Cut and Run 3 - Fish and Chips

with lunch,” Norina said, stepping back from Ty slightly but moving to hold his arm as they walked to join Bianchi and Zane at the table. “I will have tea, please.”
    “Tea. Bah. I will have the beer if it is not American,” Bianchi said as he pulled out a chair, looking ready to make himself at home.
    Ty had to hold back a sigh. No more massage for him. But this was why they were here, he told himself, to get information from these people. Not to get laid repeatedly by his partner in a luxury suite. No matter how much that appealed.

Chapter 7

     
    B IANCHI was in high spirits when he joined Zane, Armen, and a few other players in the private lounge. He also carried high spirits—literally. He had a hinged wooden box, and once he set it down, he pulled out an ornate blue and silver bottle and cradled it in the crook of his arm.
    “Gentlemen!” Bianchi greeted expansively. “I come bearing a gift, bought specially with our American friend here in mind.”
    Zane looked from Bianchi to the bottle and back, and his stomach turned. “A gift for me?” he asked, forcing pleasant surprise into his voice.
    “You have told me how you so enjoy the premium Chivas, yes? So I have brought you your own bottle of Regal Royal Salute — although I shall insist you share,” Bianchi said, clearly very pleased with himself.
    Zane silently swallowed on the upset welling in his throat, trying hard to deny he was feeling even the slightest bit panicked. Apparently Corbin Porter had a penchant for fine Scotch whiskey, and damn, Chivas Regal Royal Salute? That was fifty-fucking-year-old Scotch, and only a seriously limited number of bottles had even been made. Bianchi had to have paid a fortune for it… or he’d acquired it in another style of business transaction altogether. “That is such a kind gesture, Signor Bianchi. But I can’t possibly—”
    “Of course you can, and you will! I insist. We are here to enjoy ourselves and celebrate our acquaintance,” Bianchi said. The look in Bianchi’s eyes told Zane that Corbin Porter would never decline such an offer. The sinking feeling intensified as Zane mentally flailed for an exit. There had to be a gracious way to bow out, but as he looked at the other players, all smiling and appreciative, Zane knew there wasn’t.
    A waiter arrived a few moments later with empty tumblers for all the players at the table. Bianchi filled the glasses generously, and when he personally held one out to Zane, Zane knew he was trapped. There was no way to avoid this, short blowing his cover — and Ty’s—over a glass of whiskey.
    He gave Bianchi Corbin’s best full-of-shit grin and raised his glass for the toast to their health even as his stomach roiled.
    Zane hadn’t had a drink, any drink, in almost ten months.
    The first taste of the very expensive Chivas was, well, intoxicating.
     
     
    T Y SAT on the balcony of their suite staring out at the rolling ocean, feet twitching as he hummed a tune he was pretty sure was actually two or three different songs. He was bored. It was only the fourth day of cruising, but other than almost falling off the rock wall the morning before, nothing had happened, and Ty wasn’t in a position to make anything happen.
    He’d spent almost the entire day doing nothing. He supposed that was what some considered a vacation, but it just made him twitchy and nervous.
    He understood the necessity for following the itineraries, but he was really beginning to hate those damn things. After dinner last night, Zane had gone off to a high-stakes poker game with Bianchi, Armen, and several other high rollers, hoping to glean information that could prove useful. Ty wasn’t needed there, and his presence probably would have made the other men wonder. They’d decided it wasn’t worth the risk for him to tag along, and the same applied tonight. And even if they’d been able to contact them, none of the other AWOL team members could be there for backup, either, since it was a private game. Which was another thing that made Ty restless as hell.
    It sort of reminded him of his last float before he’d left the Corps. Knowing there was action elsewhere but stuck in sick bay, useless, with a bullet hole in his shoulder. Then, at least, his chest hadn’t itched where all the hair had been ripped out by organic scented wax.
    He knew it was a self-imposed boredom this time, of course. They were on a cruise ship. It was, by definition, a floating fun house. Only Ty