Marseille was nicknamed ‘The Phocaean City’ after Greek colonists, and as Dimitar arrived in the modern-day paradise on the French Riviera, he could almost smell the history of the place. At the airport, Dimitar left the recycled air conditioning and fluorescent lighting and stepped into dry heat and full sunshine. It was almost midday, and the sun was as high in the sky as it would get. 

Dimitar texted Sam Houston to let him know that he had arrived before taking a cab to the city. He asked the driver to make a few stops on the way while he waited for a reply from Sam.

Marseille was beautiful, but to Dimitar, everything was tinged with the stain of what had happened on the way here and what lay ahead. He had not slept well in the past four weeks. It had taken him almost the entire month to turn $1,000 into a million euros, but he’d had no choice. That was the million-dollar ransom Peter Serf demanded. Now Dimitar was actually in Marseille, ready to play Serf for Elena, his girlfriend. It all felt real. Tangible. 

This was the end game. 

They wound their way from the airport to the Old Port and swung by the Palais Longchamp and the Marseille Cathedral. The entire time, Dimitar could only think about the money burning a hole in his holdall and what he wanted to do with it. It was one game, heads-up against Serf to save Elena, but could he win? 

But what if he lost? 

Dimitar felt his phone buzz when he was on the steps of the Cathedral. He paid the cab driver and sat on the giant staircase, looking across at the rest of the city. 

‘Dimitar. Safe trip?’ 

‘As safe as you can be when you’re carrying a million euros from one side of Western Europe to the other.’ 

Sam laughed. The high roller had been Dimitar’s closest ally since they met in London. That was several hundreds of thousands of dollars ago. Now the Dimitar had the million-dollar stake, they were ready for a truly high-stakes game – Sam’s specialty. But the stakes had never been this high; they were playing for Elena’s life. 

‘Do you have any idea where Serf is staying?’ Dimitar asked. He’d spent the ride from the airport imagining his enemy on every street corner, scanning each face for his. 

‘I’m told he’s at the Terre Blanche.’

‘The what?’ 

‘It translates as White Earth. It’s a hotel, the best in Marseille. It’s a spa, you can even play golf there. They probably have one of those little robots that hoovers the floor in every room.’

‘I’m not going there to play golf, Sam. Are you sure Serf is there?’

‘I spoke to one of their staff and asked if my father was staying there.’ 

‘Your father?’ 

‘Sure. I don’t have a real father, I’m an orphan, remember? My Dad can be anybody. It just so happens that he’s a tall guy, English like me. A real..

‘…son of a…’

‘…means to an end. Now, just a heads-up, so to speak. You only have 24 hours until the cut-off. If you arrive now, he might want to play right away. Are you rested?’

‘I flew economy if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t need rest. I need revenge. If he has Elena there, of course.’

‘I’ve got no confirmation of that. The girl I spoke with told me that she’s seen Serf but not your girlfriend.’

*

At the same time Sam and Dimitar were talking, Elena was in the same hotel room she’d been cooped up in for a week straight. She could clean, she could eat, she could sleep. But anything else was impossible. Thanks to the twin efforts of Peter Serf and his indebted friend Jeremy Rundle, she’d spent seven days and seven nights in the same room. Housekeeping was no longer required, so she was under orders to keep the place neat and tidy. 

That meant she kept an eye on the knife in the closet, this latest hiding spot between the struts of the metal ironing board nestled in the back of the closet behind spare pillows and a winter blanket.

‘What do you want for lunch?’ asked Rundle, whose turn it was to watch her. It had been four hours since breakfast, and the sun was like a beam of light in the sky. It seared in through the thin curtains. 

‘A pizza.’ She replied. ‘But an authentic one. A genuine Pizza con le Patate from Rome.’’

‘Potato and Mozzarella? I’ve tried it.’

‘You’ve travelled to Rome? It’s the only place they make it right. So, chop, chop, we’ve got a plane to catch.’ 

‘Nice try.’ Said Rundle, almost looking wistful at the idea of leaving the hotel himself. ‘Pasta, I can do. The hotel special.’ 

‘Again?’ she asked, putting her book down. She’d read four of the hotel’s cheap thrillers already, guessing the ending to the last two. Killing time was painful. 

‘Not long now. Your boyfriend turns up today or this is your last meal.’

‘Have you got children?’ she asked. Rundle had been immovable on so many subjects over the last week, but whenever she asked him about his family, Elena had noticed a slight twitch at the side of his face, like someone might get if they tasted lemon in a meal when they weren’t expecting to. 

‘Enough about me.’ He barked.  

‘It’s always enough, Jeremy.’ She said bitterly, lingering on the last word to make it sound like the stupidest name ever created. 

‘You have a problem with my name?’ 

‘In a way. Let’s say Dimitar turns up and beats your boss at his own game. What happens?’

‘What do you mean what happens? He wins. You leave. I go home and my debt with Peter is clear.’ 

‘You really think he’ll let you walk away from all this? He’ll probably paint you as the bad guy.’

Rundle creased his forehead. The door opened as Peter Serf walked in. 

‘No lunch?’ he asked. Then he took Rundle to one side so that they were out of earshot of Elena. 

‘Our friend came in on the red eye. He’s in Marseille. I want you to get up to the top floor and spot for me. I’ll watch her.’ 

‘You think he’ll walk right into the main entrance of the hotel?’ 

‘What choice does he have?’ 

Moving back towards Elena, he addressed Rundle again, but this time his eyes did not stray from Elena. 

‘If anyone suspicious arrives at the hotel, you know what to do,’ said Serf, turning his gaze to the open balcony that stood proud with flowers ten floors above the hard, hot pavement below. Further away from the hotel sat an infinity pool. But it was easily fifty meters from the window.

Peter Serf walked back to the center of the room and looked right into the eyes of his kidnap victim. 

‘You know how to swim, don’t you Elena?’

Dimitar arrived late afternoon. He knew he still had a few hours before the cut-off, but he wanted to put the money down. He wanted this all to be over. He wanted to play. He was ready to play heads-up poker for a million dollars… and Elena’s life. 

The entrance was as grand as any five-star facility in the richest areas of the world. He told the receptionist that he was waiting for a friend of his and gave Peter Serf’s name. Then he went to sit outside. There were at least 20 others situated on pool loungers or at the outdoor bar. The infinity pool itself was stunning, measuring fifty by twenty meters and running right up to the lip of the cliff, which seemed to jut out over the expanse of greenery and plants at the fringes of the property. From that drop, it must have been 200 meters to a stone and dirt track that every vehicle used as it approached the hotel.

Dimitar picked one of the stools at the bar and ordered a lemonade. He wanted to keep his head clear. 

‘No swimming costume, sir?’ joked the barman, indicating the pool itself, which was covered from one end to the other in a blue plastic tarpaulin that stretched over each corner. From a distance, it might have looked like the pool was just as accessible as normal, but a sign rested on top of the tarpaulin warned hotel guests that cleaning was in progress. 

‘Maybe later.’ Dimitar smiled, looking down at his own clothes. Black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a jacket weren’t exactly hotel wear. He looked like he was a motorcycle short of a road trip around Europe, not at a luxurious five-star hotel. 

‘Maybe tomorrow,’ said the barman. ‘Families aren’t supposed to use this pool and a kid was sick.’

Dimitar’s nose screwed up. ‘How sick?’

‘You see The Exorcist? No, it’s clean… we just have to leave it overnight. Tomorrow morning, you can jump in wearing your clothes.’ 

‘We’ll see how tonight goes.’ Dimitar laughed. 

‘Would you like me to charge the lemonade to your room, sir, or…’ 

Dimitar went to reach for his wallet, but a voice came from beside him. 

‘Charge it to Room 1016,’ said Peter Serf, patting Dimitar on the left shoulder. ‘I’ll have the same.’ Serf looked like a man on a business trip in his beige shirt with an azure neck-tie.

‘Of course, sir.’ 

Peter Serf sat on the next stool to Dimitar. 

‘You made it. I’m impressed. What do you think of the place?’

‘It’s just a place. I’ve been running around Europe and I’ve got your money.’

‘My money? My dear Dimitar, it’s not mine. It’s yours… until we play and I take it from you. I want to know what you’ve learned at the poker tables on your little road trip.’

‘I learned plenty. Where’s Elena?’

‘Safe and well.’ Serf said, thanking the barman for his drink. ‘And out of your reach.’ 

‘How do I know that you haven’t killed her?’ 

‘Kill her? Why would I rob the world of such a vibrant young lady?’ Serf asked. The smile on his lips was reminiscent of a snake sticking out his tongue. It told Dimitar that Serf knew exactly how vibrant Elena could be. 

Dimitar gripped the glass of lemonade so hard he thought it might shatter or slip free from his palm. 

‘Let’s just play.’

‘No time like the present.’ 

‘Where?’ 

‘We’ll take a seat by the pool. It’s hardly likely to be disturbed is it? We’ll be in full view. I have the money in my own bag right here.’ 

Peter Serf did indeed have a bag, a laptop case. He flicked the laptop bag open and showed Dimitar. The Bulgarian looked inside and saw the same approximate amount of paper money he had in his holdall.

So the game was on – he really had brought the money. He wants to beat me straight, to show me that he’s better than me, thought Dimitar.

 

Which meant there was a chance of victory. 

They went to the side of the pool, which sat idle, the water shifting and tilting under the tarpaulin, which floated on the shifting surface. They took their drinks as the sun passed across the sky; taking the light as it approached the horizon. The battle had begun. Blinds were agreed upon. They would increase every hour on the hour, until one man had all of the €2,000,000 in their collective possession. Serf really had planned it all out. They had chips to the value of $2 million on the table in front of them, a million each.

‘I promise you, my man—’

‘—Jeremy Rundle.’ Dimitar interrupted sharply. 

‘Yes, that’s him.’ Serf said as casually as if he was discussing an incoming weather front instead of kidnap and imprisonment. ‘Jeremy owes me a lot. He has an eye on both Elena and us. Your money is perfectly safe until I take it from you.’ 

They played for an hour without a word between them other than ‘Call’, ‘Raise’, ‘Check’ or ‘Fold’. Serf took an early lead and was in a gloating mood, although he led by just 400,000 chips, Serf’s stack of 1.2 million ahead of Dimitar’s 800,000. Blinds were still relatively small at 3,000/6,000, meaning Dimitar had 133 big blinds, with Serf on 200 big blinds. They weren’t playing with an ante. 

‘You have friends in every city,’ Dimitar said before he raised with eight-seven of clubs. Serf liked to play suited connectors himself but wasn’t as comfortable against them for some reason. ‘But none at home.’

‘Are you trying to provoke me?’ Serf laughed. ‘People can be useful,’ responded Serf, calling to a flop of king-eight-deuce with two hearts and the king of clubs.

‘Is that what people are to you, a useful tool? Don’t you love people, do you miss really connecting with them?’

‘People like my wife?’ 

‘You killed your wife.’ 

‘I put her out of the misery she – and you – created. I sought to find a permanent solution. There was no way back. There never is.’ 

‘Why do you need to beat me at cards? I’d let you have the money if I could have Elena.’

‘There’s no way she’ll be the same,’ Serf sneered, betting the flop. Dimitar raised and got a call.  

They were sitting adjacent to the bar, where Dimitar saw a familiar face. He had been looking for Elena, but her physical opposite was sitting at the bar nursing a drink and wearing a light beige suit. Slim McCoy. Dimitar allowed his eyes to scan right past his friend from the cruise ship so that Serf didn’t notice it. Dimitar bet the turn, which came down with the club three. He made a show of keeping it a big bet.

‘I think you’re chasing something.’ 

‘You know who I’m chasing. I’ve been all over Europe following you to find Elena and bring her home. She was stabbed. She should be resting.’ 

‘She’s absolutely fine.’ Serf said, re-raising. Dimitar called. 

The river was a third eight for Dimitar.

‘Elena is fine. I can’t promise that she’s untouched…’ Serf said, trying to goad Dimitar. 

‘Shut up!’ Dimitar roared, standing up and knocking his drink over. ‘I’m all-in. Let’s get this over with if you have it!’ 

Serf smiled. Was he getting to Dimitar? He looked down at his hand. Ace-king with the ace of clubs. A blocker to the nut flush and top pair with top kicker. 

Dimitar breathed hard, going as red in the face as he could muster. He had to make Serf think that he was tilted. 

 

 

Dead Beat – Chapter 14

Peter Serf folded his cards. 

‘I think I’ll let you have a slight lead rather than a big one.’ He said, swirling wine in his glass. ‘You played it like a busted flush. Maybe that’s all it was. But you showed me a lot of emotion. You made something along the way, didn’t you?’

Dimitar tossed his cards at the deck of cards between them without a word. It was a perfect throw, and his two cards landed perfectly under the deck. He stacked his newly acquired chips and ordered another drink while cursing himself for going too hard on the amateur dramatics. 

‘I want to speak to Elena before we go any further,’ he said. ‘I could be playing for nothing if you’ve killed her already.’ 

Peter Serf rolled his eyes. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed. 

‘Jeremy. Could you escort our quarry to the window?’ he asked. 

Just a few seconds later, with twilight illuminated by the window’s soft amber light, Elena appeared on the 10th floor. She opened the balcony doors and called out to Dimitar. The cry died in her throat as Jeremy Rundle grabbed her from behind and pulled her back into the room. He carefully shut the doors to the balcony and nodded at Peter Serf.

The light went out.

‘If he hurts her…’ Dimitar trailed off. Peter Serf simply shuffled the cards and began the next deal. 

Dinner came and went. The evening was fully dark, with guests covering the bar. Some of the hotel patrons had turned their attention to the action between Dimitar and Peter Serf. None of them had any idea of the stakes that were being played for. They just saw two guests engaging in an entertaining game of poker. Dimitar wanted to tell them all to go back to their rooms so that he could concentrate, but having a crowd bothered him less and less with each hand that passed.

The blinds were significantly higher than when they started. There were only 80 big blinds on the table, and Serf had 42 of them. 

‘Are you mentally prepared to win, Dimitar?’

‘As ready as you are to lose,’ replied Dimitar as he bet again. This time, he held pocket fives. Serf raised, and Dimitar called in position to see a flop of A-4-2 fall. Dimitar bet again. Serf open-folded a pair of queens. 

‘How to advertise you have the ace in three easy lessons, my boy.’ Serf said, pushing the deck over to Dimitar, who slid his cards to the bottom of the deck. 

‘It’s your deal.’ Dimitar stated dryly as he fanned the cards across to Serf, who surreptitiously looked to the bottom of the deck to see his opponent’s hole cards. Dimitar noticed but said nothing. He had marginally more chips and, for the first time, had rattled Serf. 

Why else would he sneak a look at the cards?

*

In the hotel room, Jeremy Rundle threw Elena to the floor. She picked herself up with an intentional lack of grace, breaking a heel in the process. This had been part of her ploy all along. It was merely a matter of timing, and as Dimitar had always told her, the secret to a bluff was timing and execution. 

Changing into a new pair of shoes was mandatory. When she did, she sought out the knife she had hidden in the closet. Slipping it into her heel, she lay on the bed pretending to read, having slipped the knife underneath her pillow. 

Jeremy Rundle checked his phone and went for the holdall he had placed under the table during the last shift change. Inside the bag were more than a few industrial-strength plastic zip-ties. He used them to secure Elena to the bedposts. 

Over the next 30 minutes, Jeremy Rundle took less of an interest in Elena and more in what was happening below by the pool. He could see at least two dozen people at the bar or on other tables. Most of them were edging forward in their seats, watching every hand. He took out the binoculars so that he could see the pair in action. From one angle, he could almost make out Dimitar’s hole cards when he first flicked them up. 

Serf sent him a text, and he answered in the affirmative. He could help his boss out, who cared if he beat this guy straight or not? 

Elena smiled to herself, slipping the knife out from underneath the pillow and edging her wrist against its tip. Breaking the plastic, she managed to pull her hand free. Using her free hand, she slowly cut through the ties on her feet and finally her other wrist. She put the knife underneath her pillow and lay her limbs over the ties. 

Jeremy Rundle looked closer at the hands through the binoculars. He could see what Dimitar held. But the phone signal was terrible. It was better near the door and in the hotel corridor.

 

 

A flop of two tens and a jack with two hearts on show was perfect for Dimitar. There was no way Serf would see the move coming. When Serf bet out, Dimitar knew that he had him. All he had to do now was to cover the strength in his hand. No talk. No Hollywood. He breathed as deeply as he could without revealing it. It slowed down his heartbeat, and he called the bet. 

‘Still chasing. I’m about to get my chip lead back,’ proclaimed Serf. At the start of the hand, the chips were almost even, with Dimitar having a marginal advantage. Peter Serf looked down at pocket aces and waited for the turn. A queen. 

‘Does that help you?’ Serf asked. Stone silence from Dimitar. ‘I think it might.’

Dimitar bet and Serf made the call. 

The river was an ace. Serf bet, big this time, positioning himself for an all-in if Dimitar raised him. Dimitar prayed that Serf couldn’t see the vein in his neck throbbing. 

‘I’m all-in.’ 

Peter Serf considered Dimitar. He looked at his eyes, his facial features, then down to…

There was a loud bang from inside the building, and the two men looked up to the 10th floor. Elena ran down the stairs to the ninth floor, just a couple of footsteps ahead of Jeremy Rundle, who caught her up on the walkway facing the pool. 

Serf looked up at Rundle, who grabbed Elena. His hands were stronger than hers, but she freed one, whirling it around madly, trying to get free. She struggled and squirmed desperately. There was a clang as the knife in her hand hit the hard stone floor. 

‘Elena!’ shouted Dimitar. She didn’t react, but Rundle did, turning towards the pool and Serf. He needed to tell him what he’d seen from the room. The cards on the flop–

The belt buckle hit Rundle square in the temple as he made a futile grab for Elena’s throat. She freed her arms and pushed him back towards the walkway, where Rundle’s back hit the railing so awkwardly it crumpled, and his body tipped up, his heavy boots acting as a counterweight to his bleeding face. Up and over, he tipped, dropping from the walkway all the way down nine flights. 

It took him half a second to spin end over end before he landed with a sickening crunch on the edge of the pool. Blood pooled around his head and ran down the rivulets between the tiles.  

Just twenty meters and 7,500 liters of water separated the two men playing cards and Jeremy Rundle’s dead body, his neck twisted unnaturally against the pale blue tiles at the water’s edge that were rapidly turning crimson. A scream from one of the hotel guests at the bar punctured the stillness of the night air. The tarpaulin floated free of its mooring from the impact of Rundle’s legs. Elena rose to her feet and looked down at Dimitar. 

‘Dimitar!’ 

‘Elena, come downstairs. You’re not safe up there.’ 

She was far safer than Dimitar had thought. From the door to the hotel restaurant, Sam Houston emerged with two policemen and a security guard. All they had to do was walk slowly around the pool, and Serf would be arrested. 

‘The game isn’t over.’ Serf said. Panicked, his eyes darted left and right. ‘I call.’ 

Peter Serf slammed down two aces and revealed his full house, aces over tens. 

Dimitar slowly turned over the two tens in his hand to reveal quads. He smiled, breathing out a sigh of relief.

‘I wasn’t concentrating.’ Serf stuttered. ‘The hand needs replaying.’

‘I beat you fair and square.’ asserted Dimitar. ‘Now, are you a man of your word?’

Serf ducked under the table for the laptop bag full of money. He placed it on the table, then quickly unzipped one of the pockets and pulled out a knife. 

The crowd of onlookers gasped in shock. 

‘When you’ve got no outs…’ he seethed and lunged at Dimitar, who backed out of the chair. The table was knocked over as Serf launched himself at his prey. Dimitar deflected the knife but staggered backward, and Serf landed on top of him as they fell onto the tarpaulin. As Dimitar and Serf gripped each other, each trying to gain control of the other, they both sank into the water.

The two policemen froze at the side of the pool.

‘How deep is that water?’ asked the security guard. 

Sam Houston wasn’t waiting for an answer. He stripped off his jacket and dove headfirst into the pool. 

Under the water, Dimitar felt his arm flood with warmth as the knife slashed across it. He kicked out desperately and saw the face of Peter Serf above as his head banged against the bottom of the pool. Stars danced in his eyes as he battled to free himself from both Serf and the tarpaulin. It was dragging him down. 

He felt a hand grab his arm where it was cut, and the pain almost made him cry out in agony. He kept his mouth shut, preserving the tiny bit of oxygen still sustaining his lungs. It felt like life was being squeezed out of him as the arm pulled on his body with an almost superhuman strength. 

He could see Peter Serf’s face grinning at him. His mouth opened into a twisted laugh, and although the sound around him was muffled, he thought he could hear the cackle ring in his ears. 

His body started to ascend…up, up, up.

Dimitar broke the surface first, his lungs throwing water out of them and his natural instinct kicking in as he sucked in air. His hands landed on something hard, so he clung on to it. A large, fat arm stretched down to him, and he grabbed it like a lifebelt. 

Slim McCoy pulled Dimitar up and yanked him clear of the water. 

‘Sam? Where’s Sam?’ Dimitar gasped.

‘He went back down after the guy you were playing.’ 

Sam stood up, and Slim eased him into a chair. Elena came running from the hotel and threw herself at Dimitar as he breathed in with a gasp.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked, holding onto him with all her might. 

‘Yeah, I’ll be fine if you don’t crush me to death,’ Dimitar smiled. He swept her hair off her cheek and kissed her firmly on the lips. 

They watched the water for the longest time. From the moment Elena had burst down the stairs and onto the walkway to the second Sam surfaced, just 100 seconds had elapsed, but everyone’s lives had changed.

After what seemed like an hour but in reality, could only have been about a minute, the surface broke, and Sam Houston gasped in the air as he clung to the side of the pool nearest the corpse of Jeremy Rundle. 

‘I couldn’t find…’ Sam tried to speak. The two policemen pulled him clear of the water. Then they all looked towards the pool, and as the tarpaulin drifted to one side, they saw Peter Serf’s body slowly float to the surface. No one said a word.

Serf’s mouth was open, and the light had gone out behind his grey, dead eyes.

 

‘The Casino Barrière Cassis is the best casino near Marseille.’ Slim McCoy said. 

‘The best food, you mean,’ joked Dimitar. 

‘Naturally!’ 

The four of them made their way to the cash tables, where Sam had a word with the cardroom manager. Before playing, they dined. They ate extraordinarily well. Tender seared salmon over vegetables, a vanilla-lemon syllabub that was to die for, and the finest wine any of them had ever tasted.

‘I still can’t believe he’s dead.’ Dimitar said, saying what they were all thinking. ‘Yesterday, he could have killed me. Now we’re free.’ 

Looking up at his companions, he raised his glass.

‘Thank you for this meal.’ Dimitar stated sincerely, addressing Slim McCoy. ‘And for pulling me out of that pool.’ 

‘You promised me a heads-up game of poker. I’m all about the value.’

‘Just because you beat me on the cruise ship…’

‘Twice!’ laughed McCoy. 

‘All right, twice. Third time is the charm, is that what they say, Sam?’ 

Sam Houston put down his drink on the silk tablecloth. 

‘Elena is the charm, and you finally have her back.’ 

Elena blushed, then kissed Dimitar on the lips. She gazed at him adoringly. 

‘I thought I had lost you forever,’ she lamented.

‘Never. I was never going to stop looking for you.’ 

‘I know. France is great and this food is lovely… but can we go home after this?’ 

‘First class train tickets are booked for you both.’ McCoy announced. ‘Paid for with my own money. I already told Dimitar I donate all my winnings, so his stake money won’t be affected.’ 

They all laughed, but the serious business of the poker game hadn’t escaped Dimitar, and he was fully focused by the time they arrived in the cardroom. They had bought a table just for the two of them to play heads-up poker at private stakes. The thousands of lights outside the casino cast the cardroom in a balmy amber hue. This time, there was a dealer, Elena was safe and Dimitar was under no threat at all. 

But now there was €2 million on the line. 

‘I think you’re crazy playing for it all. Slim’s good… but I believe in you.’ Sam said. He and Elena sat at a nearby table. They would play without breaks, and this time, it was for everything: Dimitar’s €2 million and an equal amount put up by Slim McCoy. 

‘Where will you go after this, Sam?’ asked Elena. ‘You saved Dimitar’s life.’ 

‘I’ll be at the tables somewhere. Never anywhere for too long. I can’t promise I’ll help your boyfriend any more with strategy – I don’t think he needs it anymore.’ 

The heads-up game lasted four hours and twenty-three minutes. They’d agreed on fast blinds, and Dimitar had been the better player by the time the final hand played out. 

‘What are we, even in chips?’ Asked McCoy, raising with the ace-king of hearts. Dimitar called in position with the seven and eight of the same suit. 

‘I think you have a few more than me. But this could be a big one.’ Said Dimitar. 

The flop came with two hearts, the nine and the ten. An innocuous three of clubs completed the board. McCoy bet again, this time a lot bigger. Dimitar called. 

The turn was the four of spades. An open-ended straight flush draw, thought Dimitar, this could be my chance. The chance to fulfill the pipe dream he’d been having all this time. 

McCoy bet, and Dimitar called. Almost 70% of the chips in play were in the middle. 

The river was the six of hearts. The devil’s card. Inside, Dimitar smiled, but outwardly, he showed nothing. He checked again to Slim. 

‘I think I finally have you. I’m all-in.’ Slim grinned, pushing his remaining chips forward. 

‘The nut flush?’ Dimitar asked. The sparkle in Slim’s eyes gave him away. It was perfect. Dimitar had finally outplayed him.

‘I call.’ 

Slim McCoy turned over his ace-king of hearts for the nut flush. Dimitar looked down at his cards, the seven-eight of hearts looking back at him for the straight flush. All $4 million was his.

But that was never the plan. 

Dimitar thought for the tiniest moment about turning over the cards and taking the money. But it was stained, every note of it, with the blood of those that Peter Serf had killed. The battles Dimitar had faced around Europe had been won to take on a monster. Now that the treasure was in front of him, Dimitar needed to do what he’d prepared to do since he first started throwing cards across a hotel desk at a notepad. 

Dimitar took a deep breath, and his heart filled with the thought of all the children whose lives would improve when McCoy gave the charity $4 million. 

He held the two cards that completed his straight flush between his index and middle fingers on his right hand and threw them perfectly into the muck. 

The dealer gathered in the cards and Dimitar looked across to his opponent. 

‘You got me.’

 

Slim McCoy Will Return in…

Dead Ringer.

 

 

 

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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.