[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/xPfAC72.jpg[/img][/center] [b]Las Vegas 2009[/b] “How the fuck is he doing this?” Mitchum wiped sweat from his forehead for what had to be the tenth time in the last five minutes. He was in the air conditioned observation room of the Bellagio Casino, but even still he was feeling the heat. He knew every bit of tape would be reviewed by his bosses all the way up to Mr. Wynn. He was surprised the old man wasn't here in his silk pajamas, hovering over his shoulder and scowling at the monitor. The cameras were trained on the roulette table and the skinny, blonde man in the trench coat. He had a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a stack of chips in front of him. He’d been on the casino’s radar all night long. He started at the blackjack table, turning a five dollar chip into three grand in just a few hours. From there he went to the Three Card Poker tables and his three grand tripled. An hour at the craps table turned nine grand into twenty-five. And now the son of a bitch was at the roulette table. Mitchum wiped another sheet of sweat from his face and pulled at the collar of his shirt. The Nevada Gaming Commission made it legal for the casinos to kick anyone out who they suspected of card counting. But card counters only worked for blackjack, and their constant review of the footage showed the man wasn’t cheating at the craps of poker tables. So what the fuck was he doing? --- John Constantine smoked with a satisfied smirk as he sat at the roulette table. Celebration broke out all around him at the reveal he was a winner. He’d put every penny of his twenty-five thousand dollars on 21 Black. The white ball clattered and knocked about the spinning wheel until it found its home in the little black slot marked for the number 21. “Eight hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars to the gentlemen,” the croupier said in a bored tone, the only person at the table not in the throes of celebration. Well, he and John were the only two not dancing for joy. Act like you've been here was John's motto. “Put it all on 36 Red.” Just like that, the cheering stopped. The crowd that had gathered to watch were looking on stunned, murmuring among themselves and asking each other what the payout would be. “Thirty million, six hundred and twenty-five dollars,” John said over the din. "I've done the maths." “Sir,” the croupier said. “That’s above the house limit. We cannot take a bet of that size.” “Call your bosses,” said John. He made an effort to look up at the camera he knew would be watching him as he spoke. “Tell them this last bet is the end. If I lose it all, they get to drag me out and kick me bloody teeth in. I know they’ve been wanting to do it all night. I can feel the animosity through the bloody cameras.” The croupier got the attention of the pit boss, who was already close by and watching. While they talked among themselves, one of John’s coterie leaned in beside him to talk. She was an older lady who reeked of drink and smokes and had the hollowed-out look of a long time gambler. Her and about a half dozen others had been at the first blackjack table that night, sensing his good luck and following him from table to table. “How are you doing this, sweetie?” “It’s luck,” said John. “All me life, I’ve had it. Not an all the time thing. It comes in waves. I’m like those ridiculous surfer blokes, riding the wave for as long as I can. I can feel it starting to crest. This last roulette spin is going to be the last of it, Donna.” “It’s been a hell of a ride, sugar. Just hold on and ride it out.” “Yeah,” John said with a grin. “What a fucking ride.” “Sir,” the pit boss finally said. “I have… uhh, spoken to my bosses. And your terms are acceptable. One final bet on 36 Red.” “Have at it, then.” The pit boss nodded to the croupier, who began to spin the roulette wheel. “All of it on 36 Red,” he said. “No more bets.” He dropped the ball into the spinning wheel, every eye glued to that wheel and the tumbling ball. All of them except John, who stared up at the watching camera, a smile on his face. --- [B]Baldwin Hills 4:32 AM[/b] “Finding the Saint isn’t going to be that easy,” said Epiphany. She stood eating a burrito as she spoke. John and Rembrandt were sitting on the hood of Charlie’s police car while Ray leaned against it. They were just down the block from an all night food truck, a place Rembrandt knew was reliable for late night chow “I bet it will be,” John said between bites of his own burrito. “You know how these things work out for me, E.” “True, but this isn’t a con you’re running. This is a legit magical battle. Your synchronicity wave bullshit can only protect you so much.” “We don’t need to fight him,” said Ray. “We need to outthink him.” “The goal isn’t to kill him,” said Rembrandt. “It’s to arrest him.” “How are you going to do that,” asked Epiphany. “You said so yourself nobody but those with the Sight can see the Saint on that video. You’d have to get the Good People involved, and we aren’t the litigious type.” “I have a plan,” John said with a smirk. “A cunning plan that will negate my opponent’s brute magical strength. A plan that is well thought out and detailed, not one that I'm making up as I go along. So what do you know about him, E?” “The rumor is he’s more than leech. He’s supposed to be mercenary mage.” “Well, shit,” said Ray. “The fuck does that mean?” Rembrandt asked. “There’s a guild or whatever the fuck you call them out there that train mages in all the dark arts,” said John. “When they’ve learned it all, they let them loose and they travel the world, working for the highest bidder.” “They’re expensive, too,” said Ray. “Supposedly only nation-states and massive corporations can afford them.’ “Henry Grigoryan, the guy the Saint is working for, certainly makes enough to afford his price,” said Rembrandt. John slid off the car and stepped away from the group, tossing his burrito wrapper on the ground and lighting up a fresh cigarette. He could feel something coming, just off the horizon of his perception. Like when the air is humid and static-filled just before a massive thunderstorm. He’d felt this feeling many times in his life. Another wave was coming on and it would be here soon. He’d have to do what he always did: paddle out and hold on as tight as he could. “Fuck it,” he said. “Let’s go kill a mercenary mage.”