This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2015

  A Kindle Scout selection

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ALSO BY WILLIAM BERNHARDT

  The Ben Kincaid Novels

  Primary Justice

  Blind Justice

  Deadly Justice

  Perfect Justice

  Cruel Justice

  Naked Justice

  Extreme Justice

  Dark Justice

  Silent Justice

  Murder One

  Criminal Intent

  Death Row

  Hate Crime

  Capitol Murder

  Capitol Threat

  Capitol Conspiracy

  Capitol Offense

  Capitol Betrayal

  Other Novels

  Nemesis: The Final Case of Eliot Ness

  Dark Eye

  Strip Search

  Double Jeopardy

  The Midnight Before Christmas

  The Code of Buddyhood

  Final Round

  Nonfiction

  Story Structure: The Key to Successful Fiction

  Creating Character: Bringing Your Story to Life

  Perfecting Plot: Charting the Hero’s Journey

  Dynamic Dialogue: Letting Your Story Speak

  Sizzling Style: Every Word Matters

  Poetry

  The White Bird

  For young readers

  Shine

  The Black Sentry

  Princess Alice and the Dreadful Dragon

  Equal Justice: The Courage of Ada Sipuel

  Edited by William Bernhardt

  Legal Briefs: Stories by Today’s Best Thriller Writers

  Natural Suspect: A Collaborative Novel of Suspense

  For Lara

  CONTENTS

  Start Reading

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  Part Two Every Move Has Consequences

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  Part Three It’s How You Play the Game

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  Part Four Endgame

  79

  80

  81

  82

  83

  84

  85

  86

  87

  88

  89

  90

  91

  92

  93

  94

  95

  96

  97

  98

  99

  100

  101

  102

  103

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than in a year of conversation.”

  Plato

  1

  Las Vegas

  Cn smone pls help? Thy wnt 2 DELETE me!

  It took Kadey twice the usual time to get that message out. Almost impossible to text when your thumbs slide across the translucent iPhone screen. Her sweaty hands could barely hold on to it. Maybe Twitter was not the best way to send a cry for help. But it was all she had at the moment. Calling the police would be futile. Calling a friend would sign their death warrant.

  She doubted her tweet would reach anyone in time. She didn’t expect a flash-mob rescue. Because even now, when there were so many unanswered questions, there was one fact about which she was certain.

  She did not have much time left.

  But she wouldn’t give up. Her mother always said she was a fighter. That was her life mantra, even now. Her mother always supported her. Even when she decided against a career in mathematics to pursue something that brought her perilously close to what Mom called “the wrong side of the family.” But The Platform made her an irresistibly generous offer. Computer programming for military contracts seemed like a fine idea. At the time.

  Less so now.

  She ducked into an alleyway, gasping for breath. She couldn’t see anyone behind her, but she didn’t let that delude her into believing no one was there. If she didn’t do something fast, she would disappear, just like the others. She pushed her hair off her sweaty forehead, tucking it behind her ear.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Something black and shadowy darted out of view. The harsh glare of a streetlamp burned her eyes.

  Something had been there. Something that was not there now.

  Something hidden. Or hiding.

  She’d been kidnapped once before, held against her will for what seemed an eternity. She would not survive it a second time. So she ran.

  Did David have time to download the files? She couldn’t be sure. After she heard the gunshot, she bolted. And now she raced down rain-slicked streets, breathless, every nerve on fire.

  She smacked up against a chain-link fence, hoisted herself to the top, and vaulted over it. Her black turtleneck snagged on a wire twist, tearing. She hit the pavement on the other side hard, her knees slamming into her chin. Thank goodness for air shoes. An essential part of the savvy girl’s burglar outfit.

  She threw another glance over her shoulder. She didn’t see anyone. If she could make it home, she had a chance.

  She raced through another alley and emerged on Fremont Street, gritting her teeth. She could no longer hide in the shadows. Not if she wanted to get home. She would have to chance the neon glare of tourist Vegas.

  They wouldn’t try anything in public. With so many potential witnesses.

  Would they?

  She bolted out of the alley. The glitz of Vegas’s newest hot spot immersed her in harsh white light, a hint of enriched ozone, the smell of money, and noise, noise, noise. Crowds spilled into the streets, loud and merry, or at least pretending to be. Alcohol could only take you so far, and she knew that, statistically speaking, most of these people were losing money they had worked hard to earn.

  She turned sideways, edging her way through the crowd. Progress was difficult, but anyone following her would be slowed as well. Maybe more than she. Easier for one camel to pass through the eye of a needle than an entire caravan . . .

  She knew she should focus on navigating the mass of bodies, but she paused long enough to glance behind her. In the sea of faces, one stood out from the others.

  Because she’d seen it before.

  Scream, she thought. Surely someone would help. Or would her cries be lost in the revelry, mistaken for one of the screams of excitement and delight? She had to get to her apartment. Then she would be safe. She could get on her computer and use its encrypted line to get the word out, global. Take it viral. Stop them before—

  Someone moving much too fast slammed into her from the left. She spun sideways, careening against the flow of traffic. A burly man with a sandy buzzcut and Jack Daniels cologne collided with her. She pitched forward, face first toward the pavement.

  She fell on her hands, scraping them in the process. The raw skin of her palms burned from the grit. Boots and stilettoes pounded down all around her. She tucked her hands close to protect them from further damage.

  Keep your head together, she told herself. Once you’ve made it to home plate, you’re safe. But you can’t rest until—

  She heard a voice beside her, an urgent rasping whisper. “Don’t move. Not if you want to live.”

  Her entire body tensed. He had her. And there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. She would be deleted and—

  “Take it easy. I’m a doctor. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t hurt. If you aren’t careful in this crowd, you’ll get trampled. It’s dangerous out here, especially when you aren’t too steady on your feet. If you want to survive, let me help you.� ��

  “You’re a doctor? Prove it.”

  The elderly man adjusted his eyeglasses. “How? You want to see my stethoscope?”

  She tried to shift her paranoia into low gear. He was only being kind. “I’m fine.”

  “Probably. But you should still take it easy.” He helped her sit up.

  “I’ll be okay.” She looked around. Any interaction with this man might put him in danger. “I’m sorry. I can see that you’re trying to help me. But I have to leave.”

  “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” He looked at her like she was drunk or crazy, speaking slowly as if to a child. He had no idea the danger he faced merely by attempting to assist her.

  She struggled to her feet and backed away from him, navigating in reverse through the mob. She knew she wasn’t handling this well, wasn’t thinking clearly. But she had to get to her apartment. Once she had a locked door behind her, she’d be able to work it all out. What happened to David. What to do next.

  She reached the edge of the main drag, leaving the hotels and casinos behind. Her sticky clothes clung to her like a polyethylene bag, tight and suffocating.

  She swerved onto the street that led to her apartment. She could see the front door just ahead. She was going to make it.

  She rounded the curve to her complex. She didn’t slow until she was almost at her apartment’s front door. She stopped, leaning against the wall, catching her breath, fumbling for her keys. She pushed open the door and plunged inside, slamming the door behind her, double-locking and bolting it. After ripping the books off the hall bookshelf and dumping them in a pile on the floor, she dragged the heavy case across the room and pressed it against the door. Then she shoved a towel under the crack. Let’s see someone get through that, she thought. Check and mate, you bastards.

  She went to her computer and opened her browser. She would blanket the Internet. Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, every bulletin board she knew. Maybe a Skype alert posted on YouTube. She would spread the word so far and wide that no amount of cover-up would be sufficient. She would stay locked up in here until she knew it was safe to emerge. She didn’t care how long it took. She started typing—

  “Katherine?”

  She jumped out of her chair, pressing the Enter key by reflex. “How did you get in?”

  Two arms reached out of the darkness and threw her to the floor, then pulled her arms back and snapped a pair of handcuffs around her wrists. She screamed and struggled but he was much too strong for her. His movements were precise and unrelenting, like a machine.

  He held her down against the carpet and wrapped a large metal collar around her neck, then closed it with a heavy click. She knew she could never break it open, even if her hands were free. He attached a heavy chain to one end of the collar.

  “Don’t do this,” she said. “Please.”

  “I have no choice.”

  He jerked the chain, dragging her across the room. She squirmed and tried to lock her legs around passing furniture. He was too fast and too strong.

  “You have a choice,” she said, gasping. “Everyone has a choice. Everyone has free will.”

  “Not in this world. But perhaps, in the next.” He placed a mask over her face. She began to lose consciousness. “I must fulfill my programming.”

  2

  Cn smone pls help? Thy wnt 2 DELETE me!

  Smone has to stp ths be4its 2 l8. Evythng s about 2 chng &

  Special Agent Palmer stared at the computer monitor. “That’s how it ends?”

  Greenstreet nodded. “Not a letter more. And it’s been twelve hours. She didn’t show up for work.”

  “And you think . . . ?”

  “They say she and David Bishop were good buddies. And you know what happened to him.”

  He leaned back in his chair and inhaled the swill they called coffee. His day never really started until the third mug. “You searched her apartment?”

  “We did. And get this. When we arrived, the bookshelf was pressed against the front door. And there was a towel under the door. Windows shut. Took us forever to get in.”

  “And the girl?”

  “Gone.”

  “How could she exit but leave the shelf leaning against the door?”

  “Exactly. But that’s not what disturbs me most.”

  “What does?”

  Greenstreet pointed at the screen. “She didn’t use all her characters. She was desperate for help, but she left characters unused. Why?”

  Palmer shrugged. “Premature emission?”

  “She would’ve sent a second message. She would’ve tweeted all night long. If she could.” Greenstreet turned off the monitor. “She never got the chance.”

  “You think she’s . . . gone?”

  “Like the others. Deleted.”

  3

  “Ladies and gentleman, let’s hear it for the final two.”

  BB stepped in front of his opponent and spread wide his arms. Applause thundered through the exhibition area. He grinned and waved, completely overshadowing poor Druktenis. Why not? He saw no reason for modesty. Making it this far was an impressive accomplishment, even without considering everything else he’d done this year. He was minutes away from clinching an unprecedented Triple Crown.

  Besides, women loved the cocky-bastard routine. They all wanted the bad boy.

  He glanced up at the tall tiers of spectators encircling the playing table. Not an empty seat up there. He knew most of the rubberneckers were rooting for him. Why not acknowledge it? Humbleness would not fit well with his image as the Keith Richards of games. His esteemed predecessor, Tommy Angelo, once said, “The best way to play poker is to act like Jesus but play like the devil.” BB thought he got it backwards.

  He grabbed the microphone. “I just want to thank all the fans who brought me here. I couldn’t have done it without your support. This is for you!”

  The room erupted with cheers. He blew kisses with both hands, which provoked a tumult of squealing and delight. He raced around the periphery of the circle, slapping hands as he passed. A young woman who couldn’t have been more than eighteen pressed a slip of paper into his hand. He didn’t have to look to know it was her phone number.

  “Can I have your autograph?”

  The requests came from so many directions he couldn’t identify the sources. A dozen pens materialized in his path. He dodged them and kept moving.

  “Sorry, ladies. Not now. Gotta stay in the zone.”

  He raced on, then heard a tiny voice behind him. “But it’s for my mother.”

  BB stopped short, pivoted, grabbed the pen. He scribbled his name across the front of the program. As he handed it back, he made eye contact. “You take care of your mother, sweetheart.”

  She grabbed the program and clutched it to her heart.

  BB kept running until he made it to his seat. Yes, he’d managed to make every woman for miles around adore him.

  Except the one he loved most. Her contempt was a gaping wound no doctor could dress.

  Truth was, he liked the game, not the fame. But he had learned there were advantages to a high profile, especially when you wanted to supplement prize winnings with lucrative endorsement contracts and the sale of concessions.

  The problem was, the longer he was in the spotlight, the greater the chance someone would learn his secret. And if that happened, the fifteen minutes of fame allotted to “BB” would come to a crashing halt. As if he had never existed.

  Because in a very real way, he never had.

  The overhead klieg lights were strong enough to make him wish he’d brought sunglasses. They made keeping his poker-faced sangfroid all the more challenging. He could not afford to squint or sweat.

  A reporter jabbed a microphone into his face. “BB, I’m Emily Martinez-Smith, ESPN. Can you answer a few questions?”

  She was pretty enough, in that Plasticine way most reporters were, but he preferred to prep for the game without media interference. He knew their involvement made the million-and-a-half purse possible. But he didn’t appreciate anything that affected the purity of the game.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Do you think you’re going to win?”

  “Of course I’m going to win. I’m the Game Master.”

  The crowd cheered.

  “Gary Druktenis has been playing longer than you have.”

  “So had the reigning champ at the SCRABBLE nationals. So had the top-seeded North American chess player. Didn’t matter. I am the Master.”

  The reporter smiled. He gave her what she wanted, and she was grateful. How grateful? he wondered. “What’s next for the Master? Are there any mountains you haven’t scaled yet?”

 

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