shouting into their radios.
“
Best be ready sooner than later, Myleene,
”
he said.
“
This place is going to hell.
”