Page 137 of Stealing Blinds

It’s then that I notice the raucous commotion filtering into my ear from the wine cellar and from Axel and Zara. The Noires are wreaking havoc, and I’m holding my breath.

Six minutes.

Almost there.

Welcome, Dominion increases my hunch that Peter and the keyholders are Kratos. That would be the original meaning from the Greek root.

Five minutes.

Since I’m alone in this room with my thoughts, bits and pieces of conversations I’ve had start to flit through my mind. Mainly Peter’s.

“Your father and I had some associates in common. Our connections went way back, like a six-degrees-of-separation thing. We ran in the same circles, had similar interests, parallel goals, but I only knew of him. By the time I was more involved with the associates he’d worked with, he was gone. But everything conveyed about him revealed that he was … impressive. It was a loss.”

There’s a whisper in my mind, insisting that’s important.

Four minutes.

Each second stretches into what feels like eternity. While I’m waiting, I scour the files to see what the importance of this information is.

It allows me to open the primary file, which is similar to an address book. There are countless names, lists of transgressions, codes and contacts and time with the organization. I sift through it, attempting to grab ahold of whatever I can.

“Tango Texas has been called to his room,” Wells announces, referring to Peter Fairfax since he’s from San Antonio.

No more names. We’re all being more cautious in the eleventh hour.

While Zara stood as a formidable lookout, Tessa ransacked Peter’s room. Cash had swiped Peter’s neighbor’s key card at breakfast and passed it to her. The balconies were close enough that she was able to climb over. She didn’t take anything, not even the dummy USB key that I’d left behind at Peter’s residence when I stole the real one.

The entire ruse was simply so we were all accounted for at the time of speculation. It will be clear this evening, when the USB keys don’t work, that someone tampered with them. With Peter’s room having been ransacked, it should appear as though the keys were switched today—while I was with him and all the Noires were present in the main resort. So, hopefully, no one suspects us. Of course, since Peter knows my past, he might speculate anyway.

“Where are we on time?” Liam presses.

“Three minutes,” I mutter, though my thoughts are firmly embedded in what I’m reading.

“Eyes on all four of my tangos,” Gage reports.

“Security has scattered,” Ty says. “One tango unaccounted for.”

Cash, Maddox, Jax, and Tatum continue to unleash mayhem in the wine cellar with security attempting to coax them out. It has all the makings of billionaire mischief, so the guards are probably more annoyed than alarmed. I’d laugh if I wasn’t preoccupied.

I move through the names, initially catching Beatrice Shaeffer and Elliot Spencer.

Then Nigel Dryden.

E is in here too? Does he know that? Why would he be lumped in with the people he’s robbing?

I can’t make sense of it, until I do. “It’s a coup.”

“Say again,” Wells orders.

“It’s a coup,” I repeat. “They’re all in here. Well”—I search for Peter, to no avail—“not all, but both sides. There is no X.”

I have no idea whether my cryptic code is discernible, but by the exasperation that follows, I think it is.

“Fuck,” Liam hisses.

It is both the mother lode and a death sentence.

Two minutes.