Cut and Run 3 - Fish and Chips

them so far.
    Dolce released his shoulder, and Ty felt himself waver. The railing was thick enough to stop him, though, and his feet hit the deck with a thump as the man dug into his pocket for the iPod. When Dolce pulled it out, the two men backed away, letting Ty’s knees go weak. Again.
    “Do not forget who you are working for,” Gabbana said as he slid his weapon back into the folds of his coat. Ty resisted the urge to ask the man to remind him.
    “We shall be in touch,” Dolce said almost cordially, and then the two men turned and left him alone, slumped at the railing and breathing hard. He put his hand to his lip, wiped blood away from it, and looked down at it on his fingers.
    “I hate this fucking case,” he murmured to himself.
     
     
    A GOOD two hours after Ty’s interruption, Zane tucked a credit slip for a modest amount of money into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He’d pretty much broken even at the table with Armen, Bianchi, and two other high rollers on vacation, staying enough to the positive that he’d not been able to shoehorn in an excuse to leave until now.
    He’d used the time to study his supposed business partners, looking for tells and nervous twitches, tracking how much they won and how much they lost. Bianchi was eternally jovial and content, a personality quirk that almost took its toll on Zane’s patience. Armen was quite the opposite, approaching somber, even after winning a hand. He was not delightful company.
    Zane knew Armen had been watching him carefully; he’d been particularly attentive when Ty had shown up. Zane had been on a roll at the point, having won three hands in a row, and a whining spouse seeking attention simply wouldn’t register as important to a high roller.
    Despite his show otherwise, the problem had registered with Zane after the fact. Ty just didn’t get that agitated without reason. But Zane had not been concerned until after he’d summarily dismissed Ty. At the time, he’d been more focused on the job, on getting Bianchi or Armen to talk about themselves or their mutual business than he had been on his partner’s state of mind.
    So now he walked out of the casino, forcing himself to make his way casually back to their cabin as he grew more and more worried. The warmth of the expensive Scotch lapped through him, making everything around him false and bright. Zane had nursed the first glass as long as he could, but there had been a second, and a third, and then it had been too late. He could still taste it now, the burn of the ultra-premium liquor on his tongue and at the back of his throat.
    Seeing Ty had gotten Zane’s attention, and he’d consciously stopped emptying his glass. But it had been long enough since his last fall from grace that his tolerance had suffered. He knew how to operate under the influence in the line of duty; it just couldn’t be avoided in the alcohol-soaked underworld. He’d already slipped into that cold and detached state of mind before Ty had arrived, and Zane hadn’t even recognized it. It was like sliding on an old, comfortable disguise, and remembering Ty’s earlier words about his drinking, Zane was worried now.
    Even through the worry, Zane felt the relief and succor of the alcohol, the allure that welcomed him, called to him. In the past, alcohol had given him an edge, and it still burned in him, allowed him to slough off the nerves and distractions and brought the most important things into focus. Zane knew himself when he was deep into the drink while undercover. He’d spent too many years living it not to appreciate it. He’d also learned how destructive it could be. How destructive he could be under the influence.
    The concern for Ty ate at him as he left the promenade, rode up the elevator, and entered the hallway leading to their stateroom. Zane had thought at the time he was handling the situation the right way; now he wasn’t so sure.
    When Zane entered their cabin, he found the place entirely upended. His heart skipped a few beats, and instinctively he dug under his shirt at the small of his back and drew his gun. He shut the door without a sound and silently made his way into the dimly lit room. Suitcases lay turned upside down and emptied, their possessions scattered all over the floor. The mattress was hanging off the bed and still cocked sideways, the bedcovers a shambles. The pillows of the couches littered the floor, and the doors to the balcony stood open. Either Ty had thrown