The Queens warehouse loomed in the darkness, its windows boarded up. Marcus gripped the flashlight in his hand, his tie camera recording everything. Claire walked beside him, her dad's notebook open to a map of the warehouse—Miller had sent it, marked with "possible coke storage" in red.
Sophia waited in the car, two blocks away. "If I don't hear from you in 20 minutes, I'm calling Miller," she'd said, her switchblade in her hand.
They slipped through a gap in the fence, the metal scraping their arms. The warehouse door was unlocked—too easy. Marcus pushed it open, and the smell of plastic and chemicals hit them.
Rows of shipping containers lined the walls. Marcus walked to the nearest one, its door slightly ajar. He shone the flashlight inside—stacked with poker chips, their surfaces glinting.
"Bingo," Claire whispered. She pulled out her phone, taking photos. "These are the ones. Filled with coke."
Marcus reached for a chip, but a voice yelled, "Freeze!"
Cole stood in the doorway, a gun in his hand. Two of Chen's men flanked him, their own guns drawn.
"Thought you'd fall for the trap," Cole said, grinning. "Chen knew you'd come here. He's waiting for you at the tournament. With Raymond."
Marcus's blood ran cold. Raymond. Chen had him again.
Claire stepped forward, her hands raised. "Let us go. The FBI's on their way. Miller knows we're here."
Cole laughed. "Miller's busy. Chen's men are distracting him. By the time he gets here, you'll be dead. And Raymond—he's gonna pay for leaving Chen all those years ago."
Marcus's mind raced. He thought of the chip in his pocket—fake, but heavy enough to throw. He thought of Claire's dad's notebook, of the "fire alarm" trick she'd mentioned.
He nodded at Claire. She understood, reaching for the fire alarm on the wall. She pulled it, and the warehouse filled with a shrill noise.
Cole and his men covered their ears. Marcus threw the chip at Cole's face—hit him square in the eye. Cole yelled, and Marcus tackled him to the ground. The gun slid across the floor, and Claire grabbed it, pointing it at the other men.
"Drop your guns!" she yelled.
The men hesitated, then dropped their weapons. Marcus cuffed Cole with zip ties—stolen from Miller's car—and stood.
"Where's Raymond?" Marcus asked, kicking Cole's gun away.
Cole spat blood. "Chen's office. At the tournament. He's gonna kill him at the final table. For everyone to see."
Marcus's heart raced. The final table was in two hours.
They ran out of the warehouse, jumping into Sophia's car. She hit the gas, and Marcus called Miller.
"Chen has Raymond," he said, his voice tight. "At the Plaza. Final table. He's gonna kill him."
Miller's voice was urgent. "I'm on my way. Keep him busy. Don't let him start the game."
As they drove to the Plaza, Marcus looked at Claire. Her face was pale, but her hands were steady.
"We're gonna get Raymond back," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "And we're gonna stop Chen. For my dad."
Marcus nodded. He thought of Raymond, of his uncle's sacrifices. Of Claire's dad, of the justice he deserved.
The Plaza came into view, its lights glowing. Marcus took a deep breath.
The final table was about to begin.
And this time, they weren't just playing for money. They were playing for lives.