Austria was already a memory. The flight to London had cost Dimitar nothing, thanks to the generosity of Sam Houston, his high-stakes acquaintance who welcomed him into his home in the English capital. The two had also arranged it so Sam would not meet him at the airport. They knew that Peter Serf was receiving information about what Dimitar was doing. They felt the best way to keep Elena safe was to keep as much about how Dimitar was doing away from the public eye. And after what had happened with the safe in Vienna, they knew this was the right decision. Peter Serf had a way of uncovering information that no one should have access to. His network of operatives stretched far and wide.

Dimitar already felt like he was walking with a target on his back as he chased Serf around Europe. Bringing anyone else into this light was a burden he would never willingly share.

‘Dimitar?’ said a leggy blonde standing at Arrivals. Tall, gangly, with a wide, grin, Dimitar recognized her immediately from Sam’s description – ‘I understand what he meant that she could be related to a spider’ he thought.

“Twiggy?” he had asked nervously. Her grin widened as she gave him a warm hug after he snaked around the barriers, passing the throng of people returning from holidays and business people arriving home after a gruelling week away. It was true what they said, Dimitar thought. If you ever need to be cheered up, watching people arrive at airports, and seeing the smiles as they locked eyes with friends, family, and loved ones who would invariably show up to greet them most unexpectedly was almost foolproof.

Almost.

He had felt guilty for not being happy. Instead, he was sad and angry at his grim pursuit of his girlfriend Elena, who was currently Peter Serf’s hostage.

“You made it through customs pretty quickly, then?” Twiggy had said, her British accent amusing him. It felt good to smile, if a little strange. He had spent the plane ride constantly thinking about how to best maximise his money to reach the million-dollar ransom within a month he was given. He knew Elena was a prisoner and he had to save her.

‘Yes, I only had £8,500.’

‘Hey, don’t knock it. It’s not bad for a few days’ work.’ says Twiggy. ‘The legal limit is £10,000, so you’re quite safe. I’m parked in short stay, it’s only a few minutes walk.’

They got in the car and Twiggy drove as Dimitar let the traffic blur into his peripheral vision. He had never turned €1,000 into ten times that before. The rush of running it up was tempered by the fact that the money he had only represented the next stake. He was aware that he was about to start the real climb up the mountain to a million dollars and that from here on in, not only would nothing be easy, but it would become increasingly harder.

‘So have you played poker long, like Sam?’

‘Only at home, in Bulgaria. Not like Sam; he plays high stakes.’

‘The highest. I don’t know how he does it. Loses more in some sessions than I make in a year, but it’s all just part of his bankroll. I think it takes a certain type to do what he does you know?’

‘Yeah, I bet it does.’

Dimitar wondered if he was that type, the right type, as the car nimbly picked its way through London’s buttonhole streets. Through one-way systems, a blur of red lights, and bus lanes, he didn’t notice that he had fallen asleep until the car pulled to a stop outside a three-story apartment. Three grey stone steps led up to a brilliantly blue front door framed by bright white walls.

‘End of the line, sleeping beauty,’ Twiggy said. She moved around to the passenger door and Dimitar slowly exited, grabbing his overnight bag.

‘I’m so sorry, I fell asleep. How long was I out?’

‘An hour? It was OK, I listened to my podcast. Go on in, I need to park round the back.

Dimitar looked up and saw the formidable silhouette of Sam Houston in the open doorway of his London townhouse. Tall and rangy, he exuded confidence, as if nothing bad had ever happened to him. Dimitar wondered how much of a bluff that was.

“Welcome to your home from home, buddy,” Sam said, putting an arm around Dimitar as he ushered him, yawning, into his house. “Twiggy went to park and will join us soon. Right now we need to talk about the golf club. How was the journey?”

Another yawn from Dimitar. With a big laugh, Sam slapped him on the back and the Bulgarian smiled.

The real game had just begun.

Cologne was damp and grey and Elena’s mood matched the city. She tried her very best not to let it show but when you can see nothing but bleakness, it is difficult, to say the least. Breakfast had been wholesome and fulfilling and had left her feeling a bit stronger. It had only been three days, but the wounds of Bulgaria and the horror of the drugged-up state Serf had her travel in as they went through Germany were behind her. She played her part and smiled for Peter, making strong eye contact, holding her mouth open when she smiled, showing her perfect teeth.

It was Peter now. Not Serf, not Sir, just Peter. She had learned a few things during her captivity. She knew to call him by his first name because he liked it. She knew she needed to do plenty of things, most she did not want to do, that he liked. Each hour she performed, it became easier as she could feel him relax. The more relaxed he became the easier it was for her to start planning a way out.

They went back to the room after breakfast, but it was being cleaned. Peter looked at the maid, asking how long she would be in a manner that implied she needed to have it completed quickly. The maid – South American, thought Elena – was quick and polite, and never looked at Peter’s face.

Maybe she sees what I see, Elena thought. Maybe she can see behind the mask too. Maybe she’ll report him. But then she stopped herself. Report what? See what? There was nothing to see. Peter was the human embodiment of that phrase; nothing to see here. Even if the maid did see something, what would there be to report beyond a bad feeling? No, she knew she could not rely on anyone else.

While they waited for the room to be ready after their breakfast, they walked the grounds of the hotel. The greenery and stiff hedges were neatly trimmed, the lawns freshly cut bringing the comforting aroma of dewy cut grass to the senses. Above eye level, the yew trees around the gardens reached towards the sky, leaves curled in the mid-morning sun so that they could absorb all of its life-giving rays. The day was bright, clear, and dry – it was perfect. As they strolled through the flora, Elena was sure that anyone who looked at them would assume they were either a happy father-daughter pairing on a family trip or a couple of lovebirds who were defying the generally accepted age boundaries of a modern relationship.

“Have you lived here?” Elena asked, as breezily as she could. The lilt in her voice and beaming smile hid her true thoughts.

‘Cologne? No. Germany, a little, mainly business trips. It’s good for a city break.’

‘It doesn’t feel so much like a city. Not like home, but not like being too far away.’

‘We won’t be here long. We must leave again soon, you know that. You will not get used to it.’

“It’s a shame,” she said, linking her fingers with his, feeling the warmth of his palm pressing against her own as they paced the walkways between the trees and bushes. “I can think of worse places to live, even to stay. It is very clean.”

Peter unlocked his fingers from Elena’s and pointedly looked up at the trees, the sky, and the picturesque city background, “You’re not wrong. It’s clear, it’s sunny and it’s bright.

‘The English philosopher Ruskin said, “There is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.” I like that.’ Peter said. She smiled and nodded pretending to appreciate his intelligence while being awed by his wisdom. Peter shared a smile in response.

A member of staff approached them from the main building. A man, friendly, although he kept his head bowed, his gait stooped as he shuffled along towards the two of them. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Everything about him set Elena on edge.

‘Nice morning, Mr. Serf.’ he said, with a movement not unlike a bow that stops just before it starts.

‘Can’t beat a bit of sunshine,’ Peter replied.

There was a moment as they passed where the man glanced up at Elena as she was a little taller. He looked away quickly, then back up at Peter. It was at that moment Elena realised Peter knew this man. She was struck by a wave of panic rising up from her stomach like bile, instinct told her to run.

Elena moved around the man to put him between her and Peter and sprinted away. She didn’t look back, pounding her legs into the ground harder with every footstep away from them. Blind panic was carrying her as fast and as far as she could. She had to get from the two of them.

She had to escape.

The Forest Pines Golf Club was the height of opulence for those who loved the game, but for Dimitar, it was all about the poker. The late morning had been spent talking through strategy with Sam in his plush London apartment. It was a life that Dimitar found slightly enviable. It wasn’t about the money, it was the control Sam had over his life as a high roller, as it was laid out before Dimitar, that made him envious.

For now, envy would have to wait as it was time for business. Ten tables, each with eight players, each of them having paid the £5,000 buy-in. It was the biggest buy-in event he had ever played and for the entirety of the first orbit, he thought he could hear his heart as it thumped against his ribcage. Sam had told him that was exactly how it would be. To wait and wait until he felt able to play his regular game.

The game was good. There were tons of players who looked like they’d rather be gripping a nine-iron ready to drive for the green than playing with chips and cards. Dimitar worked on his breathing, paced it a little better, and took mental notes about the players at his table. Sam was over on the other side of the room.

It is Dimitar against seven players he didn’t know.

If it was a cash game back in Bulgaria, he’d have known Georgi. Tragically, Georgi was no longer alive. So Dimitar imagined that he was, that Georgi was right behind him at the table cheering him on, having busted the tournament early. Plausible in the early days he thought, and he allowed a smile to creep over his face.

As the tournament progressed over the first hour, Dimitar started to feel a bit more comfortable. He started raising more in late position, understanding when three-bets would get through against these types of players and when they would respond with four-bets. They treated the buy-in as casually as Dimitar might a single Euro coin. The value of money was the same, but in this room, it felt different.

At the end of the first hour, Dimitar had almost doubled his chips. He was still in the tournament, and late registration only had another 30 minutes to run. It was a one-day event and the pace was fast. Sam had told Dimitar about this prior to arriving. Treat it seriously but understand the chips would move quickly.

The player count was slowly reduced as the money bubble crept closer. Suddenly there were just 25 players left in the room, spread between four tables. One more to bust and it would be down to three tables of eight. Dimitar had avoided Sam and continued to do so. But there was a troublesome player at his table, to his direct left. Old, active, talkative, and liked to bluff. He was running over the table and, as far as Dimitar could tell, he had done so mostly by catching cards late on the board. Flushes, straights, two pairs, trips, they had all hit for the man and he was the tournament chip leader. Only 18 players would make money, and Dimitar needed more than the £8,420 min-cash. He was chasing the £150,000 top prize.

“I’ll raise it up!” the man exclaimed on Dimitar’s big blind. Dimitar had clocked him; he had bet blind. Two callers from middle position. The button folded. The small blind folded. Dimitar looked down at two tens.

‘Raise. 20,000.’ he said. The blinds were 2,000/4,000 and the old Englishman had made it 8,000 to play without looking at his cards.

‘Oh, we got a live one!’ he exclaimed, announcing a raise and tossing in a single 50,000 chip.

Both the middle position players folded their cards. Dimitar was out of position, with around 200,000 chips. He made the call. The flop was spread. A king, a nine, and an eight. None of the suits matched his two black tens, with the king of hearts being joined by two diamonds on the flop. Dimitar checked.

‘You didn’t hit that flop, my friend. I gotta make you pay for a draw.’

‘What draw?’ Dimitar asked with a smile. The Englishman flicked in another 50,000 chip.

Dimitar was sure that he hadn’t hit the king. Something in the old man’s eyes gave it away. He didn’t bet differently; it was the same amount, but there was a lack of confidence in his face. Either feigned strength or genuine weakness. But which was it?

The seven of diamonds on the turn. That was a good card and a bad one. It brought in the potential of a flush, but if the old guy didn’t have it, then Dimitar was likely ahead with the pair of tens and an open-ended straight draw. He called.

A black three fell on the river.

The old man reached for his chips, and pulled out around 250,000, more than enough to commit Dimitar if he called.

‘That didn’t help you, I’m all-in.’

He’s right, thinks Dimitar. That card didn’t help me. But did it help you? The flush came in on the turn. The king appeared on the flop. He could have an overpair and kept betting hoping I would miss a draw. Something about the old man told Dimitar he had a genuine hand, but what was it?

Dimitar slowed his breathing, ignoring the constant talking from the old man. He funnelled his thoughts down to each street. The man had done something different on one of those streets, but what was it? Then he figured it out. It wasn’t his words; it was a physical tell. One he might not be conscious of.

Pre-flop, he pretty much flicked in the chips. On the flop, he took a 50,000 chip from the top of his stack and flicked it in. Both motions displayed confidence. But on the turn, when the flush came in, he pulled his fingers up the stack a little before betting the same amount. On the river, that motion went even further. He dragged his fingers up the whole pile of chips before putting in the stack of chips that would commit Dimitar.

‘Clock.’ The old man called out, but Dimitar held up his hand to prevent the dealer from starting the 60-second timer.

‘It’s OK. I just had to think about it for a moment. It’s either an eight or a nine. I call.’

The old man turned over his hand sharing the ace-nine of hearts. Dimitar, smiling, flipped his tens and dragged the pot into his stack.

“Nicely done,” said the old man, narrowing his eyes as if to question how Dimitar figured out what he was doing.

Now Dimitar could relax, if only for a moment. He was looking good to reach the money, and the crucial profit, having just doubled his stack through the chip leader. He still had a nagging doubt about who Peter Serf might have in his pocket from this golf resort. But for now, he was happy.

That was until a player busted and the remaining four players carried their chips in racks as they travelled to their new seats. Sam Houston walked with a confident step as he approached Dimitar’s table and sat to the Bulgarian’s immediate right.

Did the game just get easier, or harder?

If he only knew how hard the game was about to get, he might have wished the old man had made his flush.

Dead Beat – Chapter 4

The sun disappeared outside, dropping behind low, long clouds like a tennis ball over a net. A pink-orange horizon bled into the light coming through floor-to-ceiling windows in the cardroom. Outside, fairways on the golf course were bathed in a dark pink hue. Inside the room, the final nine players were about to play down to a winner.

Dimitar was one of them.

He was talking with Sam, who had also made the final table. Once the last nine players were confirmed, seats were redrawn. Only one crucial thing. Before they reached the final table, Sam was on Dimitar’s right. Now, he was one place to his left in seat five, perhaps the best seat at the table. From there, one could see everyone a little better and certainly better than being squashed next to the dealer in seats one or nine. Dimitar took his spot in seat four.

Sam Houston, known as ‘NASA’, was the high roller among this group, which mainly consisted of recreational golfers more used to chasing the cups under the flags of holes 1 through 18 on the green than those handed out to poker winners.

The situation would have been more cordial under normal circumstances as Dimitar was a guest of Sam’s, but they were not in anything that could be considered a normal circumstance. Chasing a million-dollar ransom, Dimitar was trying to spin his initial $1,000 bankroll up to seven figures within a month. If he couldn’t, then his girlfriend Elena, a hostage of Peter Serf, would be killed.

He really needed the £150,000 top prize.

Dimitar had approximately the same chips as Sam but not the position. Only Sam and one other player, a semi-pro golfer called Jeremy Rundle sat with more chips. Rundle was the top dog and had a pretty clear lead. Dimitar knew he needed to fight for the top prize, but it was not going to be easy. He was outmatched by Sam, so the best course would be to let Sam take out the others so he could face Sam in a heads-up battle. Plus, he knew Sam was incentivized to help Dimitar win. By helping Dimitar, he’ll be helping Sofia, a long-time mutual friend. Dimitar had a suspicion that after their last trip to Barcelona maybe there was something more between Sam and Sofia.
All Dimitar could concentrate on was raising the million dollar bounty and paying off Peter Serf to free Elena from the disgraced businessman turned murderer.
* * *
Unknown to Dimitar, at that moment, Elena wasn’t in the possession of Peter Serf. Instead, she was running for her life through the grounds of the hotel. The hotel was huge – nothing less than the best for Serf, the egotist, she thought, brambles whipping her ankles through the copse of willows at the East edge of the property – but it’s helping her to escape. Her dancer’s build and general cardiovascular stamina was far better than both Serf’s and the hotel employee who was helping to track her down.

She was running in a dead straight line, due East past a low, flat building decorated with faded 1970s stucco. The smell of freshly laundered sheets churned from an extraction chimney as she flew past it. She wondered if this was where the man came from, where he worked at the hotel, and whether he knew every inch of the grounds or had recently joined the hotel.

Peter Serf clearly knew him, so it was possible he inserted his own man at the hotel. It was also possible that he was a hotel employee who had been bribed by Serf. It was impossible to know, but Elena knew he was helping her captor. She was one woman trying to escape not one, but two men.

It was hard not to get carried away with the idea of escaping from the hotel and finding her way to the outside world, where she could alert the authorities or at least tell someone that she was a prisoner. As soon as she could speak to someone outside Serf’s control, she would be free.

Then she saw the fence—criss-crossed steel painted green, embedded in the soft, woodchip-coated ground of the clearing. She followed the fence and saw that it went all the way around the outskirts of the hotel grounds, keeping out those who couldn’t afford it.

And keeping her in.

She heard the sound of fast footfalls on the woodchips. They sounded close. Quickly, she darted behind a tree trunk thick enough to hide her willowy form. The footsteps slowed, perhaps sensing how close they were, a primal instinct forged millennia ago but honed across centuries of human development.

A twig cracked underfoot, not four feet from her, as she made herself as small as possible, turning her back to the tree trunk that was shielding her from discovery.

Her captor was only a few feet away.

Dimitar’s plan was working perfectly. Like an expert butcher slicing his way through a side of beef, Sam was carving a path through the golfers pretending to be poker players. The tournament was down to just four players. Only three poker players remained between Dimitar and £150,000 – a huge percentage of the million he needed to rescue Elena. With help from his device, he knew that the top prize equated to over $180,000. Winning at high stakes might be hard, but he still had the better part of four weeks to earn it and would already have 18% of the total – if he could pull off the victory.

But it wasn’t yet guaranteed. Dimitar closed his phone and refocused on the felt, on the burning and turning of cards. The final female player in the event, a self-confessed ‘golf widow’ named Linda had just gone all-in. She opened her hand onto the table showing the ace and ten of spades. Sam had made the call and turned over a king-queen. He was approximately a three-to-two underdog, but he was priced in for the call.

The dealer fanned the flop. An ace in the window, followed by a king and a five, in three different suits – a rainbow flop that avoided Linda’s suited spades. It was not good for Sam, though. Yes, he had a pair, but Linda’s pair was bigger. He needed to find more paint. A five joined the board on the turn, and Linda unconsciously settled deeper into her seat, presumptive of the double-up that would make Dimitar’s tournament a lot tougher.

It was time for the river. The top card was burned and thrown into the muck followed by dealing the river. Another flick of the wrist exposed the final card of the hand – the king of diamonds. Sam won the hand, rivering a kings over fives boat, knocking Linda and her 2 pair to the proverbial nineteenth hole. Only three players remained. Dimitar allowed himself a moment of relief knowing he was guaranteed at least £63,400 for his efforts. It was a start, but he needed more – a lot more.

The footsteps were right behind the tree now. She could hear his breathing, the man was close by. She hoped it was the hotel employee. Whoever it was helping Serf must have a simple reason for doing so. Maybe he’s being threatened, perhaps he’s on Serf’s payroll. But he couldn’t be a psycho. Could he?

It could also be Serf. If she closed her eyes, Elena could feel his hands around her throat, just as close as the tree bark was to her neck at the moment. Panic set in and she ran for the fence. She was halfway up when a hand grabbed onto her shoe. She kicked wildly, trying to shake off the hand. Once. Twice. Hard and fast. Screaming, she managed to wriggle clear and threw herself to the top of the fence. The top was sharp, the steel shaped into what looked like two crossed swords at each inch-wide space between lines of metal. It was beautifully wrought iron, decorative from the outside, and designed intentionally to keep people outside.

Except she was inside, climbing out. She hauled her body over the jagged spikes and looked down to the ground. It didn’t seem so high from the ground, but from the top of the fence, it felt like a long drop. Too long. Maybe eight feet, possibly even ten. She started to feel dizzy. Looking back at the grounds, she saw the hotel employee. That’s who had found her, that was who was silently climbing up behind her, long legs, long arms, long hands grabbing for her.

She jumped.

Upon hitting the ground, Elena started to roll, not from years of training, just pure instinct.

SNAP.

Elena heard her ankle crack. Was it broken? No. It was painful to stand on but she had to keep going. Jumping to her feet, adrenaline pumping through her bloodstream doing its job, forcing her into action out of sheer blind terror. The man is trying to climb, but he was finding the spikes just as difficult as she did. Thank God, she thought, turning to run, and – BAM!

Elena had run right into Peter Serf.

‘Where do you think you’d run, my dear?’ his lips curled into a thin grin. ‘Excellent work, Hans. Please do stop by at our room this evening, after you’ve taken care of the CCTV footage.’

Hans smiled, happily heading off to do Mr. Serf’s bidding, knowing it meant a bigger payday.

‘Now, my dear Elena, after our morning run, you must be exhausted.’

Then she felt it – the pinprick of the syringe in her arm. The almost-welcome buzz of warmth that flooded her body and mind, until light as a cloud, she floated away. The grass fell behind her as she soared up, up, up until she was enveloped in an inky black starless sky.

Dimitar was patient and managed to climb into second of the three players left. Sam was still leading, but that was OK. Dimitar knew that his friend had his back. So when he looked down at pocket jacks and lead out, he saw Sam’s raise as a red cape to a bull. Finding Jacks when three-handed is huge. Dimitar reached for one of his chip stacks, slid his fingers up from the felt, and picked it up in one fluid movement. “All-in,” he declared, expecting a fold from Sam. Sam’s face crinkled into something between a smile and a grimace, “Call.”

‘Pocket Jacks,’ said Dimitar, thinking maybe Sam had read his hand, knew what he had, and made the call with a middle pair in an attempt to give him a full double-up.

‘Queens,’ was the response.

The community cards hit the table in a blur, not one of them higher than an eight. Dimitar shook hands with Jeremy Rundle and wished Sam good luck. The words coming out on autopilot. He didn’t recognize them even as they came from his mouth. All he wanted to do was to get out of there, run for the hills, find a phone and call Sofia.

There was a break before heads-up began. Sam left his chips to be stacked up by one of the organisers. He politely chatted with Rundle before heading over to Dimitar, who was at the cash desk, taking hold of his winnings.

‘What did you think I had?’ Sam asked, tapping his friend on the shoulder.

‘Less than jacks, obviously. You peg me for kings?’

‘No. I’m sorry, but I pegged for exactly what you had.’

‘So why’d you call? I came here for the £150,000. I thought you were on my side.’

‘I am. You know that. But you might need to come back here. I will certainly need to. I can’t ever collude at the felt, and the money you win has to be legitimate, we both know that.’

‘How did you know what I had?’

‘The way you pulled your chips. When you’re most confident, you pull from the top of your stack. When you bluff, you generally take from the bottom. You went to pick up chips from the top of your stack but then I saw your face. Doubt. Only for a second but it was there. Then you pulled from the bottom. So you were mostly confident, so I ruled out kings and aces. I figured it was unlikely to be ace-king or ace-queen because you played ace-queen differently earlier in the evening. So you had jacks or worse.’

Dimitar looked crestfallen.

‘I didn’t realise that I was so easy to read.’

‘Don’t beat yourself up. No one else found it easy, and, to tell you the truth, I didn’t either. It took me all day and most of the night. You just need a little work on your endgame.’

Dimitar didn’t reply. He wished Sam the best of luck in the heads-up. Sam promised that the money he won, whether it was first or second prize, would go towards any travel or accommodation Dimitar needed. Now it was about rest, Sam had said. Optimization started with food and rest. Dimitar listened to him and headed off to the bar. He ordered a steak sandwich and an orange juice. It took Sam just twenty minutes to win the heads-up battle. He came just as the food arrived at the bar and gave Dimitar £20,000 in cash.

‘If you need more, let me know. Now it’s time for the next game.’ Sam said, beckoning over to the barman to order some drinks.
‘I need to rest, Sam. I’m not a high roller like you. I’m not used to the swings. I need time.’
Sam held up two hands to the barman, silently cancelling the drinks.
‘OK. I get it. Sleep on it. Let’s talk in the morning and put a plan together. You’re up to £63,400. You should celebrate that.’
They both went back to Sam’s house. Although they’d won over £200,000 between them, the atmosphere was tense. Dimitar made his excuses and went to his room. Once the adrenaline wore off, exhaustion kicked in. London buses squealed around corners outside. Dimitar was relaxed and close to sleep when his cell phone went off.
Congratulations on your win… well third place. Not bad. Fancy a game of heads-up?

P.S.
He didn’t recognize the number but the message had to be from Peter Serf. There was a link beneath the message. Dimitar wanted to ignore it. He only wanted to think about the next game, the next win, the next way he could double his money. But if he took it from Serf, wouldn’t that make it sweeter?
He clicked on the link, and a videoconferencing link opened up on a screen. It was a dimly lit view of two people barely visible in the shadows. The camera moved and rebalanced. Dimitar sat up in bed, switched on the bedside light, and saw his own image bathed in light on his phone screen, within a small square at the top left.

The main image cleared, and Dimitar saw Peter Serf smile. Behind him over his shoulder, Elena smiled at Dimitar. She was eating a Mars bar. Both she and Serf drank light brown liquid from glasses that clinked with ice.

‘Good evening, Dimitar. Lovely of you to join me. I have an online poker room ready to host us for a game. Shall we say, $100/$200 blinds?’

‘Make it $200/$400,’ said Dimitar. ‘Elena, are you OK? Talk to me.’

‘I’m fine,’ Elena replied, the smile on her face not reaching her eyes, the words robotic, as if read from a text.

‘See, your friend is fine. We’re having an Amaretto – Elena’s choice. I find it a little… sickly. But it’s what the lady wants. We’ve been getting on very well, haven’t we, my dear?’

Elena nodded. She wanted to say something, anything. But as she glanced down at the dead body that lay at her feet on the hotel floor, she knew that one out of place word might be her last. Hans had been Peter Serf’s trusted accomplice… had been.

All she could hope was that Dimitar would win.

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About the Author: Paul Seaton has written about poker for over 10 years, interviewing some of the best players ever to play the game such as Daniel Negreanu, Johnny Chan and Phil Hellmuth. Over the years, Paul has reported live from tournaments such as the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas and the European Poker Tour. He has also written for other poker brands where he was Head of Media, as well as BLUFF magazine, where he was Editor.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

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Edited by Maury Orton and Shawn A.