The Plaza Hotel's back entrance reeked of garbage and cleaning supplies. Marcus pressed himself against the brick wall, his tie camera still rolling. Claire stood beside him, her dad's notebook open to a page marked "Staff Corridors—Plaza Hotel." Miller had texted five minutes ago: "FBI teams in position. Wait for my signal."
But time was running out. The final table of the East Coast Showdown was set to start in 45 minutes, and Chen had Raymond.
"These corridors lead to the ballroom's backstage," Claire whispered, pointing to a rusted metal door. "My dad wrote that the staff uses them to move equipment. No cameras—too old."
Marcus nodded, pulling a bobby pin from Claire's hair—she'd insisted on bringing extras, "just in case." He picked the lock, his hands steady from days of practicing with Raymond's old cards. The door creaked open, and they slipped inside.
The corridor was dark, lit only by flickering fluorescent lights. They walked quietly, their shoes scuffing the linoleum. Halfway down, Claire froze. "Listen," she said.
Footsteps. Two men, talking in low voices. Chen's men.
Marcus grabbed Claire's arm, pulling her into a supply closet. The door clicked shut, and the men walked past.
"Chen wants the kid dead first," one said. "Then Raymond. Make it look like a poker rage fight."
"Cole said to wait for the live stream. More chaos that way."
The footsteps faded. Marcus let out a breath. "live stream?"
Claire's face paled. "The tournament's being streamed online. Thousands of people will watch. Chen wants to send a message—don't mess with him."
They emerged from the closet, moving faster. The ballroom's backstage was a maze of cables and props. Through a gap in the curtain, Marcus saw the final table: green felt, crystal chandeliers, and Chen sitting at the head. Raymond was tied to a chair behind him, a gag in his mouth. Cole stood beside Chen, a gun hidden in his jacket.
"Miller's signal," Claire said, checking her phone. A green dot—go.
Marcus pulled out the fake chips Miller had given him—each filled with a tiny GPS tracker. "I'll distract Chen. You free Raymond. Sophia's outside—she'll get him to safety."
Claire nodded, squeezing his hand. "Be careful. His tells—remember. Tap foot = bluff. Tight jaw = good hand."
Marcus grinned. "I remember."
He walked onto the ballroom floor, the crowd cheering. Chen looked up, his foot tapping—bluff. "Marcus. You're late. I thought you'd chickened out."
Marcus sat at the table, sliding his chips forward. "Chickening out's for people who have something to lose. I have nothing left to lose."
The dealer dealt the cards. Marcus got a pair of 8s. Chen bet $5,000, his foot still tapping. Marcus called.
The flop came: 8 of hearts, 10 of diamonds, 3 of clubs. Three of a kind. Chen bet $10,000, his jaw tightening—good hand.
Marcus hesitated. He looked at Claire—she was sneaking behind the stage, moving toward Raymond. He nodded.
"All in," Marcus said, pushing his chips forward.
Chen's foot stopped tapping. He stared at Marcus, then folded. "Smart move," he said, his voice cold.
As the crowd gasped, Claire cut Raymond's gag. He whispered something to her, and she nodded, slipping a small metal object into her pocket—Raymond's old pocket knife.
Miller's voice came over Marcus's earpiece: "FBI moving in. Keep Chen at the table."
Marcus dealt himself a new hand. Ace and king of spades. Chen bet $15,000, his foot tapping again.
Marcus called.
The turn was a queen of spades. Straight draw. Chen bet $20,000.
Marcus's heart raced. He looked at Claire—she had Raymond free, and they were moving toward the exit. Sophia was waiting by the door, her car engine running.
"All in," Marcus said.
Chen's face darkened. He flipped his cards—pair of kings. "I win."
Marcus smiled. "Not yet."
The river was a jack of spades. Straight.
The crowd cheered. Chen's foot tapped furiously—bluff, but too late. He slammed his cards down.
Then Miller and his agents ran in, their guns drawn. "FBI! Freeze!"
Chen reached for his gun, but Cole tackled him to the ground. "I'm not going down with you," Cole yelled.
Marcus ran to Claire and Raymond. "Let's go."
They sprinted out of the Plaza, jumping into Sophia's car. As they drove away, Marcus looked in the rearview mirror—Chen was being led away, yelling.
Raymond leaned back, sighing. "Thanks, kid. I thought I was done for."
Claire smiled, holding up the metal object—Raymond's knife. "You gave me this. Said it'd come in handy."
Marcus grinned. "We're not done. Chen's shipping container—we need to find it. Before he moves the coke."
Raymond nodded. "I know where it is. Chen told me—accidentally. A dock in Brooklyn. Tonight. 10 PM."
Marcus checked his watch. 8:30 PM.
They had 90 minutes. To find the container. To stop Chen's last plan.
As they drove to Brooklyn, Marcus looked at Claire. Her face was bright, her eyes shining.
They were winning.
One step at a time.