“I guess this means you are back on the rig,” Leo said, laughing. He was over his earlier angst, having found his mojo again after winning that dramatic round.

Chance just gave him a hard stare as he stood up to leave. “I suppose so.”

“I guess the rumors about your abilities at poker aren’t so true then,” Peter said. “Lucky for you this means you get to return to your little bird. Maybe get those legs around you tonight to make you feel better?” He chuckled at his little dig.

Chance turned his attention to him, completely stone-faced. There was a brief wary look to Peter’s eyes, but it was quickly overshadowed by the unrepressed smugness in his smile. The man was feeling mighty proud of himself at having got under Chance’s skin.

Chance didn’t bother responding to him.

Enjoy it while it lasts you motherfucker.

Chance backed his chair up and walked over to grab his phone and wallet as he left. It was still storming outside and he carefully protected his phone as he made a dash for his truck.

He didn’t want to seem too anxious to get away since he was more certain than ever that he was being watched. Luckily the thunderstorm provided great cover for him as he ran to get inside and check his phone.

Chance, it’s Juliet. Jacob is in on it. I’m fine and your mother is here with me.

We’re both fine, Chance. Stick to the plan.

He played it three times, listening hard for any telltale signs that they weren’t quite being truthful. He didn’t dare call, just in case they weren’t and Jacob, or someone else, was holding them hostage. A phone call from him would most certainly give them a heads-up.

That thought had him nearly turning on the ignition and rushing over to Jacob’s house.

We’re both fine, Chance. Stick to the plan.

Stick to the plan.

Chance took two deep breaths and turned his truck on. He headed to the nearest bar.

* * *

Chance retrieved an item from his glove compartment, then threw on a jacket and walked in. Fortunately the bar wasn’t too crowded. He walked straight up to the bar and pulled a fifty dollar bill out of his pocket.

“Sorry buddy, we don’t accept anything larger than a $20.”

“It’s been a bitch of a day. That’s your personal tip, so long as you keep the beer comin’. I’ll start with a Shiner Bock.”

The man stared down at the unusual denomination, then back at Chance. He shrugged and pocketed the money. He reached into the cooler behind him for the bottle of beer. “Thanks, buddy.”

Chance handed him his credit card. “Keep it open.”

The bartender nodded and placed his card behind the counter.

Chance walked over to one of the tables furthest away from the bar, out of the line of sight of the bartender and placed his bottle there. Then he put a strained look on his face and grabbed his stomach as though in pain as he walked back up to the bar.

“You got a bathroom?”

“Around the corner there,” the bartender said pointing toward the back.

“Thanks,” Chance nodded and headed back. Once he was around the corner, he walked right past the bathroom and out the back exit. When he’d come to the bar yesterday—thankfully with a different bartender working—he’d noted that they didn’t lock this door during business hours. That was a bonus.

He huddled himself against the pouring rain as he ran as fast as he could through it. He’d never been so thrilled to see a Houston thunderstorm. It worked perfectly with his plans.

Ten minutes later had had trailed a complex path back to the warehouse. He found the breaker box in back and opened it. He found the main breaker and flipped the switch. After a full three seconds, making sure to stick an elongated Mississippi between each number, he switched it back on. The remaining players inside would be treated to a nice little power outage, courtesy of the raging thunderstorm outside the warehouse, or so they would assume. Nothing at all suspicious about that.

Then he waited.