"As you wish. You've won again, miss." The dealer's face had turned from green to black.
At the same time, the surrounding onlookers cheered, seemingly more thrilled to see the casino lose money than to win any themselves.
Standing beside the woman was her "escort"—not very tall but dressed flamboyantly. He sported a trench coat and scruffy stubble, looking even more like the original version of a certain trench coat-wearing rogue than someone Jack once knew who had cosplayed as that character.
"Hey, guys, you finally made it!" The man turned just in time to see the three of them approaching. He spread his arms toward Nigeli, only to get a punch to the shoulder in response.
"O'Donnell? What are you doing here?" Nigeli looked surprised. The message she had received came from Dixon, who was currently at the table—but she hadn't expected them to show up together.
"Reacher?" Dixon turned around, revealing yet another familiar face. She bore an uncanny resemblance to the actress who played Medusa in that Inhumans flop, minus the long, vibrant red hair—though with her striking physique, she certainly had the presence.
Unfortunately, while Dixon had an impressive figure, her facial features were a bit sharp, and her makeup style leaned toward the classic old-school Western femme fatale look. She also seemed a little older, probably around forty, with faint wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.
Still, to Jack, she and Reacher oddly fit together. With their rugged faces, all they needed were dusty cowboy outfits and a pair of Stetsons, and they could walk right onto the set of 3:10 to Yuma.
As Dixon shifted slightly, she revealed the towering stack of chips in front of her. Jack finally understood why the dealer looked like she wanted to strangle someone.
While Reacher and Dixon exchanged a glance filled with unspoken meaning, O'Donnell was busy explaining his recent disappearance to Nigeli.
"Sorry I didn't return your calls. I was on a family vacation—we do an 'unplugged week' every year."
Nigeli frowned. "That sounds… terrifying."
"Yeah, tell me about it. Once a year, my wife picks a cabin in the middle of nowhere—no phones, no TV, not even a washing machine. It's all about 'disconnecting from screens and reconnecting with nature.'
Sounds nice in theory, but by day three, my little demons start trying to murder each other.
As soon as we got back, I checked my voicemail, heard your messages, and rushed to New York. Then I got a message from Dixon, so I detoured to Atlantic City."
O'Donnell's expression darkened as he finished his explanation. "I heard about Franz, Sanchez, and Orozco. Damn shame. What about Swan? Any leads on him?"
"Later," Nigeli cut in, signaling that this wasn't the place to talk.
"And this guy?" O'Donnell's gaze shifted to Jack, his expression carrying that subtle hostility that two people of similar temperament often had toward each other.
"Jack. A friend of Reacher's—here to help." Jack extended his hand. He was also wearing a black trench coat that day. It wasn't exactly a matching outfit with O'Donnell, but their styles were close enough to feel like a coincidence.
As the introductions wrapped up, a casino manager—an older man in a suit—approached Dixon and pulled a few tickets from his inner pocket.
"Congratulations, miss. It seems luck is really on your side tonight. Would you like to celebrate with a complimentary concert ticket?"
Jack, new to the casino scene, initially thought some overconfident fool was trying to hit on her. Then he realized—he was witnessing the legendary casino backoff.
The only person he knew who had experienced something similar was Red. But Red had managed to get banned from all casinos in Vegas. Seeing someone get politely asked to leave for winning too much was a first for him.
"No thanks. I'm having a great time right here." Dixon raised an eyebrow and casually handed the tickets back.
The casino manager didn't take them. Instead, he leaned in slightly and whispered, "We know you're counting cards."
"Counting cards isn't illegal." Dixon grinned. Seeing the old man's expression stiffen, she suddenly changed her tune. "But since my friends are here, I suppose I'll call it a night."
She stood up and gestured to Reacher. "Muscles, be a dear and cash these in for me, will you?"
—
When eating out with Reacher, buffets were always the best option. The man ate everything like it was the best meal of his life—wolfing down portions meant for three people in the time it took a normal person to finish one plate.
"You guys barely touched your food," Reacher commented, noticing that aside from Jack, the others' plates were almost full.
"Ever since I got your message about Franz, my head's been all over the place. You know, I haven't stepped foot in a casino in years. Then you tell me Sanchez and Orozco are dead, too."
Dixon, who had been full of swagger at the blackjack table, now looked exhausted, running a hand through her hair and making a mess of it.
O'Donnell's usual carefree, flirtatious demeanor was gone. His face was grim. "I gotta be honest—Franz's death pisses me off. I liked that kid. And Sanchez and Orozco? Damn it. Just tell me—who do we need to kill?"
"Eat first," Jack said, wiping his mouth and discreetly glancing behind Reacher.
"Do we check out Sanchez and Orozco's office first, or deal with our tail?"
The black SUV had followed them all the way from New York to Atlantic City. The driver, a man with a scar on his cheek and a leather jacket, thought he was being subtle—but his tracking skills were mediocre at best.
"Why not both?" Nigeli said, looking at the map on her phone. "Their office is in an alley near the boardwalk. Looks pretty secluded—perfect for a little walk."
Reacher stood up, grabbed his old secondhand coat from the chair, and left a five-dollar bill under his coffee cup as a tip. "Alright. Time for some after-dinner exercise."
—
The five of them strolled along the boardwalk like ordinary tourists. The chilly autumn sea breeze was refreshing but much warmer than New York's near-freezing temperatures. A light sweater and a jacket were just right.
Around midnight, the casinos were at their peak, but the streets outside were relatively empty. They walked in a loose formation—Reacher and Dixon up front, the other three trailing a few meters behind.
It was pretty obvious that Dixon had a thing for Reacher. The two of them chatted quietly, while the rest of the group sensibly kept some distance.
As they passed a convenience store, Reacher led Dixon inside. When they came back out, they each had a few bottles of beer.
Reacher handed one to Jack. "Firing a gun here would bring the cops down on us fast. Best to keep things quiet."
Jack pulled his hand out of his pocket, a SilencerCo Osprey suppressor flashing between his fingers. "Thanks, but aren't you stealing my line? Since when do you care about stuff like that?"
"Mainly because I want to sleep tonight, not spend it in a local holding cell." Reacher shoved the beer into Jack's hand and subtly checked behind them. He frowned. "Wait—weren't there five of them before?"
Jack had just been using the convenience store's glass door as a mirror to observe their tail. He tilted his head slightly, watching as the New York-plated SUV slowly rolled past them. He smirked.
"There are still three in the car. That makes it eight versus five. Not exactly great odds."
"Guess that just means we see who's faster," Reacher said, nodding toward a nearby construction site. "That place looks promising."
______
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