Page 33 of Secrets in the Dark

"Front row, center section, seat 5C. He's purchased the ticket under his own name—not even bothering with pretense at this point."

"Cocky bastard," muttered Torres, the youngest member of the team. His busboy uniform hung slightly loose on his athletic frame, concealing a tactical vest beneath.

"Confident, not cocky," I corrected. "There's a difference. Tommy believes he has inside support from security, guaranteedescape routes, and a comprehensive distraction plan. From his perspective, the operation is fully secured."

Wallace, the third server, tapped the backstage area on the schematic. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the room's chill. "What about the civilian? Nova Sinclair?"

"She knows Tommy is targeting her but is unaware of our operation," I explained. "She's implemented her own defensive measures for the performance."

"That complicates things," Torres said, frowning. "Civilians with their own agendas usually do."

"Which is why we're adapting," I replied, moving to the next diagram. "I've arranged to be positioned near Tommy during the performance. If he makes his move against Nova, I'll intercept. Meanwhile, Team Alpha will be securing the financial evidence upstairs."

"And if the civilian interferes with the arrest?" Murphy asked, her dark eyes narrowing.

"She won't," I said with more confidence than I felt. "I've arranged additional safety measures without compromising her cover or ours."

I proceeded to outline the modified tactical approach, incorporating Nova's performance schedule into our timing. The team would maintain standard cover until the code phrase was transmitted: "Queen of Hearts folds."

"At that signal, full tactical protocol activates," I concluded. "Team identifiers will be displayed, verbal commands issued, and targets secured according to priority list. Highest priority remains evidence seizure for RICO prosecution."

"What about Enzo?" Wallace asked, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "If he's Tommy's inside connection, he could complicate the extraction."

"Enzo has been added to the primary target list. Detective Chen has arranged for his access credentials to be quietly restricted at the critical moment. When the operation begins, his master key will mysteriously malfunction."

The team reviewed contingency plans, verified communication channels, and confirmed their individual assignments. In less than twelve hours, one of the largest organized crime operations in Las Vegas would be dismantled—if everything went according to plan.

"One final note," I added as the briefing concluded. "Nova Sinclair is not to be treated as a suspect. Despite her connection to the case, she's a potential victim, not a perpetrator. Her safety is a mission parameter."

Torres exchanged a glance with Wallace but said nothing. They didn't need to. I was well aware that my concern for Celia Marshall transcended professional duty—and that such involvement could compromise mission judgment.

As the team dispersed to their assigned positions, I gathered the schematics and secured them in a maintenance panel that had been converted to a secure drop site months earlier. The careful compartmentalization of information had kept our investigation intact for nearly a year. In less than twelve hours, all those separate pieces would finally come together.

I just had to ensure that Celia wasn't caught in the crossfire when they did.

"Testing. One, two." I tapped the miniature earpiece concealed beneath my collar. "Audio check."

"Clear on this end," Nova's voice came through the matching receiver, slightly tinny but distinct. "Though I'm still not sure why we need these before the show."

We stood in a quiet corner of the backstage area, ostensibly reviewing program details for the evening's special VIP guests. The air hummed with pre-show energy—technicians called instructions to each other, speakers crackled with sound checks, and the distinctive scent of stage makeup and hot electrical equipment created the unique atmosphere of backstage tension.

"Better to confirm functionality now than discover issues during the act," I explained, adjusting my earpiece. "These units have limited battery life."

The earpieces were standard-issue tactical communication devices, not the theatrical models Val typically used. The difference was subtle but significant—these had extended range, encrypted transmission, and direct connectivity to our command center.

"Here," I said, handing her a small flesh-colored device. "This one should be nearly invisible once you position it properly."

She examined it skeptically. "More sophisticated than the ones Val usually uses."

"I have a friend in security," I offered by way of explanation. "He owed me a favor."

Her eyes narrowed slightly—that analytical intelligence that had first drawn me to her evaluating my statement for inconsistencies. "Convenient."

"I'm a dealer at a high-end casino. Connections are part of the job." I kept my tone light, offering a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "May I?"

She hesitated, then nodded. I stepped closer, using the adjustment as an excuse to conduct a final physical assessment. Up close, the strain of the past few days showed in the faint shadows beneath her eyes, partially concealed by stage makeup. Her pulse—visible at the delicate hollow of her throat—ran slightly faster than normal. The midnight-blue of her performance costume made her skin appear luminous under the harsh backstage lighting.

"Turn slightly," I instructed, fingers brushing against her temple as I positioned the earpiece. The touch was professional, but my awareness of her was anything but. The prop room encounter had shattered something fundamental in my professional detachment. I couldn't think of her as just another civilian in the field zone. Not anymore.

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