An airport would have been the perfect place to disappear. The maze of terminals, the flow of people. At any one time, there was an average of 120,000 people in the air above the Earth. Seven days a week, 24 hours a day. If he’d been Peter Serf, that’s what Dimitar would have done. He would have got into the air with a false passport and bounced from place to place.

In the hours after Peter Serf stole Elena Petrova from her hospital bed by pretending to be her father, making a million-dollar ransom demand, Dimitar acted on instinct. It was a primal defence mechanism that he applied not only to himself but to Elena, because he was going to bring her home.

He was going to stop Peter Serf before anyone else’s life was ruined.

For hours, Dimitar thought of Elena and how she felt before he turned his attention to stopping Serf. The former girlfriend of his slain best friend Georgi, Elena had barely escaped with her life. She was grieving, and in pain, that was certain. She would be praying he could rescue her, but there would be anger reserved for Dimitar, too. He’d caused Elena’s distress by sleeping with Serf’s wife. Serf had killed his own wife, and taken the ultimate revenge on Dimitar, by stealing the one person in the world he loved.

It hadn’t been Peter Serf who had murdered Georgi, but he was still a killer.

Dimitar had a month to raise one million dollars. The words of Serf’s threat were seared into his conscious mind over the hours since Elena’s disappearance. ‘You lost the game, so I took the prize with me. If you want to play again, you’ll need to find the buy-in. A million dollars in one month… or Elena dies.’

The police hadn’t found a trace of Serf. They had thrown a steel ring around the city, but Serf had escaped it. He had money, proper money and Dimitar knew that money bought freedom. It also meant that the ransom he’d demanded must come only from Dimitar’s funds and it wasn’t about getting rich.

It was about control.

Dimitar had thought about asking Ivan Angelov for the funds. But before he could, he received a second message from Serf, sent via the poker game app he had previously contacted each of the ‘players’ on back in Bulgaria.

Do not contact the police.

Do not contact Ivan.
YOU must find the money. Only you.
Don’t lose your head… or Elena will lose hers.

At first, Dimitar was a man lost. Where in the world Serf could have sent the message from? Then there was a notification on his phone app that tracked Elena’s phone. She appeared in Austria, for a brief period of less than an hour. Certainly not enough time to be tracked down. But was she still there?

‘It’s a clue, Sofia.’ Dimitar told his friend over coffee in the city centre she was named after.

‘It’s a trap.’

‘What if it is? I have to find Elena. The police will try to track him down, but if they get close, then he’ll kill her. We know he will.’

The steam from Dimitar’s coffee rose into his stoic face. All around them people got on with busy lives, meeting for business, or for pleasure, or any reason in between. No matter the reason, no one paid attention to the two worried friends meeting to save a life. Sofia’s hands grasped her coffee mug, the knuckles on each hand standing out with the tension.

‘How much money do you actually have?’ Sofia asked.

‘Just under a thousand. If I take my wage from the club, just over.’

‘It’s not enough, even hitting an outrageous streak of luck. In one month? Surely you can take some money from us; I could ask my father.’

‘Serf will know. I’m sure of it. I feel like he’s watching me, even though we know he’s a thousand kilometres away.’

‘If he’s in Austria. That could have been to throw you off. I know what you mean, though. He’s evil. I still can’t believe he killed his wife.’

‘I can. His eyes were grey up on that mountain. She hurt him when…’

Dimitar couldn’t say it. Couldn’t announce his own mistake again, how he slept with her to get Georgi away from Elena. It had cost his best friend his life, and Sofia her brother. She said nothing, but her lips tightened. She drank instead. Her eyes filled with tears, but the steam from the coffee gave cover. She blinked them back, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

‘That’s why I have to do it myself,’ Dimitar said. ‘I owe it to you as much as Elena. I caused this. I need to solve it.’

‘Fine. But I can help you with flights, hotels. And poker.’

‘What help do I need with poker?’

‘You’re not going to be able to stick to playing home games over a few drinks at the club anymore. To even have a chance at running it up to a million dollars, you’re going to need to speak to a proper high roller.’

‘You?’

‘No, Dimi. Not me.’

Dimitar wanted to get on his motorbike and ride to Austria. He could have used the journey to clear some of the fog from his mind. But instead, he did what Sofia said. He took the charity from Sofia’s father, Ivan Angelov, for a flight and hotel room in Vienna. That was why he found himself on a plane four hours later, having packed a few clothes and essentials into a carry-on bag.

A couple of hours later, he was in a taxi to his hotel, a modest grey-brick tower close to the centre of Austria’s capital. He could see it from his journey, stuck in traffic on the outskirts of the city. Dimitar’s cell rang as the driver killed the engine at a red light.

‘Is that Dimitar?’ asked the voice on the other end of the line, calling from London.

‘Yes… Sam?’ replied Dimitar.

‘That’s right, buddy.’ Sam Houston, his good humour ill-placed but welcome nonetheless. Dimitar had lived in a world of escalating problems for weeks. Hearing such a carefree voice coming from an old friend was nourishing.

‘I really appreciate you calling.’

‘It’s a pleasure. I’m only sorry you need my help. Sofia told me what happened. You must be beside yourself.’

‘All I want is to get Elena back.’

‘I’m going to help you do that. Running it up isn’t easy, but it’s possible. There are a few things I can tell you that will help.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘Are you somewhere private?’

‘If a taxi is private. The driver has got AirPods in. I can hear the emo-rap from here.’

‘That’ll do. Let’s start with stakes. If you’ve got to run this money up yourself, you can’t put it all on the line. Which means you’re going to have to put in some volume at first. Low blinds, try to double your stake as steadily as you can. Then there’s a good game to get into in Vienna.’

‘I’ve got €1,100 and Ivan paid for my room.’

‘I heard. Sounds like the first time he’s helped Sofia out. I thought she was rich, I guess looks can be deceiving, huh?’ Sam laughed, thinking back to Barcelona. She’d looked a million dollars to him that night. A few weeks on, everything had changed. That was life. It was also poker.

‘She does a lot herself. I’m proud to call her my friend.’

‘Hey me too. OK, first things first. Step one is to get that grand up to two. Play it tight, play it right, no big swings and stick to No Limit Hold’em. When your roll gets up there, give me a call. I’ll tell you all about the high-stakes game and get you in. Got it?’

Dimitar thanked Sam as the taxi pulled up outside his hotel. He got out and paid the driver the exact money. The guy pulled an AirPod out and grunted a cursory thanks. If he was expecting a tip, he didn’t get one, and he tossed Dimitar a card.

‘If you need picking up, for way back. I mean, if you can afford it.’

Without acknowledging the snide remark from the driver, Dimitar politely said thanks. He pocketed the card, resolving to tip the driver if he ever used him again. He felt pretty bad, but every penny counted right now and until he could put himself in a position to feel confident that he’d have a million dollars in 30 days’ time, that was how it had to be.

The hotel was modest, but it came with breakfast. Dimitar showered and changed, before locking €800 of his money into the safe in his room. He took the other €300 and left for the casino that Sam recommended which was around the corner.

Registering for a casino loyalty card took five minutes and turning €200 cash into chips took another five due to the queue at the cash desk. Players were mainly doing the same as him – getting ready to play for the evening. Dimitar was ready to play all night if he had to. There were three full tables of hold’em being played, and he was added to the one with only one open seat of the nine.

The night started off slow. Playing €1/€3 cash was easy enough and Dimitar had more experience than almost all of his tablemates. He stayed out of the way of the only other player at the table who took the same aggressive raising strategies as him, in order to protect his stack. An hour into play, he got lucky, waking up with aces to scoop the stack of a tourist holding pocket queens. That put Dimitar up over a hundred, and he took a break from the table to get some food. He ate a big meal: steak, potatoes, and a side of pasta. Food to keep him fuelled for as long as he needed.

When he returned to play, he was sat in the corner of the room, eight players at this table. It looked even better than the first table. The professional was still on the table in the centre of the cardroom and Dimitar’s first impression was of a peaceful place to grind up his money and think about what might come next. On the other side of the cardroom, escalators backed onto the area to ferry players up and down the levels between gaming floors. Pop music was piped through the speakers close to the one-armed bandits and triple card poker machines. Where Dimitar now sat, his chair backed onto flock wallpaper while Mozart serenaded the area from a speaker nearby.

Less than 300 miles away, a hotel room in the centre of Prague, the capital city of the Czech Republic where Mozart once resided, was the dwelling of Bernt and Lisl Froelicher. Father and daughter, they were staying in the city having travelled from Germany to learn all about the culture of a place they had never visited before while Lisl recuperated from an operation.

Except that was a lie.

Bernt Froelicher was Peter Serf, and he knew Prague as well as he knew any other city in the world. Lisl was Elena, the former dancer from Glitter nightclub in Bulgaria. She had been drugged, taken from her hospital bed and transported against her will to a new European city. She had no idea whether she was conscious when she arrived at the hotel room she now shared with Serf.

Her every thought was focused on either escaping from him or killing him.

‘You must eat, Elena.’

‘I don’t have to do anything you say. Dimitar will find me.’

‘I hope he does, my dear. But he only has 29 days, and he needs to put together quite the ransom package. I don’t personally think he’s up to it, but if he is successful, he’ll want to find more than a bag of bones. Eat.’

Elena closed her mouth tighter. She would have folded her arms, flicked Serf two fingers (or one), but they were bound behind her back. She was sat up on the smaller of the two beds. She glared at him instead.

‘I’m offering to feed you a delicious meal. The steak is beautifully cooked. The dauphinoise potatoes are exquisite, and the vegetables will keep your immune system healthy. You’ve a stab wound to recover from thanks to your former ‘friend.’ I know you may find this had to believe, but I’m not your enemy.’

To the left of her captor was his empty dinner plate. She absently fantasised about grabbing the knife from it and cutting her bonds. Or would she go for his throat? While Elena looked listless, there was a russet colour to Serf’s cheeks and a general vivacity to his appearance, as if the exertion of the past week had galvanised something within him rather than exhausted it.

‘I could scream.’ Elena threatened.

‘I could open that wound and shoot you with some more tranquilisers. You slept so well the last time; it might calm you down. The hotel manager here is very reasonable. Very reasonable indeed.’

Serf’s smile indicated that he knew there was no way she would get what she wanted. Maybe he knew him. Maybe he knew someone in every major city in Europe. She didn’t know.

Elena didn’t have the strength to play it as a bluff. If she was wrong, she’d be incoherent for 24 hours. She’d learned that a lot could happen in that time.

‘What does your wife think of what you’re doing?’ Elena asked. But she immediately wished that she hadn’t. Serf didn’t answer, but the look on his face told her the answer to her question. The words weren’t a threat to Serf, because his wife was no longer alive. Had she died of her own accord, or had…? Elena suddenly didn’t want to know. The centre of Serf’s eyes seemed like they were the entrance to an infinitely black pit, the place all darkness came from. Elena could hardly look away, but eventually tore her gaze from his.

When she looked back, a smiling Serf proffered the fork, upon which sat a piece of medium rare steak and a small pile of potatoes layered with butter, cream and cheese, she parted her lips and took it into her mouth. She told herself that she would need the energy. She hoped that was the truth.

Across Europe, far to the East, Dimitar played poker while Elena and Peter Serf slept, the former thanks so some crumbled sleeping pills in her dauphinoise, the latter naturally. Dimitar didn’t need sleep. He needed money. He played like he would have done in a home game with Georgi at the club. No leaks. Tight, aggressive, chasing nothing, playing the hands where he was ahead like every chip counted.

He left the cardroom after a marathon ten-hour session at four in the morning, and he’d been in his seat for the majority of the time. The good games had broken and the only people still left in seats were other professional-level players or those who were a shower and shave fresher than the Bulgarian.

He got up from the table, tipped the dealer a single chip and nodded half in apology for being so stringent with his funds. He took his winnings to the cash desk and folded the €800 in his pocket, laying his wallet at the front of his tight jeans. He had a spare €5 note and as he passed the table games that lay between the cardroom and the exit, he paused at the edge of the roulette wheel.

‘Good evening, sir,’ said a young, attractive hostess.

Dimitar nodded a polite greeting. Guess she’d been told to say evening despite everyone knowing by this time that it was morning. Outside, people would be awakening to deliver goods, open restaurants or schools soon.

‘Just here for one bet.’

‘Of course, sir,’ the hostess said with a practised tone of understanding.

Dimitar placed the single note on the number six on the felt board in front of him.

‘Lucky number?’ the hostess asked. She smiled, her pink lips curling into a coquettish smirk.

‘No. I want to get the devil on my side.’ Said Dimitar. Her smile faded back into her resting expression.

The silver ball spun around the wheel, then the hostess neatly flicked the wheel in the opposite direction. The ball bounced once, twice, then landed solidly into the black ‘10’ bed where it remained as the wheel span languidly to a standstill.

Dimitar watched without expression. He nodded again and turned away.

When he was a safe distance away from her, the hostess opened up her cell phone and sent a text off to Peter Serf.

He might be up €500/€600. He’ll be back tomorrow.

Dimitar, oblivious to being monitored, walked out of the exit and back to his hotel room. What did he care if the roulette wheel wasn’t his friend, his bankroll was up to €1,700.

The devil could wait.

Dead Beat – Chapter 2

The first day of the month that would change his life saw him grieving the death of his best friend. The second had seen him travel 800 miles north from Bulgaria to Prague in pursuit of his kidnapped girlfriend and her abductor, Peter Serf. However, the third day was the one he would never forget.

It didn’t take long for Dimitar to reach his target of €2,000. Starting the day with €1,700 to his name, Dimitar was alarmingly short of his million-dollar ransom target, the amount that he had to win in order to get Elena back. With only 28 days remaining to reach the goal, he knew it was going to be difficult and her captor, Serf, had already demonstrated to Dimitar that he had several influential people in his pocket.

If Dimitar stepped out of line, Elena was dead. It was as simple and terrifying as that.

‘Sam?’ said Dimitar, back in his hotel room. He’d reached the money he required, having doubled his stake. Now he called his friend Sofia’s former boyfriend and fellow high stakes player. Now was the time for Dimitar to listen to an expert on how he could quickly step up the levels.

The American, who lived in London, adopted a congratulatory tone as he settled himself in front of the camera. In the background, Dimitar noticed rain behind Sam’s head outside the window.

‘Doubled your stake, then.’ Sam smiled. ‘Good work.’

Dimitar waved the wad of cash in front of the camera.

‘I’ve still no idea where Elena is. Her mobile hasn’t come online since I saw she was in Austria a day or so ago. She’s untraceable now.’

‘I don’t want to sound callous, but you’ve got to forget about her, mate. This Serf guy clearly wants to get one over you. So he’s hardly going to do her any harm when he stands to play you for a million in four weeks’ time.’

‘I know you’re right, but it’s hard to forget that she’s somewhere with him. I just want to know that she’s OK.’

‘I know you do. And you will. He’ll be in touch with you. He’s almost certainly watching how you’re getting on. I think he might even know some of the players you’re up against.’

‘How does that help me?’ Dimitar said with a lopsided smile.

‘It might not, but it could. You’re not going to find out until you sit down with them. But the higher the stakes, the more you’re going to have to pay attention. Don’t be scared to make the sessions you’re playing a bit shorter. There’s a game at the weekend at a golf club near me. A tournament. It’s a £5,000 buy-in. And you can’t risk it all. It’s a re-entry, so you’ll need £10,000, maybe £15,000, as I see it. I think you need to get what you’ve got well into five figures.’

‘So what stakes should I be playing? I’ve been playing €1/€3, but they’ve got €2/€5 and €5/€10… or is that too low?’

‘It’s definitely not too low. There are going to be players straddling, people will buy-in for way more than €1,000…’

‘€1,000? I’ve got €2,000.’

‘You’ll need to step back down if you don’t run it up. Buy-ins are crucial here. You can’t blow the bank.’

‘I need to run it up. I know you’ve played higher than this, but you must have played this level.’

‘Of course, I played them all, from $1/$2 all the way up to where I am now, which is $200/$400. The thing to remember is how people change up the levels. You’re not going to see many players missing paired boards or not charging people with drawing hands on the turn.’

‘They’ve still got to have leaks.’

‘Of course they have, everyone does. They’ll just fix them quicker. That’s what I notice whenever I play high stakes. Mistakes get made, but they get punished immediately, and whoever makes them closes the leak right away, they don’t carry on making that mistake. At €5/€10, you’re going to see different mistakes than at ¢1/€2. Learn what they are from each player and try to make them pay in that orbit. Either that, or if they’ve missed it, keep it for a lot longer and keep it to yourself. Give nothing away.’

‘Especially not chips.’

‘Especially not money. Let’s talk again when you’ve had a session at €2/€5. And don’t worry about Elena. You have to assume the best. Anything else isn’t healthy.’

Sam signed off and Dimitar was alone in his hotel room. It already felt stale, so he showered and prepared to go out. He felt guilty thinking of breakfast, exercise and other stimulants to kick-start his day. Elena might not have such luxuries, but he needed the money and he needed to win quickly. A golf club in London was a million miles from his comfort zone and if he had any chance of playing in that game, then he had to win here.

Dimitar stepped into the sun in Vienna, a city of spires set to the music of legendary composers who were born in these streets steeped in history and legend. Two centuries earlier, the world was different. There was no poker, there were no smartphones, airplane travel, or air conditioning. He had to be ready for the here and now.

The sun was beating down on the German landscape as Elena awoke in her hotel room, blinking slowly as she adjusted to the invasion of harsh light through open windows. The first thing she saw was the semi-silhouetted frame of her captor, Peter Serf, coming into focus.

The past few days felt like a blur, a movie playing on fast-forward. The attack at the nightclub, swimming in and out of consciousness, hospital lights, doctors, nurses, sleep, traveling by car and boat and plane. She couldn’t even be sure if the memories were a foggy version of reality or dreams so vivid they implanted real memories. Then the abduction. Even that felt like a dream. Moments of lucidity punctuated by the deepest sleep. She shivered in her bed as she came to the realization that her recent consciousness was being moderated by drugs.

The bed. The hotel. The food. His face. Images of everything from the past few days were swimming in and out of focus.

‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked with a sickly grin. Elena wondered why the older man had ever come to Glitter, the nightclub where she used to dance. Over the course of their first day in Germany, he told her his entire unvarnished truth.

He had leveraged his wife’s affair to exact revenge on Dimitar. In one horrific act, he had managed to free himself from a loveless marriage by killing his wife and kidnapping the one thing that Dimitar loved more than anything, her. Serf took it even further by utilizing her as an asset to manipulate Dimitar in Bulgaria. It was a new level of control and coercion she had never before witnessed.

Typically, older men like him were the ones at the nightclub who watched her dance, their eyes slowly stripping her as she lost herself in the rhythm, the music, the performance. When they were done watching, they would pay in cash and leave. Until Peter Serf, she’d thought these men were entirely harmless. And if they were not, then they most certainly were within the boundaries that were defined by law and the security team on hand at any time the club was open. She’d felt protected by the CCTV cameras at the club and by Dimitar too. Now, all of that security had been stripped away and she felt powerless and physically weak.

She didn’t answer him but she did accept food. Breakfast was a continental spread of cold meats, pastries and cheeses that he’d obviously had ordered and delivered by the hotel’s room service. It was like a banquet for two except he’d taken his share. Peter had left her an ample amount of tea, coffee and food. She ate as much as she could stomach. She was constantly wary of accepting help from him – he was the enemy – but she knew she needed to. Elena knew, deep down that physical strength was the key if she were to have any chance of escaping. She wasn’t fully healed and if he was going to help her recover, she would take it. Why would she not accept help, regardless of the source, when it gave her the greatest chance of succeeding in an escape attempt.

‘How is Dimitar doing?’ she asked, no longer feeling the need to hide anything from him.

‘He won on his first day. Almost a whole month to go. Do you think he can reach a million and win you back?’

‘He will.’

‘We’ll see, won’t we? Did you love him?’

‘Did?’

‘Before the accident, I mean. Or the attack.’

‘Of course I did.’

‘Like you loved Georgi?’

‘Don’t talk to me about Georgi.’

‘Do you consider Saskia’s actions to have been deliberate? I see her as a victim of your protector’s stupidity.’

‘Dimitar wasn’t trying to get anyone killed. That’s the difference between him and you.’

‘We are all unique, Elena. Otherwise, why would anyone choose to watch you dance above, say, a brunette or a raven-haired girl? People have preferences. They chose you with your long blond hair, your smile, those eyes.’

Under different circumstances, Elena could see why people would find Serf to be attractive. He was charismatic, nice to look at for an older man and persuasive. He had a smooth voice that was easy to listen to and believe. The mature good looks that his face had clearly grown into. He was in good physical condition, too. Strong, lithe, powerful.  All of the positive attributes he had that made him easy to be around were tainted by the knowledge of who he truly was. She was glad for that knowledge.

He sat forward, drawing close to her face. As he did, all she could think of was how could she escape this madman.

Elena didn’t speak again, looking away from his stare. She concentrated on her food and drink. She would wait for the next meal. Each one would make her stronger.

Then, one day, she would be gone.

The first few hours of Dimitar’s time at the €5/€10 cash table went well. He kept his play tight and aggressive, using position to raise when he was last to act and made sure he took mental notes on each player. Most of the players at the table were the same and there were no huge leaks. Players who liked to straddle knew how to play inflated pots from the pre-flop and post-flop stages. Those who were tighter had their three-betting ranges nailed down and weren’t afraid to play back if they felt their opponent was playing on their image. The game rolled around to mid-afternoon before Dimitar moved into profit, edging his initial stack of €1,000 up to €1,080. He was glad he’d listened to Sam Houston and kept another €1,000 stack back at the apartment in the safe.

In the early evening, he caught a big break. An Austrian man sat down at the felt and looked distracted. Asking to move seats, he had a brief discussion with the floor person before being moved from two seats to Dimitar’s left to the same distance around the table to his right. That suited the Bulgarian; now he had position on a potentially aggro player.

The problem was that the man was very good. He raised wildly, but it was almost as if he liked to put himself into challenging positions purely so that he could play. He was also the life and soul of the table, taking a degree of emotional control over everyone with whom he was sharing the felt.

‘You, handsome leather jacket guy,’ he finally said to Dimitar, an hour into what had become the ‘Fritz’ show, Fritz being his name. ‘You say little but play plenty, huh?’

Dimitar wasn’t used to long conversations, especially not in his native tongue. He preferred to let his cards do the talking, but it was hard to resist a chat with Fritz.

‘I play enough. You don’t play with me?’ Dimitar smiled, raising on the button with a suited king-queen. Fritz, who had led the betting with a standard three times the blind bet from the hijack position, made the call.

‘All right, hot shot, I give you position.’

‘The flop brought a queen for Dimitar, along with two sixes. He c-bet the flop to around 40% of the pot.’

‘Standard c-bet, so you hit. I like it. Charge me for draws, but no flush out there. You think I call for runner-runner? My jacket is suede, not leather, handsome. I call.’

The words came out like bursts from a rifle, quick, hitting their mark. Dimitar couldn’t help laughing a little at the man’s exuberance.

A seven arrived on the turn, this time in hearts, the same as one of the sixes on the board.

‘A good card for me, but not for you?’ asked Fritz.

Dimitar said nothing. He led out, this time for a lower percentage of the pot, but a bigger amount.

Fritz made the call, this time in silence.

An eight landed on the river. Fritz checked. Dimitar wanted to bet his hand but held back. The straight had come in. The flush hadn’t, but that didn’t mean Fritz wasn’t being cheeky with ten-nine suited. The call on the flop wouldn’t have made sense.

Dimitar checked.

‘Good check, handsome.’ Said Fritz. Dimitar turned over his king-queen, but it was no good. Fritz turned over a five-six for flopped trips. Dimitar lost the pot. It was painful watching the more than €200 of his bankroll go across the felt, but in the next hand, he saw Fritz’s crucial tell, and the reason he’d asked to move seats.

Able to see the TV screen that was mounted behind what would initially have been his seat, Fritz was avidly watching the action between Juventus and A.C. Milan. With five minutes gone, a Juventus player was streaking away towards the crowd after having just scored.

Fritz gripped a poker chip in his hand, squeezing it hard, letting some tension go, trying not to let the rest of the table see his frustration.

Was he a Milan fan? Dimitar watched him closely and in the next hand, Fritz gave away a pile of chips chasing a flush when he needed runner-runner from the flop. He caught the turn and missed the river, losing plenty of chips while doing so. A hand later, he’d fixed that leak, but ten minutes later, a Milanese equalizer caused him the same consternation.

It wasn’t about the teams, thought Dimitar. It was the goals. Fritz had bet the under.

Dimitar waited, calmly and patiently, until that third goal went in. It wasn’t long, coming right before half-time. Two Italian teams and three goals before half-time? Who would have predicted that? Fritz looked angry and played the next hand. Dimitar raised aggressively with pocket fours. A re-raise from Fritz. A call from Dimitar.

The flop was a dream, coming king-jack-four. Dimitar c-bet, wanting to show some strength. Fritz angrily shoved his chips over the line.

‘I’m all-in, handsome. You have the king too?’

‘Sorry,’ said Dimitar, turning over his fours for bottom set. Fritz flipped king-queen. No trouble came on turn or river and Dimitar bagged a double-up.

It was only five hours later that he made his way into his hotel room €3,500 up for the night. He had €4,500. Opening the safe, he went to add his newly won currency to the €1,000 already in there.

Also inside was a note.

A very good night, Dimitar.

Keep up the good work.

Elena and I can’t wait to see you.

Peter.

Dimitar shut the door, not touching the scrap of casino-branded compliment slip. Someone inside the hotel was working for the enemy.

Next »

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.