“Is that supposed to mean something … ?”
Kellerman’s mouth upturned fractionally to form a tolerant smile. “He’s a Los Angeles native, an avid gambler, and, most importantly, he’s your first objective.”
“He’s a cardholder.” Eye contact was maintained while a substantial manila folder switched hands. “What kind of gambling, exactly?”
“Horse racing. All the information is there. He’ll be at the track tomorrow, three PM — when the time is right, all you need to do is provide a distraction.”
Kellerman shook his head. “No, we’ve made it this far because the Company has no concrete proof that we’re going after Scylla. Once he realizes that the card is missing, our one advantage is gone. You have to copy the data, and put the card back exactly where you found it. Get in, and get out. There’s no margin for error.”
“Right.” This time, it was Michael whose expression shifted; a dry half-smile, if that, without a single flicker of genuine amusement. “So, no pressure.”
Considering his brother’s latest predicament — a funk, Lincoln had said — Michael opted to see this one through on his own. A gamble, in and of itself, under the pretense of running an errand; there would be hell to pay when the truth surfaced, but that was a bridge he’d crossed innumerable times before. Several rounds of verbal sparring paled in comparison to the larger risk of getting more parties involved, even if Linc wouldn’t see it that way.
Features thrown into shadow by the brim of his cap, his eyes downcast to the card’s copy as he turned it slowly in his hands. Diligence and curiosity were in line to get the better of him, a nigh-on magnetic pull to glimpse behind the curtain; this was more, Kellerman assured him, than simply the Company’s little black book. This was everything they needed to be free.
And what he held was only a small portion.
"I already have confirmation that he placed his bet. It’s all riding on a ‘sure thing.’ The horse, the numbers, the odds, all of it is in that folder."
"But if something incidental were to compromise those odds — ?"
“That,” and Kellerman damn near smirked, “would qualify as a distraction.”
Edison’s horse had never made it out of the gate.
All those solitary months spent keeping his head down, animosity and guilt simmering to a slow boil, driven by the erosive pull towards vengeance; he’d almost forgotten what it felt like, to be so wholly caught up in the adrenalized fray. Chasing a high, Sara called it.
Releasing a low and steady exhale, Michael tucked the first tangible piece of an intricate puzzle into his pocket and reached out to start the car.
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