The next morning, Miller's FBI office in Las Vegas smelled like burnt coffee and regret. Marcus sat on a folding chair, the ledger open on the table. Claire stood beside him, her dad's notebook in hand. Miller paced back and forth, his face red.
"Cole's been working with Chen for six months," Miller said, slamming a file down. "He's been feeding Chen info on our raids. Helped him move the cocaine. And now he's gone—off the grid."
Raymond, who'd been quiet since they'd rescued him, spoke up. "He's going to New York. Chen's next game is there. The 'East Coast Showdown'—a high-stakes tournament in Manhattan. He's using it to sell the cocaine to his contacts."
Sophia leaned against the wall, her switchblade tucked in her pocket. "My dad said Chen's been stockpiling chips. Fake ones, filled with coke. He's bringing them to New York in a shipping container."
Marcus closed the ledger. "We need to go to New York. Stop the tournament. Get Cole and Chen."
Miller shook his head. "The FBI can't get a warrant in time. The tournament starts in two weeks. And Claire—you're supposed to start NYU Law next week."
Claire's jaw tightened. "I'll defer. For a week. I need to be there. For my dad."
Miller sighed, rubbing his temples. "Fine. But you go undercover. Marcus—you enter the tournament. Claire—you pose as his manager. Sophia—you keep an eye on the shipping container. Raymond—you stay here. Chen's men are still looking for you."
Raymond protested, but Miller cut him off. "You're too recognizable. Marcus is the only one who can pull this off. He knows Chen's tells. He knows the cheating techniques."
That night, they flew to New York. The city was a maze of neon and noise, nothing like Los Angeles. They checked into a motel in Brooklyn, its walls thin enough to hear the neighbors arguing.
Marcus spent the next three days practicing his cheating techniques. Raymond had sent him a video—how to "palm" a chip (hide it in the palm of his hand) and "switch" it with a real one. "Chen's men will pat you down," Raymond's voice said. "But they won't check your palms. Not if you're good."
Claire helped him memorize Chen's new tells—"My dad wrote that Chen taps his foot when he's bluffing. And he always bets big when he has a flush." She also taught him how to use a tiny camera in his tie—"To record the chips. Prove they're filled with coke."
On the day of the tournament, Marcus put on a black suit—borrowed from Miller—and a tie with the hidden camera. Claire wore a white blouse and a pencil skirt, her dad's notebook in her purse.
The tournament was at the Plaza Hotel, its ballroom transformed into a poker arena. Players in designer suits sat at tables, their faces serious. Marcus scanned the room—Chen was at the final table, talking to a man in a black leather jacket. Cole.
Claire squeezed his arm. "Stay calm. I'll be in the crowd. Signal me if you need help."
Marcus nodded, walking to the registration desk. He handed over the $20,000 buy-in—Miller's money—and took his chips. He walked to the final table, sitting across from Chen.
Chen smiled, his foot tapping the floor—bluffing. "Marcus. Nice of you to join. I thought you'd stay in Los Angeles, hiding behind your uncle."
Marcus grinned, shuffling his chips. "I don't hide. Unlike you—hiding behind Cole and fake agents."
Chen's foot stopped tapping. He dealt the cards. Marcus got a pair of kings. Chen bet $1,000, his foot still still.
Marcus called.
The flop came: king of hearts, 10 of diamonds, 3 of clubs. Three of a kind. Chen bet $5,000, his jaw tight.
Marcus looked at Claire—she was standing by the bar, her hand raised in a "call" signal. He pushed his chips forward. "Call."
The turn was a 5 of spades. Chen bet $10,000. His foot started tapping again—bluffing.
Marcus's heart raced. He looked at the chip in his hand—fake, with a tracking device. He pushed it forward. "All in."
Chen's face darkened. He hesitated, then folded. "Smart," he said, his voice cold.
Cole walked over, leaning against the table. "You're good, kid. But Chen's not done. Not yet."
Marcus stood, glaring at him. "Where's the shipping container? The one with the coke."
Cole laughed. "You'll never find it. Not in time."
He walked away, and Claire joined Marcus. "He's lying," she said. "My dad's notes say Chen uses a warehouse in Queens. Near the docks. We can check it out tonight."
Marcus nodded. He thought of the chips, of the tournament, of Chen's plan.
They had a week. To find the container. To stop Chen. To get justice for Claire's dad.
As they left the Plaza, Marcus looked at Claire. Her face was determined, her eyes bright.
New York was dangerous. Chen was waiting. But they were together.
And this time, they were ready.