The Island Deception

Chapter 1

The Call of Magic

The more time you spend lying to people, the more you think about what truth really means.

—Art of Illusion, September 5

Quinn Bradley had finally arrived.

For twenty-six years, he’d dreamed of seeing his name in the neon lights of the Las Vegas Strip. Of taking the stage at a major casino there, and joining the ranks of magic’s elite. Siegfried and Roy, David Copperfield, Penn and Teller. He’d worked his ass off to get here. Designing his own tricks, performing seven nights a week, building his profile online and onstage.

Even so, as he waited in the shadowy alcove backstage, he fingered the stone pendant on a necklace under his shirt and wished he were more excited about it. Quick fingers and cleverness had taken him a long way, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever have made it happen without help from CASE Global Enterprises. Kiara had made good on her promise, and suddenly Rudy Fortelli was calling—nearly panting with excitement—to tell him that a major casino had a slot open. Just a one-night engagement, but still a big deal. Quinn hadn’t even asked what they were offering to pay—he’d just cashed one hell of a big check anyway.

It was the Bellagio, of course. The most iconic casino of them all, the home of Cirque du Soleil and countless other top-notch acts. He should have known. CASE Global never went in for anything but the best.

And now that includes me, I guess.

Quinn? a woman asked.

Her voice was quiet, but he’d know the accent anywhere. Veena! I’ll be damned.

Veena Chaudri was five-foot-two, slender, and as well-dressed as Quinn had ever seen her. Usually she was in period-matched Alissian garb, or a lab coat, but now she was a sight to behold. She’d pinned up her hair with a glittering silver barrette, and wore a silver cocktail dress with matching heels. The dress was Armani, and worth a small fortune, but Veena probably didn’t even know. That made the whole thing seem effortless, and the newly official head of CASE Global’s secret research initiative probably didn’t even realize how good she looked.

She offered her hand, but Quinn hugged her instead.

Damn, it’s good to see you. He meant it, too. They’d only been apart a few weeks. Six months ago, he hadn’t even known her. I guess we bonded over that whole fleeing-reptilian-predators thing.

Likewise, she said. And it looks like you’re doing well. She gestured toward the stage, where the buzz of the audience had begun to grow.

He winked. I’m getting by. But I’m glad you came.

It’s on business, I’m afraid.

Oh, perfect. And right before he went on, too. Couldn’t the lieutenant have just called?

She said you weren’t answering your phone.

Damn right I wasn’t. He’d been swamped getting ready for the show, and Kiara would only have added to the stress. I’m not due back for another couple of weeks.

Yes, well. It’s a big crowd out there.

Is it? Thank God. He shook himself and rubbed his arms. I was afraid to look. Afraid he’d see a wide field of empty seats.

That kind of exposure makes the executives a bit nervous.

Why? It’s not like I’m high on the CASE Global totem pole. Negotiating level-ten security clearance had barely made a difference. Chaudri’s had moved up as well, though, which put Quinn at the bottom by a wide margin.

She asked me to remind you of the, uh . . . She leaned close and lowered her voice. Nondisclosure agreements.

He laughed. Is that why they sent you? I thought stern intimidation was Logan’s department. The big man would have said it all with a single look.

He’s otherwise occupied, Chaudri said.

Did they find the Swedish guy? he asked.

Only his boat. He made the mainland, but Mendez is hot on his trail. She looked away, and grimaced.

She’s worried. A pinpoint of cold uneasiness began to form in Quinn’s gut. Veena, has something happened?

She glanced around, and bit her lower lip. The news from over there, about my former mentor . . . let’s just say it has everyone concerned.

Concerned was an understatement, if they’d sent Veena all the way up here. Jesus. What’s he done now?

You’ll be briefed on-site. Kiara wants you there as soon as possible.

I can fly down in the morning.

It surprised him a little how quickly he’d agreed. Normally, he didn’t like to jump when Kiara said to, but the idea of being near the gateway again excited him. Maybe even more than where I’m about to go on, and that’s saying something.

Chaudri’s face lit up. Really? That would be wonderful.

A chime sounded, a polite warning from the theater manager.

That’s my cue, Quinn said.

Chaudri swallowed, and the whites of her eyes showed. I suppose I should give you some time alone. Are you ready for this?

To hear my name announced on the Vegas Strip? He flashed her a grin. Been ready my whole life.

A real up-and-comer, ladies and gentlemen, said the emcee. The British accent gave it a gentry feel, like this was the House of Lords and Quinn their newest member. He fought the grin that wanted to come. He needed to focus. Not new to the Las Vegas scene, but just revealed as the mind behind ‘Art of Illusion.’

Ah, the blog.

True to their word, the company had kept it up while he’d been away on private assignment. He felt oddly ambivalent about it. On one hand, the principles of illusion had saved his life a half dozen times in Alissia. On the other, they felt different. Before he’d taken that job, before he’d seen the other world, pulling off a perfect illusion felt like a jolt of electricity. Now, the thrill felt incomplete. It was like taking the second-best roller coaster in the park while hearing people scream on the best one.

Then again, now wasn’t the time to dwell on disappointment.

Here he is, everyone. Quinn Thomas!

Quinn strode out into the spotlights as the emcee said his stage name. Command presence was everything in this business, so he had to own it. Big grin and wave for the audience. Enthusiastic handshake for the emcee. Deep, calming breath while he took measure of the crowd . . .

Sweet Jesus, that’s a lot of people.

The inside of the theater loomed as large as a sports arena. Stained-glass windows lined the walls; brightly colored murals plastered the lofty ceilings. Even the marks were high quality. No one in the first few rows appeared visibly inebriated, which was a pleasant change. The money showed in a hundred other ways: the tailored suits and cocktail dresses. The champagne glasses. The glitter of gold and silver jewelry. This was the cream of the Vegas crop, and all here to see him.

This is my shot. He’d worked his ass off to get here. Fought tooth and nail against impossible odds—literally fought, in the past few months, at least. If he screwed up now, all of that was for nothing. And hell, part of him wondered if it was all for nothing.

The lights hit him.

No . . . this is totally worth it.

Ladies and gentlemen, he said. The sound system carried his voice to the highest balconies, but didn’t echo. Didn’t even vibrate. I’ve been away for six months, getting ready for the trick you’re about to see tonight. That was a half-truth. In the last six months, he’d also fled from dragons, gotten himself kidnapped, and set a man on fire. Now there’s a story that might wow them as much as any illusion. But what he’d planned was impressive, so pride—and a touch of ego—won out.

But let’s work our way up to that, shall we? I like to start small. He snapped his fingers and made a coin appear. A gold coin, polished to a high shine. The cameramen had instructions to zoom in for this part. This is a five-dollar piece. Current market value, about three hundred bucks.

He walked it end-over-end across the fingers of one hand, and then the other. He flicked it up in the air. The gold sang with a lovely, high-pitched hum before he caught it.

Sometimes when you come to Vegas, money has a way of . . . disappearing. He opened his fingers, and the coin was gone. Barely a flicker of interest from the audience. Wow, tough crowd.

He kept his smile on. That’s not the dream, though, is it? He brought his hands together and rubbed them like he was trying to start a fire. You walk into a casino, and you want to double your money. He parted his hands, and now there were two gold coins. He rubbed them together again. Maybe you want to triple it. Now there were three, and the audience was warming up; a few of them even put down their phones. You can never go wrong with gold.

Or, you bet big. He stacked the coins up on his palm. Now there were four, though most of the spectators couldn’t tell. This is the Bellagio, ladies and gentlemen. You go big. He swept his hand over the stack of coins. Now they were house casino chips. Bright yellow with red and black. A thousand bucks each. He threw them up in the air. They caught fire and burned up, leaving only wisps of smoke behind. Quinn held out his empty hands. Or you go home.

That won him a nice round of applause. He kept them going with some up-close magic: card tricks, cups and balls, pulling a watermelon out of a hat. He used the emcee for an assistant on that last part. The guy had a British accent and the polish of a veteran showman. He and Quinn played perfectly off of one another. The audience ate it up.

Thank you! Quinn said. Too loud, but the sound system compensated for it. I promised you something fantastic tonight. I promised you the call of magic.

He put one hand in his pocket, dropping eye contact with the crowd. A funny thing happened when you did that onstage. The look-away sort of drew them in.

I’ve felt the call three times in my life. Once when I was a kid. Again when I started performing in Vegas. And a third time, just a month ago. That time had been different. That had been the one that really mattered.

He looked up, addressed the crowd again. There’s nothing quite like it. Tonight, I’d like to share that feeling with you. Would you like that?

The audience cheered. Not the loud, raucous cheers of the nightclub rabble, but a steady smattering of polite applause. Everything was highbrow here.

I thought so. He grinned. Prepare yourselves for the call of magic. He took a wide stance, bowed his head, and held absolutely still for six seconds.

Then he relaxed, reached into his jacket, and took out his phone. Everyone roared with laughter.

Now he had them relaxed. Perfectly at ease. He punched in a command sequence. Had to put his thumb on the biometric scanner after that, to verify his identity. Kiara had insisted on that. It beeped a soft confirmation. Three, two, one . . .

A shock wave struck the theater as every single phone in the audience went off. Pockets vibrated and beeped. Purses buzzed. Watching how people reacted was enormously entertaining. At first, there was the panicked scramble to silence it—on the cost of the tickets alone, this wasn’t an event where you wanted to be the jackass of distraction—but as they realized what was happening, they started to answer. Hundreds of them. Thousands, probably. It was too hard to see past the spotlights on the first tier. But those in view pressed their ears to the earpiece and looked at him expectantly.

He smiled and squared himself to the crowd. Hello there.

That was his moment. His tiny window of opportunity to offer just the right turn of phrase. To give them the magical finish to a truly unique performance. But the words failed him. Right there in the front row, a man in a suit met his eyes. Tall, light-haired, and a face that screamed Nordic heritage. He looked so much like the Swede Thorisson that Quinn had to do a double take just to be sure. No, it was a different guy. Younger, maybe. His eyes were two pools of cold lake water. Raptor Tech for certain. What the hell did they want with him now?

He’d been foolish to refuse a bodyguard. Kiara had suggested it, before he’d flown up here. That line he’d fed her about being safer in his hometown than anywhere else . . . he regretted it now. They’d sent Chaudri, but she was a goddamn anthropologist. She’d be less than useless.

The theater rippled with laughter, but he had the audience for another moment more. What was the line again? It came to him. Sorry, wrong number! He hung up. The audience laughed and applauded. Stood for him in ovation. Quinn made a flourish and bowed. When he thought to look again, the Nordic fellow was gone.

An hour later, he’d soaked up the applause and pressed flesh with some of the Bellagio’s VIPs in a special meet-and-greet backstage. A main act was only part of the deal, when it came to Vegas casinos. They liked to have a trophy piece to trot out for their high rollers. Unsettled as he was about the appearance of Raptor Tech, Quinn was still able to put on his charming smile and make nice.

A blonde woman in a too-small black dress shook his hand. That was incredible! She was in her mid-thirties, fit and attractive.

What was your favorite part? He knew the answer already, but it never hurt to play the humble card.

The ending. I swear I put my phone on silent. She let her hand linger in his. How did you do that?

He winked. I can’t tell you.

She pouted, gave him the puppy-dog eyes. Please?

I’d rather you think me mysterious.

How about a picture, then?

Absolutely.

The casino had a photographer on standby for just that. Quinn beckoned him over. The blonde cozied up to him and they posed for a couple of flashes.

Aw, thank you! She hugged him. Smooth as silk, she slipped a keycard into his jacket pocket. His inside jacket pocket, no less. She put her lips to his ear. I’m in the tower suite.

Of course she was.

It took him half an hour to slip away graciously from the high rollers. Next up: a little face time with the theater manager. Yet another ritual of the Vegas strip. Not quite an interview, but not something you skipped, either. Quinn had some close-up magic tricks in the holster. It never hurt to impress the manager, even after a solid performance. The manager’s office was up a set of stairs at the back of the stage. A stagehand pointed him to it. He was nearly to the staircase when the suit materialized from the shadows. At first, Quinn mistook him for security.

Then the guy stepped into the light; it brought out the sharp angles of Nordic facial features. Quinn stepped back instinctively, and damn near reached for a weapon at his belt. Except he hadn’t carried a weapon in a month.

Mr. Bradley?

Quinn squared his shoulders in his best imitation of a Logan stance. Who are you? Civilians weren’t allowed back here.

My name’s Carl Reiser. I work for Raptor Tech.

I see.

You met an associate of mine, around six months ago.

Thorisson.

Ah, you remember.

He’s hard to forget, Quinn said. What about him?

I just wanted to know if you’ve seen him recently.

Not for months.

Are you sure?

I’m confused. Quinn gave him a side-look. Are you telling me you don’t know where your own employee is?

He ignored the question. May I ask where you’ve been during your recent hiatus?

You can ask, but I can’t tell you.

Why not?

Quinn shrugged, and kept his pose casual. First, because it’s none of your goddamn business. Second, because there’s a nondisclosure agreement.

Isn’t that a little unusual?

No such thing in Vegas.

Reiser stared at him with cold eyes. I’m not sure I believe you, Mr. Bradley.

I’m not sure I care.

They looked at each other in silence. The man wasn’t entirely blocking the staircase, but he wasn’t out of the way, either.

The manager’s expecting me. Quinn probably could have called for security, but that would’ve been a sign of weakness.

I may have more questions for you, the man said. But he stood aside and let Quinn pass.

I’ll be sure to wait by my phone. He slid past Reiser and took the stairs at a steady pace. Halfway up, he spoiled it by glancing back. The man from Raptor Tech was nowhere in view.

He shook his head. They must learn that at orientation. CASE Global and Raptor Tech might be rivals, but they also had something in common: they always showed up at the worst possible time.

Chapter 2

Competing Offers

No one’s harder to fool than a fellow professional. We know what to look for.

—Art of Illusion, February 18

The Bellagio stage manager was a legendary mogul of the Vegas Strip named David Wyatt. Average-looking guy, probably pushing fifty, but he had the polish of an industry veteran. He smiled when Quinn entered, but it was the automatic kind of smile you learned to switch on at a moment’s notice.

Quite a performance, Mr. Bradley.

Quinn shook his hand. Please, call me Quinn.

Wyatt gestured to the chair opposite his massive walnut desk. The chairs were no less luxurious: real suede, hand stitching, stuffed just enough to be cozy but not a bit more. New enough that he smelled the leather when he sat down.

I still can’t figure out how you did it, Wyatt said.

Which part?

All of it.

He’s just being polite. This was a guy who’d watched hundreds of performances by some of the industry greats. It was thrilling to think about who’d been in this chair.

I’m sure you’ve seen some of that before, Quinn said.

Not the phone thing. He held up his cell, a slim next-gen model in a platinum case. This is supposed to have state-of-the-art encryption.

Is it, now? Quinn allowed a smile. No point telling him that CASE Global subsidiaries had made the phone, written its software, and developed that encryption. Which was only state-of-the-art outside of the prototyping labs.

Should I get a new one?

Already? You only bought that last week.

How the hell could you know that?

Because I got Kiara to run a background check on you. Quinn shrugged. You shouldn’t worry. The security here is as good as anything I’ve seen. That was a lie—nothing surpassed what the company used to protect their biggest investment—but it seemed to reassure the man.

Well, it was a good trick.

How’d you like to see another? Quinn produced a deck of cards and began shuffling. Two-handed, then one-handed. Riffle, cut, riffle, cut.

That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.

Oh?

Look, Quinn, I’ve got to be honest. You were barely on our radar six months ago. Then all of a sudden the casino owners are telling me to book you.

Quinn gave a thin smile. I guess someone put in a good word.

I agreed to have you headline tonight. But that should have been it, even with your connections.

Well, I appreciate the shot. He’d seen his name in the neon lights, and performed for his biggest crowd yet. It had been his dream, but somehow reaching it felt flat.

After that performance, though, I’d be interested in having you back.

Really? I’d enjoy that. He kept his tone casual, because this was probably just a formality. The entertainment equivalent of saying, I’ll call you. He fanned out the cards face down on the desk. Pick a card.

Wyatt chose one from the right-hand edge, where Quinn couldn’t have glimpsed it while shuffling. That, more than anything, showed how many times he’d been around the block.

Our main act is going on tour in about a month, Wyatt said.

Quinn swept up the remaining cards, stacked them, and had Wyatt put his card on top. He offered the deck so the man could cut it. Wyatt obliged. He reclaimed the deck, shuffled a few times, and started dealing the cards face up. It was a good excuse to cover the fact that he was holding his breath.

What would you say to coming on board while they’re gone?

For how long? Quinn kept on dealing, watching for his marker card, the two of clubs.

Six months, with an option to renew.

Quinn missed the next card. His fingers just slid away, and it stayed on top of the deck. Damn. It wasn’t the most obvious tell, but child’s play for someone like Wyatt.

He’d worked so hard for so long, just to get a shot at the Strip. The odds on an offer from a major casino had to be about one in a hundred thousand. And the Bellagio, no less. That made it one in a million.

To his credit, Wyatt offered a gracious little smile. One pro to another. He’d seen the tell, and knew what it meant.

Quinn recovered and kept dealing. Bam. There it was. The two of clubs, which meant the chosen card was the king of diamonds. It suited the man, too. If that wasn’t a sign, he didn’t know what one was. He stole a glance at Wyatt’s face when his card came up, and saw nothing. Not a flicker of recognition.

Either he’d forgotten his card or he was a stone-cold fox. Or maybe the trick had gone south. The odds of that were slim, but not zero. I can’t think about that.

What kind of a signing bonus are we talking about? Fifty grand was probably the average, but this was the Bellagio. The kind of acts they secured didn’t come cheap.

There isn’t one.

What?

I don’t have the budget for it.

That was bullshit. Some of the high rollers he’d just been charming had probably lost fifty grand in the last hour alone. I’m not sure how thrilled my manager will be about it.

I think we both know what Rudy Fortelli will want you to say about an offer from the Bellagio.

It was Quinn’s turn to smile. Did your homework, too, didn’t you? That told him how serious the offer was. When do you need an answer?

By the end of the week, at the latest. But I’d really like to know tomorrow.

Quinn kept dealing until only a single card remained in his hand. Tell you what. If the next card I flip over isn’t yours, then you get an answer tomorrow. But if it is, I take the week. And you keep my name on the sign until then.

Wyatt didn’t so much as glance at the cards on the table, but he waited for two seconds. Done.

They always fell for it. Quinn didn’t flip the card in his hand. Instead, he reached out and turned the king of diamonds face down. Wyatt’s eyes widened a tiny fraction. He was one hell of a cool customer, but he gave it up. Maybe Quinn had pushed his luck too far. This was a good trick, but a manipulative one, too. No one could resist taking the bet when they’d seen their card dealt out already.

It looks like you have your week, Wyatt said. Don’t waste it.

Quinn practically floated down the stairs from Wyatt’s office. The meeting couldn’t have gone better. He wasn’t sure that his name would truly stay on the sign out front—it probably came down while the audience was still applauding—but that was just gravy. The offer itself was all that mattered. A contract from a major casino put him in the upper echelon of Vegas performers. And the best part was knowing that he’d earned it himself. CASE Global’s connections might have landed him this performance, but no one could bully a stage manager into a contract offer. Not even them.

That was all me.

He really didn’t know who to call first. Rudy, probably, though the man would be holding court at his own club by now. Drinks on the house and all that. Quinn could catch up with him later. He remembered the blonde from the VIP meet-and-greet. Why not a little extra celebration? Everything else could wait.

He hit the landing with a spring in his step. Damn near started to whistle, when he skipped around the corner and came face-to-face with the Nordic guy again.

Jesus! He took a step back. You’re like a bad penny, aren’t you?

I’m sorry, Mr. Bradley.

Listen, guy, I’m on my way to—

The hiss of the pneumatic pistol surprised him, but not as much as the jab of pain in his midsection. He reached down and found something odd in his cummerbund—a narrow metallic cylinder about the size of his pinkie finger. The metal was cold to his touch.

He jerked it out. A numbness started to spread from his abdomen. What the—

Are you all right, Mr. Bradley? Reiser stepped forward to take Quinn’s arm in a vise-like grip. It looks like you need to sit down. My limo’s just outside.

Quinn tried to refuse, but now his tongue had gone numb, too. All he managed was a faint shake of the head, which the man ignored.

A second set of arms came into view. They were slimmer, more feminine, but locked around his other arm just as tightly. Quinn couldn’t even move his head up to look at her. He was limp as a rag doll while they half escorted, half carried him down a hall and toward the emergency exit.

Good, let them try that. The door had a silent alarm. Security would be all over them in about thirty seconds. A little surprising that they hadn’t intervened already, in fact. There had to be cameras back here. Surely the security feed would have shown what happened.

That’s when he remembered that Raptor Tech was a security company. The market leader, in fact. And the Bellagio never went in for anything but the best.

Oh, I hope I’m wrong about this.

But sure enough, the emergency exit was already propped open. They carried him outside, where a limousine sat with the engine idling. Reiser opened the door and they tossed him in.

Quinn woke up to the slow, blinding pain of a headache. He was sitting in an enclosed space. A car. The wide seats and tinted windows made this a limousine, and the faux leather said it was rented. No palm trees or neon lights scrolled past the window, only darkness. That meant they were off the Strip, probably out in the desert.

None of this information comforted him.

The couple from Raptor Tech sat across from him, engrossed in quiet conversation. It sounded like German, or maybe Dutch. The woman’s voice had a low, sultry tone to it. Only her profile was visible in the dimly lit interior. High cheekbones, sharp angular nose. She caught him looking, though, and nudged Reiser.

Sorry about the theatrics, Mr. Bradley, he said.

Wuh— Quinn started. His tongue felt heavy and awkward in his mouth. What the hell?

I thought it might be best if we spoke in private.

The cobwebs were starting to clear. He remembered the dart gun. It should have ticked him off, but his instincts screamed for caution. Anyone bold enough to grab him out of the Bellagio didn’t give a shit about assault charges. He bit back a smart-ass remark, and just said, About what?

About my colleague. Thorisson.

I already told you, I don’t know anything about him.

Yet you were one of the last people to contact him.

Which was a mistake. He’d gotten cold feet when he first saw the gateway. When he first realized what the CASE Global really wanted him to do. And how dangerous it would be if he agreed.

Yeah, well, he wasn’t exactly up front with me, he said.

How do you mean?

He failed to mention that calling him would prompt an aerial drone attack on the company’s facility. What the hell was the point of that?

Unfortunately, I can’t remark on what may or may not have happened on a private island half a world away.

Well, I can. The thing nearly killed everyone. He still couldn’t believe that they’d managed to shoot it down. With siege machinery, no less.

"So you were there."

Shit.