Realm (eBook)

Chapter One

“Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one—Happy—New—Year!”

Cheers erupted as a couple hundred people, at least eighty past the maximum capacity allowed in the waterfront bar, wormed over each other, kissing and groping any flesh that came within reach of hungry mouths and seeking hands. A homemade sign blinked “3039” over and over and over again like an alarm clock from a bygone era, the bars composing the segmented red numbers either missing, dim, or flickering intermittently. Confetti made from shredded shipping labels and those torn from canned food rained down on people, sticking in their hair and clogging their drinks.

The clamor of raucous celebration and loud music vibrated the two plate-glass windows at the front of the bar, drowning out the screams and shouts of patrons who were being assaulted or pickpocketed. Not that anyone could or would come to the victims’ assistance; the partyers were packed tighter than a can of sardines. They feigned ignorance for the sake of their own safety.

Someone had wedged a rock beneath the only door in or out of the bar that was jammed with just as many people trying to gain entrance to the party as those wishing to escape it. Rainwater from a three-day shower could not dampen the people’s spirits, even as it trickled through the open door and puddled in the middle of the uneven concrete floor. The humidity intensified the odor of stale alcohol, vomit, sweaty bodies, sex, drugs, and cigarette smoke, leaving the wafer of debauchery from one’s fellow celebrant to linger on the tongue. The horde swilled synthetic beer and wine in an attempt to rinse the flavor of social corruption from their mouths.

Waves of music and conversation rose and fell throughout the bar, crashing unintelligibly on ears and diminishing as it reached a back room, where six card players huddled around a table. Their positions had been determined by their order of arrival. The otherwise empty room offered breathing space for twenty or more revelers, but everyone knew better than to approach the poker game about to take place. One simply did not saunter in to watch this particular game, and any drunk unfortunate enough to stumble across the threshold would be shot without mercy. All festivities led up to and stopped at the door of the room.

As important as this game was for those involved, they opted for the third-rate bar because of the seclusion it provided. All participants trusted their collective reputations would keep spectators at bay. The seventh person for whom they waited entered without requesting permission and placed a briefcase on the table.

A white wimple and black veil framed her triangular face, accentuating her cheekbones as well as her pert lips. Her large, brown eyes peered from behind the frameless, round lens of her glasses. An ample chest and derriere thrust her long-sleeved black habit in all the right directions, enough to satisfy any man’s fantasies. It would surprise no man present to discover she had a Glock strapped to her shapely thigh for protection. Yet for all her beauty and curves, Sister Mary Joy was the real deal.

The nun assumed her position at the head of the table. She blinked slowly, her eyes lingering as she looked the men over, pausing at their faces. The small but faithful order to which she belonged had been without a priest for years, so Sister Mary Joy had had the privilege of hearing confession for each of the six players. Against the rules, the nun often conversed about her own life, sharing painful details and offering words of comfort. She used her own issues to draw comparisons between herself and the gamblers, eventually earning their trust. When they discovered her passion for poker and abilities as a dealer, they issued an invitation to deal their games.

Five pairs of eyes glazed over at the sight of the battered briefcase the nun held. She rolled her eyes at the men, expecting them to salivate at any minute. Only the tall, dark-haired man with gray at his temples seated two places to her right remained calm upon seeing where she kept the buy-in. He held a toothpick in the corner of his mouth and rolled it gently across his bottom lip with his tongue.

“Rogue,” she whispered against her will, blushing when he lowered his eyelids once in acknowledgement.

The nun wished she had not spoken his name, hoped that he would have understood it as a teasing insult. A quick flick of her thumbs released the catches on the briefcase, and Sister Mary Joy removed a fresh pack of cards, distracting the men from her discomfort. She placed the briefcase on the floor behind the chair she took, pulled the empty chip tray from the center of the table toward her, and held the unopened pack of cards aloft before breaking the foil seal on the cellophane. It was time to dole out a dose of the only religion these men practiced.

Fingers tapped the table, hands clenched and unclenched, and bodies shuddered as if charged with electricity. The sound of cards riffling through the nun’s hands tantalized the gamblers’ ears. Abundant stacks of chips sat in front of all six players. It would be at least eight hours before any of them left the room, including Sister Mary Joy. Amenities were limited to a toilet without the benefit of a stall and drinks delivered to the door by a dark-haired boy with small, downward-angled eyes set in his round, ruddy face, who sat just outside the room to receive their orders.

The nun availed herself of the boy’s presence and ordered a Manhattan. AI servers used to staff every establishment in every Quadrant, but when even roaming soda machines became sentient, the powers that be decommissioned all artificial intelligence across the planet. They did not want to deal with the potential threat of something they could not control. Besides, humans bred faster, were cheaper, and one did not become as attached to them when they expired. To prove his worth, the boy returned within five minutes with the drink.

So began the annual game the gamblers jokingly called The Rite of Passage. The outcome determined who possessed preeminence for another year in transporting stolen goods along legal modes of shipping. Honor among thieves ensured they adhered to the results as law. The process of elimination from the game equated to drawing straws to settle the order of who chose first the when, where, and how he moved his preferred illegal cargo. For this reason, no one wanted to be eliminated too soon.

The buy-in consisted of slips of paper printed with shipping routes and contact names of personnel employed by established, legal companies who were willing to turn a blind eye to smugglers. The information on the paper was worth more than the cred-coin encrypted on the players’ HoloCom devices, worth more than the lives of the men who wagered them just to get in the game. Millions in gold coin could be made utilizing this information, as every man present bought in with his best sources. It could be dangerous in the hands of the wrong person.

Rogue intended to win the pot regardless of whether the others thought him worthy or not. He held a particular interest in two pieces of paper bearing the routes and contact info of the people used by crime boss Frank Blast when shipping illegal goods from Quadrant One of the Northern Hemisphere. They alone equaled all the other pieces of info, especially if using them meant people believed Rogue had aligned his business with Blast’s. It never hurt to lend the appearance of hobnobbing with the rich and powerful, even if one had to take care not to end up in the canal with a slit throat.

The only concern niggling Rogue’s mind was how Red Humphries had secured the invaluable knowledge of who Blast used. Not that it really mattered as long as the information was accurate, or Rogue would be the one making sure Humphries learned how to hold his breath through a slashed windpipe. For the sake of keeping the peace while playing, he decided to extend the benefit of the doubt to the spindly redheaded with an apple-sized goiter. Besides, the thought of cutting through that monstrosity turned Rogue’s stomach.

The first rounds were played cautiously as the men observed each other with side-eye glances looking for tells and gauging styles. Few chips passed hands, and the columns remained as tall as when the game began. Two hours in, Sister Mary Joy yawned and ordered another Manhattan, shooting a look at the men that conveyed she would pray for forgiveness later. The nun moaned over three hearty sips and plucked the cherry from the glass. She held the bright red fruit delicately between her teeth, pulled the stem away, and chewed languorously before returning her attention back to the game. The men sat mesmerized throughout her performance.

Impatience, arrogance, or inexperience finally pushed Jax Herrera to bid aggressively on mediocre hands. The other five allowed him to win for a while before they took advantage of his apparent stupidity. Like sharks on a wounded dolphin, the gamblers ripped through the stack of chips in front of Herrera until beads of sweat broke out on the coppery skin of the young man’s forehead. Herrera reined in and performed like a seasoned player, so much so that it was Terry Li Fang who found himself without any chips at the four-hour mark.

Fang stood, impeccably clad in a blue pinstripe suit, and bowed to each of the remaining five players, although he scowled at Herrera, who thumped his foot and swayed to the music seeping from the front of the bar.

When Fang resumed his seat, several players barked drink orders at the boy asleep against the doorframe. Pawn shop owner...