[b]Center City, WA
5:24 PM[/b]


"Twenty-two. Bust."

The dealer slid the chips across the green felt of the blackjack table with one long and lanky arm. The man at the table let out a sigh as he watched a few hundred dollars in chips disappear down a slot to the dealer's right. Two chairs away, Tracy Lawless stood firm on eighteen and waited for the dealer to flip his card over. It was already showing a queen of diamonds, so it came as no surprise when the dealer revealed an ace of spades.

"Twenty-one. House wins."

Tracy's chips disappeared down the chute. For Tracy, that made a even grand he lost at the tables since he'd hit the floor earlier this morning. That was okay. After all, he was playing with house money. He took the chips he had left in his hand and stood, throwing a small token of appreciation to the dealer as tip, and walked the casino floor. Despite being there for over nine hours, Tracy still recognized plenty of faces from this morning. He would stake the chips he had left that plenty of people had been here for nearly twenty-four hours.

They all had the same look, as if they were slightly unhinged. Their eyes were too wide, they radiated something Tracy knew was dangerous: Hope. Hope had no place in a joint like this. This was where hope came to die, but still suckers lined up around the block to let the house take their money. That was because they all believed in that dream that this country sold wholesale. They all played games rigged in the house's favor, but as long as that small glint of hope remained they would keep coming to the tables until they had nothing left take. In many ways, this dingy little casino with its clouds of cigarette smoke and people looking to score easy money was America in a nutshell. The games in these walls were just as rigged as the big game outside, but as long as people ate it up the house would always take and it would always win.

Tracy walked the floor, glancing up to the long glass pane above the casino. Joe Milligan's god's eye view of the casino he lorded over like a king with horrible taste. Out the corner of his eye he saw the man he first noticed two hours ago. He was a red head with a thick ginger beard and a navy blue suit and white shirt, no tie. He was groomed but Tracy saw the tattoos from a mile away. They were on his knuckles, a single letter on each, that spelled out LOVE on his right hand, HATE on his left. He was one of the men in the security footage Milligan showed him. While the security footage helped, Tracy made him as a caser right off the bat. He wasn't too obvious with the way he watched everything going on around the casino floor, but he wasn't subtle enough to elude Tracy.

He slid up to the roulette table where the man was putting a bet on 28 Black. Tracy laid down a bet on 17 Red just before the little ball went into the spinning roulette. He stared at the table and only discretely glanced at the man out the corner of his eye. His hair was recently cut, the tanlines around the back of his neck made it obvious. They both lost money when the ball clattered into 22 Black. Tracy stayed and played a few more spins while his target took his money to the blackjack table.

After a few more hours of playing, the man left. He spent all his chips, nothing to cash out at the teller's cage. Tracy waited a few minutes before leaving behind him. He was leaving the casino parking lot in a red sedan as Tracy stepped out into the evening. He got his Charger and caught up with the sedan on the parkway, speeding east away from the coast and towards the interior of the state. Tracy kept a long leash on the car, especially as traffic began to thin and Center City disappeared into the distance. The car took an off ramp at a town called Nelson, some thirty miles outside of the city. Tracy followed and kept going as the sedan pulled into a dilapidated gas station.

He doubled back and parked the Charger down the block, the lights off, and watched the sedan idling at the gas station. A few minutes later, a roar filled the air and six motorcycles raced down the street and pulled into the gas station. Six burly bikers dismounted their bikes and walked over to the sedan as the caser got out. He talked with the six bikers about something. In the dim light, Tracy caught a glimpse of the leather cut one of the bikers wore. It read Horde MC.

"Shit," Tracy said to himself.

The Horde was among the baddest biker gangs in America, especially out west. They cooked and sold crystal to rednecks, sold guns to Mexican cartels, massacred rival gangs, and terrorized the communities were their chapters formed. And now, it appeared to Tracy, casino robbery was about to be added to that list.