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Chapter 9 - chapter 9-“Operation Loaded Dice”

Exactamente tres semanas.

Veintiún días. Quinientas cuatro horas. Treinta mil doscientos cuarenta minutos. No es que estuviera contando... (¬_¬)

Está bien, sí, lo estaba.

El viaje a Las Vegas ya no era un sueño. Era una realidad respirando en mi cuello. Tenía un nombre falso, boletos impresos y una mochila llena de más ideas ilegales que un episodio de Better Call Saul.

Tony estaba sentado en mi cama, con aspecto sospechoso. Mi Shark Logbook estaba abierto, un mapa de Nevada yacía en el suelo y una carpeta llena de gráficos que podrían hacer llorar a un contador fiscal.

—"¿Finalmente me vas a decir qué diablos estamos haciendo realmente?" Preguntó Tony, con una mezcla de miedo, sospecha y "Voy a terminar en la cárcel antes de cumplir los 18 años".

Respiré hondo. Es hora de ser honesto. Pozo... relativamente honesto.

—"Tony... vamos a Las Vegas".

—"Sí, lo sé. Lo que no sé es por qué. Nadie viaja 900 millas para una 'feria de ciencias'. Ni siquiera si estuvieras creando una vacuna para la estupidez humana".

—"Técnicamente, la estupidez no tiene cura", respondí, señalando un gráfico de barras titulado "Tasa de éxito de las apuestas estratégicas legales (1988-1990)".

Tony se quedó en silencio. Lo miró todo. El cuaderno. Los números. La lista de peleas. Las fechas. Las casas de apuestas. Incluso los nombres de los oponentes de Tyson con mis notas como: "carisma de un pez muerto", "gran gancho de izquierda pero mandíbula de cristal", "huele a KO en el segundo asalto"...

—"George... ¿De dónde sacaste todo esto?"

Me rasqué el cuello. Luego me senté frente a él, lo miré a los ojos.

—"Está bien. Te lo voy a contar todo. Pero prométeme que no gritarás ni saldrás corriendo agitando un cartel que diga 'Sociópata certificado'(._.)".

Tony levantó una ceja.

—"Depende de lo que digas".

—"Bastante justo."

Saqué una hoja doblada y se la mostré. Un número: $33,000.

—"¿Qué es esto?"

—"Mi capital".

—"¿Tu qué?"

—"Mi capital inicial para Las Vegas. Fondos base para el Proyecto Tiburón".

—"No. No. No. ¿¡Cómo diablos tienes treinta y tres mil dólares !?"

Me levanté, fui al armario y saqué la caja. Esa caja de madera con todo dentro. Billetes doblados, pilas ocultas, sobres con nombres falsos... y un cupón de Domino's Pizza vencido.

—"George... ¿Es esto real? ¿Desde cuándo?"

Tragué saliva.

—"Mira. Fue un proceso. Primero, tomé $ 20,000 del cajón secreto de papá mientras estaba cazando ese fin de semana".

(ಥ_ಥ) ← mi alma en ese momento

—"¿¡QUÉ!?"

—"Relájate. Técnicamente no fue un robo. Fue una transferencia 🫣 de cuenta intrafamiliar no autorizada"

—"¿¡ESTÁS LOCO!?"

—"Posiblemente. Pero el resto, los $ 13,000, los pasé por más ... medios creativos".

Tony me miró como si acabara de confesar que vendía órganos por correo.

—"¿Creativo cómo?"

—"Low-risk bets with high knowledge. I used my brothers as undercover agents: we sold garage stuff, resold collectible toys, I manipulated Jerry into joining neighborhood chess tournaments with side bets…"

—"You manipulated Jerry!?"

—"Jerry didn't notice. He thought he was doing it for the honor of the family. (•‿•)"

—"George…"

—"I also infiltrated poker games among neighborhood dads and sold test answers to the Thursday kids. Very organized. I actually have a spreadsheet."

—"You're thirteen, man."

—"And I have 33,000 reasons to act like I'm thirty."

(⌐■_■)

Tony collapsed onto the bed like he had just run an emotional marathon.

—"And now what?"

—"Invest. Bet smart. Use what we know. This isn't playing for fun. It's a surgical strike on the system. If we win —and the odds say we will— we could double or triple the money. Enough to pay for college."

Tony looked at me like I was Elon Musk with acne.

—"College? You're still on that?"

—"Yes. Medicine at Harvard. Law at Yale. Or both at Harvard if they accept me into the experimental track. Not impossible. Technically improbable… but you know how I think."

—"Yeah. That 'improbable' means 'possible with coffee and madness.'"

—"Exactly. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)"

Tony went quiet. I saw it —he was nervous.

—"George… if this goes wrong, I'll have to sell my workshop."

—"You have a workshop?"

—"I'll have to get one just to sell it! (╥﹏╥)"

—"Relax. Trust me. I'm betting on stats, history, analysis and... well, that Tyson doesn't have a cold that day."

Tony sighed. Then smiled.

—"If this goes wrong, I might have to sell a kidney."

—"Which one? Left?"

—"Nah, that one's already spoken for by the Korean mafia."

We looked at each other. And for the first time, we laughed. Nervously. Fearfully. With adrenaline.

But we laughed.

---

A week passed. Seven full days since I dropped the bomb on Tony.

The result?

Fourteen strategy meetings.

Twelve draft cover stories.

And one conversation with a guy named Rodríguez who sold busted cars with clean papers.

—"What if we go by bus?" Tony asked while we ate cereal with orange juice —breakfast of champions.

—"Impossible. The bus crosses five state checkpoints. I want to avoid someone asking why two teens are traveling alone with a backpack full of cash and stat books. Plus, I don't want a sweaty guy sleeping on my shoulder for twelve hours."

—"You're right… the car was the better option."

And so was born our beauty: a 1973 Chevy Nova, brown with green paint stains. A rusted gem with more personality than safety.

—"You sure this thing won't fall apart halfway?" Tony asked while checking the trunk.

—"I inspected it myself," I lied with a smile.

Spoiler: I didn't. (✧≖‿ゝ≖)

Also… when you turn left, the horn honks. Nobody knows why. Maybe it's protesting.

Next came the hard part: convincing my family.

My dad was in the living room, cleaning his favorite shotgun. My mom was ironing a shirt with enough anger to erase her entire youth. Jerry played with a broken calculator and my youngest brother watched cartoons.

Tony patted my back.

—"Your turn, genius."

—"Thanks for the emotional pressure," I muttered.

I walked to the dining room like I was stepping into the ring. Cleared my throat.

—"Dad… Mom… I need to talk to you."

Dad didn't even look up.

—"What did you do?"

—"Nothing illegal… yet."

They both looked at me. Honesty point unlocked.

—"Tony and I got accepted to a regional academic fair in Nevada," I started, pulling out some carefully crafted fake documents printed at school (thank you, tech club).

—"Nevada?" Mom raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that, like… super far?"

—"Yeah. That's why we're driving." (Insert dramatic silence here.)

Dad stood up slowly, as if debating whether to hug me or shoot me.

—"Where'd you get a car?"

—"Uncle Larry is lending us his old Chevy," Tony answered flawlessly.

(Spoiler: Uncle Larry doesn't exist.)

—"And why not travel with a teacher?" Mom pressed, FBI mode activated.

—"Because it's an advanced selection fair. Solo projects only. Each student presents independently and handles their own logistics."

Dad scratched his chin.

—"What's your project, George?"

I handed him a page titled: "Applied Statistics in Games of Chance: An Ethical and Mathematical Analysis."

Mom gave me the "games of what?" look.

—"Look, Mom… it's not about gambling. It's about how human behavior affects risk decisions, and how statistics can reduce uncertainty. A totally academic angle."

Jerry nodded emphatically.

—"Sounds super scientific."

I winked at him. I had promised my full G.I. Joe collection in exchange for support.

—"How long is this event?" Dad asked.

—"Four days, plus two travel days. We'll be back in a week."

Mom grabbed the page and examined it with suspicion. She looked at the stamps.

—"And these stamps?"

—"From a dot-matrix printer we use in the science club. Educational tech. Very cutting edge. Very '90s."

(Long words: 1. Suspicion: 0.)

They looked at each other. Mom sighed.

—"I don't like this."

—"Me neither," Dad replied.

—"But if Uncle Larry is driving and you have everything in order…" she added, "...I trust you won't do anything stupid."

Laughter in the background (╯°□°)╯︵ ┻━┻

—"Nothing stupid," I said, fingers crossed behind my back.

Once outside the dining room, Tony looked at me in awe.

—"I can't believe that worked."

—"Welcome to the power of white lies —Shark Edition. 🦈"

---

That night, the real prep began.

Tony bought used formal clothes to "look serious" in case we needed to enter somewhere legal.

I created three different envelopes with cash: one for betting, one for emergencies, and one labeled "emergency escape if all goes to hell."

We also rehearsed improvisation scenarios.

—"If a cop asks why we're going to Vegas," I said during practice, "what do you say?"

—"'To proudly represent our academic institution and apply the scientific method in a competitive regional environment.'"

—"Perfect. Now say it with a Texas accent."

—"What!?"

—"You never know when you'll meet a conservative highway patrol. Better be prepared."

We even created Plan B, C, and D.

Plan B: pretend we're lost and make up a family emergency to get a ride back.

Plan C: destroy the papers and say we were kidnapped.

Plan D: sell the car and take a train in the opposite direction until we reach Canada.

—"What if it all goes wrong and we win nothing?" Tony asked one night, while counting our last dollars.

—"Then we learn. But don't worry. The odds are in our favor. And besides…"

—"Besides?"

—"I already sold my soul a long time ago."

—"To whom?"

—"Not sure… but there's this guy in Albuquerque I like. Maybe in another life, he teaches me chemistry."

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