Read Chapter 27: The Casino Meeting

The casino air hit Jack like a wall—perfume, cigars, and money so thick it felt like breathing gold leaf. Chandeliers scattered light across green felt and crystal glasses, and every man in a tuxedo seemed to own half of some small country.

Jack wore a rented suit that didn't fit quite right. The wire was taped to his sternum, a small silver disc that pressed against his skin with every heartbeat. Emile had tested it twice in the hotel room, his hands shaking as he'd adjusted the frequency.

“Speak normal,” Emile had said. “Don't shout. Don't whisper. Just talk like you're having a drink with an old friend.”

Jack had almost laughed at that.

He crossed the main floor, past the roulette wheels and the card tables, toward the back corridor where Emile had told him Philippe kept his private room. Two men in dark suits stood outside the door. One of them recognized Jack and spoke into a lapel mic.

The door opened.

Philippe Marchand stood in the doorway, smiling like a crocodile who'd just spotted a limping gazelle. He was older than Jack had expected—sixty, maybe, with silver hair swept back and eyes the color of a frozen lake. He wore a midnight-blue suit that probably cost more than Jack's entire apartment in Birmingham.

“Jack Turner,” Philippe said, spreading his arms. “The man of the hour. Or should I say, the man of the scandal.”

“You know why I'm here.”

“I have a good idea.” Philippe stepped aside, gesturing into the room. “Come. Let's not talk in the hallway like servants.”

The room was smaller than Jack expected—a private salon with a round table, a decanter of whiskey, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor. The lights of Monaco glittered below, a thousand tiny suns reflecting off the dark water.

Philippe poured two glasses of whiskey without asking. He slid one across the table toward Jack.

“Drink,” he said. “You look like you need it.”

Jack didn't touch the glass. “You know what I have.”

Philippe settled into a leather chair, crossing his legs with practiced elegance. “I know you've been a very busy boy. Breaking into my facility. Forging documents. Meeting with journalists. It's almost impressive, really. For a driver who couldn't win a championship if his life depended on it.”

The insult landed like a slap. Jack felt his jaw tighten.

“The USB,” Jack said. “And the diagnostic file, and the security footage, and about six other things that would end your career and put you in prison for the rest of your life.”

Philippe's smile didn't waver. “Go on.”

“I want a million euros. Cash. And a seat for next season—a competitive seat, not a backmarker. I want to drive for a team that can win.”

“That's a big ask.”

“That's the price of silence.”

Philippe picked up his whiskey and swirled it, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “You know, Luca said something similar once. Not about money—he was too proud for that. He said he wanted to win on merit. He said he wouldn't be part of my 'little games,' as he called them.” Philippe took a sip. “He was very noble. Very principled. Very dead.”

Jack's pulse hammered against the wire.

“Is that a threat?”

“It's a history lesson.” Philippe set down his glass. “Here's my counteroffer. I'll give you five hundred thousand now, another five hundred when you sign your new contract. The seat is yours—I have influence with three teams. But you'll do what you're told. When a race needs throwing, you'll throw it. When a car needs sabotaging, you'll look the other way. And if you ever think about going to the press again, I'll make what happened to Luca look like a mercy killing.”

Jack forced himself to keep breathing. “So you admit it? You killed him?”

Philippe laughed—a dry, rattling sound. “I didn't kill anyone. I gave an order. There's a difference. A general doesn't personally shoot every soldier. He simply... directs the battle.”

“Alain weakened the suspension.”

“Alain did what he was paid to do.” Philippe leaned forward, his eyes cold. “Luca was going to expose us. The betting ring, the race-fixing, all of it. He found evidence and he was going to hand it to the FIA. I couldn't allow that. So I allowed something else instead.”

Jack's mouth was dry. “And Emilia? Luca's brother?”

“Emile was a loose end. He still is.” Philippe's smile thinned. “Though I hear he's been seen recently. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Of course you don.” Philippe stood and walked to the window, looking out at the harbor. “Here's my final offer, Jack. One million euros. A guaranteed seat for three seasons. And a future—a real future, not the scrapheap you were headed for. You take it, and we never speak of this again. Luca's death becomes a tragic accident. The evidence disappears. We all move on.”

“And if I don't?”

Philippe turned. His face had lost all pretense of warmth. “You're already publicly disgraced. The journalist I paid made sure of that. You have no team, no reputation, no allies. If you go to the police, they'll laugh at you. If you go to the press, they'll print whatever I tell them to print. The only thing you have left is my offer.”

Jack stood slowly. His hand went to his pocket, pressing a button on the small transmitter Emile had given him.

“I want the money in an offshore account,” he said. “And I want it tonight.”

Philippe's smile returned, wider this time. “I thought you might see reason. I'll have my people make the arrangements. Give me the USB now, and we'll call it even.”

“The USB stays with me until the money lands.”

“You don't trust me?”

“I trust you about as far as I can throw a Formula One car.”

Philippe chuckled. “Fair enough. You'll have your money within the hour. In the meantime—” He motioned toward the door. “Why don't you stay for a drink? Celebrate your wise decision.”

Jack didn't sit. “I'll celebrate when I can afford my own bottle.”

He walked to the door, his heart pounding so hard he was sure Philippe could hear it. He paused with his hand on the handle.

“One thing,” Jack said. “What happened to the USB Luca had? The real evidence?”

Philippe's expression flickered—just for a moment, a crack in the mask. “What makes you think Luca had a USB?”

“Everyone talks. I just want to know if I'm buying something that's already been stolen.”

Philippe considered him for a long moment. “Luca was clever. He made copies. One we found. One he gave to his brother.” He shrugged. “But Emile is dead, or will be soon, and whatever he had died with him. So we're both safe, aren't we?”

Jack nodded slowly. “We're safe.”

He left the room, walked down the corridor, past the roulette tables and the men in tuxedos and the women in diamonds, and didn't stop until he was in the men's room with the door locked behind him.

He tore open his shirt. The recorder was still blinking red.

He pressed play.

“*I gave an order. There's a difference.*”

The words echoed in the tiled room—Philippe's voice, clear as glass.

Jack let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He had it. The confession, on tape, in his hands. Alain's forged emails would trigger the panic. The USB had the real evidence. And now this—Philippe's own voice admitting to murder.

He pulled out his phone and called Emile.

“I've got it,” Jack said. “He confessed. Everything. The betting ring, the sabotage, Luca—all of it.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then Emile's voice, weak but clear: “You're going to the police?”

“Tonight. Before he can make good on any of his threats.”

“Jack—” Emile coughed. “Be careful. Philippe doesn't make offers he doesn't intend to keep. Even the ones he pretends to make.”

Jack looked at himself in the mirror. A man in a rented suit, a wire taped to his chest, a confession burning in his pocket.

“I'm done being careful,” he said.

He hung up and walked out into the Monaco night. The city glittered around him, beautiful and indifferent, a million lights shining on a million secrets.

Jack had one of his own now.

And he was about to light the fuse.