“This isn’t the way I envisioned dying,” Paul gasped as he, Gina and Fenny leaned against the more or less worthless door, bracing for the attack from the pack of dogs on the other side. “Somehow I thought there’d be more alcohol involved than rabid beasts.”

“Well maybe if you hadn’t broken the stupid door we wouldn’t be in this mess,” Fenny hissed.

“If I hadn’t broken the door we’d still be circling looking for a way in,” he countered.

“Better circling than being attacked by man-eating Rottweilers.”

“If you two would stop bickering you might notice that we’re not being attacked,” Gina interrupted, pushing herself away from the door.

“Oh. Right,” Fenny agreed, listening to the dogs, which were curiously still barking but seemed to have stopped a yard or two away from the door. “Never mind then, thanks for breaking the door down, Pauly,” she smiled innocently at him.

Sneering back at her, he gingerly opened the door to see half a dozen snarling, slobbering, vicious dogs that were obviously raised by a Nazi and trained by an agoraphobic, as they seemed completely unwilling to come near the wall that separated them from the outside world. Confused, Paul swung the door open and stepped gingerly inside, followed cautiously by Gina and Fenny. One dog made a leap for them and then quickly recoiled with a whimper.

“I knew Don was a sadistic coward,” Fenny mused. “He’s got the dogs on one of those invisible fence things, they move past the markers…” she explained, glancing around for said markers.

“And they get a shock,” Gina finished. “Don’s afraid of his own guard dogs, that’s why he’s got a safe perimeter around the grounds.”

“Yeah, there’s a good investment in securing your den of wickedness,” Paul chuckled, walking along the wall towards the house.

“Probably figured the dogs would scare people off before they realized what was going on,” Gina declared as she and Fenny followed him.

“Didn’t count on people like us, who are too stupid to run for their lives,” Fenny smiled.

“Not stupid, determined,” Paul corrected, leaning down with a grunt to pick up a couple rocks, tossing them towards the dogs which were following them about six feet away.

“Don’t be mean,” Gina chided as one of the rocks hit a dog in the forehead.

“They tried to kill us,” Paul gasped.

“Annoying them isn’t going to reduce their desire to kill you,” she pointed out. With a pout he tossed one last small pebble and they continued in silence, still a bit wary of the dogs.

“This is stupid,” Danny declared, dropping his cards onto the glass top of the hotel table, getting fed up with the gloomy atmosphere and Brad’s babbling of countless rules and situations at him.

“It’s an almost fool-proof way to win,” Beven countered, well trained to respect Franco’s poker system. He’d seen it turn Brad from a so-so player of Old Maid into a full-fledged card shark.

“Why can’t we play cards like real men, using our own brains and inherent luck?” Danny continued.

“What brain,” Brad mumbled under his breath. “And if we’re gonna rely on your luck, we’re all in a world of shit,” he said louder. “I mean how lucky could you be to get dragged into a mess like this?”

“Notice I’m doing this voluntarily to help out you and my friends, and I’ve yet to get into serious trouble.” Danny bit his tongue to keep himself from telling Brad just exactly how lucky he’d gotten the previous night.

“Well I didn’t ask for your help,” Brad huffed.

“Yes you fucking did, you said you wanted me to come and play cards with you,” Danny yelped. “You’re the one who asked the mafia princess to come over on the plane with your wife.”

“And she’s come in handy, hasn’t she?”

“Guys,” Beven yelped, thumping the card table hard enough to grab the attention of Danny and Brad, and he glared at both of them. “Think we could work past this fighting like fucking children and getting back to keeping your arses from getting killed?”

They shot each other daggers a moment longer before Danny pushed the deck of cards back towards Brad. “Your deal.”

Beven dropped his head to his hands. They’d only been there twenty minutes and already he was wondering if one would kill the other before the game started, and whether or not that would be a good thing.

Ritza stepped out into the street, feeling almost rejuvenated now that she had that familiar, oddly comforting sensation of cold metal against her back, a new revolver tucked firmly into the back of her waistband. Now things felt right, and she was certain she could do what she had to. It was good to get in one last hoorah before going back to being a full-time mother.

She took in a deep breath of crisp air and stepped into her rented car and quickly pulled away from the storefront and towards the Savoy. From what she knew of Don, he was cocky enough to stay in the hotel he had been caught at earlier. He probably hadn’t had time to realize that everyone he’d tried to destroy was already plotting his own demise, and it was blaringly apparent that he wasn’t at all concerned with her or Danny.

The drive was quick and she sauntered up to the hotel clerk with a winning smile. “Is Donald McIver checked in here?” she chimed.

A moment of typing on the computer and the receptionist behind the desk glanced up and said, in perfect English, “Yes he is, room 361.”

“Fabulous,” Ritza smiled. “That’s my brother, we’re to be on holiday together, and silly me, I always forget which hotel he told me, this is the third one I’ve checked, can you believe it?” She let out a dim little giggle, which the receptionist echoed. “I hate to call him and ask, he always teases me. So, I’d like to book a room, please, as close to old Donny as I can get.”

“Of course, the best we can offer is room 364, just a door down.”

“Thanks so much,” Ritza gushed as she pulled out the falsified passport and signed the guest registry. It was still early; all she had to do now was dash up to her room, posh herself up a bit, and wait for Don and his men to make their move. “Like taking candy from a baby,” she said to herself as she waited for the elevator doors to open.

“Proops. Greg Proops.” The sporty car whizzed along as Greg tried to look debonair in his purple specs. “Gotta love a guy who can make a movie called Octopussy. If they made a movie about me, it’d have to be called A Day in the Life of a Rental Car, I’ll Drive, or maybe That Hertz. I want a sexy movie, man, but no, it’s always, ‘Greg, go get the car.’ Why can’t I play poker and fight evil for a change, huh?”

He continued down the highway, humming along to the 80s pop music on the radio. A black sedan behind him caught his attention purely out of reflex, and as he glanced in the rear view mirror, he was startled to see it being driven by a burly man in a suit and dark sunglasses, the ultimate caricature of a mafia heavy that would make any normal person chuckle, but made Greg’s palms go slick.

“Shit.”

At the first opportunity, Greg merged from the fast lane into slower traffic, only to be followed almost immediately by the black car. Panicking, Greg decided to get off the highway as soon as he could, and quickly took the first exit. Still the car followed.

“No, no, no, no, no,” he mumbled to himself as the GoGos played cheerily through the speakers and he promptly ran a stop sign in his hurry to escape.

“Got a favorite charity?” Fenny asked over the sound of the printer busily printing out useful bits of information from Don’s computer.

“Um, no. Why?” Gina asked.

“I thought as long as I’m fiddling around with his bank account I might as well put some of his dirty money to a good cause.”

“Find a charity for kidnap victims,” Paul perked.

“Oh yeah, they’re all over,” Fenny shrugged. “How about PETA? No, they’re nut jobs. The Humane Society…the poor dogs…”

“No wonder you’re with Brad, you’ve got a soft spot for big ugly mutts,” Gina mused.

“Paul’s nastier than any Rottweiler I’ve ever met,” Fenny teased.

“Hey,” Paul protested from the bookshelf.

“It’s what makes you a god, hon,” Gina assured him as she looked over Fenny’s shoulder. “Hey look, we’ve got mail,” she perked as the computer let out a friendly chime.

“Gimme a sec to finish…I can’t believe he actually has a Swiss bank account, the dude thinks he’s a villain in a Batman movie,” Fenny mused.

“If he was he’d be called Pencil Dick,” Paul mused, picking up a stuffed mongoose, complete with eerie glass eyes and leaking sawdust. “What do you think he uses this for?” he asked, dropping the mongoose on the table and marching it along towards the keyboard.

Gina regarded it carefully, noting the leaking sawdust. “Probably some weird kinky fetish I don’t want to know about.”

Fenny looked up at him sternly as he made the mongoose tap at the page down button. He stuck his tongue out and returned the bit of taxidermic art to its shelf. Fenny slid from the chair and let Gina have a go at the email as she perused a couple drawers, pulling out intriguing notebooks and disks.

“Someone called Bucky wants a couple kilos of cocaine and some ecstasy,” Gina declared, reading over the message.

“Now that’s a party,” Paul grinned from the corner of the desk where he was building a house of zip disks.

“It’ll be fun if Bucky doesn’t get his stuff and Don doesn’t know he’s supposed to deliver. Tell him we’d be more than happy to oblige,” Fenny perked. “Only do it in a more evil gangstery way.”

“Thank god we got the writer and not Fen to deal with the email,” Paul chirped as he tried to give his structure a roof, pouting when it collapsed and the disks scattered all over the desk.

“Paul,” Gina said, and he looked up at her, pout still firmly placed on his face. “Go play with the books.”

“Go play with the books Paul,” he mocked, wandering over to the bookshelves. “Won’t let me help out by going to the clubs, no, Paul, you stay and be harassed by the girls, Brad and his stupid plans…”

“Maybe we should send him to the nightclubs anyway, let him get pummeled,” Fenny suggested.

“That’s only giving him what he wants, and we’d only have to listen to more whining after he gets himself hurt,” Gina murmured. “That is, if we decide to rescue him. Remember last time we were here,” she said, “there was…no, guess you don’t.”

“We were the ones in the big black van last time,” Fenny pointed out.

“Don’s got a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” Paul chuckled, flipping through a book. “Twas brillig and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe, all mimsy were the borogroves and the momeraths out…”

“Last time there were spreadsheets and things on the computer, I think they were about his prostitutes and heavies. They’re gone now though.”

“Maybe they’re on one of the disks,” Fenny shrugged, pawing through the ones scattered on the desk. She found one labeled “Excel – personnel” and handed it to Gina.

“I was thinking maybe we could find a way to get Beven a pay raise while we’re at it,” Gina grinned.

“Look at the stupid hat Don’s got,” Paul perked, putting on a bowler that slipped down to his eyebrows.

“Paul,” Gina groaned as Fenny rolled her eyes.

He took off the hat and went back to petting the mongoose. “You’re my only friend anymore,” he sighed, “the only one who really understands me.”

“The disk isn’t working,” Gina declared, scowling at the screen. “Says there’s 217 megs of memory used, but it can’t access any of it.”

“That can’t be right,” Fenny grumbled, taking momentary control of the mouse but finding nothing more useful and no way to get to the stored files.

“Right-click on the disk, go to properties and there’s an unlock option. The password’s probably in that list you’ve got.”

Fenny and Gina both glanced up at him in surprise, then in unison looked back at the screen while Gina did as Paul instructed. The spreadsheets flashed to life. They looked back up at him, stunned, and he shrugged.

“The man doesn’t lock his front door but he protects his computer disks,” Paul chided, shaking his head reproachfully at the mongoose. Fenny and Gina glanced at each other once more and set to work fiddling with Don’s computer again. “I think I’ll name him Troy…”

Ritza sat at the bar, sipping slowly at her drink. She wasn’t surprised that she’d managed to follow him and his pair of guards from the hotel and to the suitably swank bar without being noticed. It was skills such as those, after all, that had kept her so comfortably employed for so long, and regardless of how much she may have wanted to forget about her days of being sneaky and criminally minded, she knew she’d never forget her perfected techniques, but she never would have thought they’d come in handy helping to rescue Brad and Fenny.

With another sip from her glass, she cocked her head to watch Don from the corner of her eye. He seemed to have been doing business with some men when they’d first come in, and after a few drinks and hushed but excited discussion, they left with a deal-sealing handshake, and Don and his cronies had spent the last thirty minutes or so working towards getting sloshed. It was time to strike.

Adjusting her dress, a teasing little black number, she leaned over the bar to grab a cherry from the bowl and moved towards Don’s table. The conversation ceased as she approached and they glanced up at her. She dropped the cherry into her mouth and pulled off the stem, twirling it between her fingers. “I was just wondering if any of you gentlemen might have a cigarette?”

Don pulled a pack from the breast pocket of his jacket and held it out to her, pulling it away as she reached for it. “Only if I can buy you a drink,” he grinned.

“I’d like that,” she said, smiling sweetly back. He stepped out of the booth so she could sit down, and she was startled by the bulge in his pants, blushing a bit as she realized it had to be bandages from when Paul had shot him. “Thanks.”

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a miserable place like Amsterday… er, Amsterdam,” Don slurred, obviously well on his way from tipsy to shitfaced. Just the way she wanted him.

“I’ve got my reasons,” she shrugged.

Don raised an overgrown set of eyebrows at her. “Men, get the lady a drink, and then you can go play pool for a while. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to leave.” He grinned sleazily down at her. Inwardly she cringed at the implication that she’d be leaving with him, but if that’s what it took, that’s what she’d do. She’d certainly done worse in the past.

She watched the two men get up and head for the bar. “What’s your name, hot stuff?” Don asked.

“Becca,” she smiled coyly. “And what are you called?”

“Don.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Don.”

“I’d like to make a bit more than just your acquaintance, Becca,” he leered, kissing her hand.

Ritza gave a demure little giggle, looking away and hoping that the others were doing well.

“Crap, that’s why I couldn’t find an ace,” one of the men chuckled as Danny scooped up his winnings, rather proud of himself for getting four aces.

“You’re a lucky man,” Mitchell grinned at Danny from the next seat over. Danny shot a pointed look across the table to Brad, who curled his lip in contempt a bit and glanced back at his own hand, consisting of three Kings. Close, but no cigar. Not that he needed a cigar, the room was filled with the pungent smoke of the cigars the men had been smoking all evening. Brad’s only comfort was in the fact that he had won almost as much cash as Danny had; he may have won fewer hands, but he’d won bigger pots.

“Another round of drinks, huh?” one of the older gentlemen prompted, and one of the men lurking in the room sauntered over to get beers for the poker players. “Maybe if we get the young Australian drunk enough he’ll stop winning.”

“Nah, I’m an Aussie, I can hold my booze,” Danny beamed.

“I wouldn’t doubt that,” a nearly skeletal man from Manchester agreed. “You must’ve drunk up all my winning luck.”

“You were doing well at the start of the game, weren’t you old man?” someone cackled.

“Aah well, you win some, you lose some. I plan to start winning before the night’s over.”

The players sniggered as several beers and a bowl of popcorn were placed in the center of the table, the bowl that now contained only the broken remains of a few pretzels and a sea of salt dutifully taken away. Eyebrows raised, Danny reached for a handful of popcorn and tossed a piece into his mouth.

“Don’t even start with the popcorn,” Brad groaned.

“What?” Danny asked with heavily applied innocence. “It’s a perfectly acceptable snack food.”

“Yeah, when you’re not using it as a bedding material,” Brad scorned. “Or was it some sort of kinky thing you’ve got?”

The table went silent. “What’s this about popcorn?” Mitchell asked curiously.

“Oh, you’re just jealous because you never got the erotic popcorn portrait experience,” Danny scoffed before munching on a few more pieces.

“Excuse me?” a few people gasped simultaneously as Beven dropped his head into his hands, rubbing his temples and wondering why nothing ever went smoothly or with any modicum of normalness.

“Trust me, I’ve had better than the popcorn bed,” Brad sneered, “but never with another guy’s woman.”

“Need I remind you of you and Paul’s girlfriend going at it in Gina’s apartment?”

Brad’s eyes narrowed. That one stung. “We were drunk. You didn’t need alcohol to make an ass out of yourself.”

“No, Fenny and I did it out of love,” Danny spat.

Beven was grateful for the interruption of his cell phone ringing, Brad ripping his scathing glare from Danny’s face to him as he pulled out his phone. “Sorry,” Beven said with a chuckle that helped break the tension. “I have to take this. It was your deal, wasn’t it Brad?”

Brad snatched up the cards as they were offered to him, mechanically shuffling and trying resolutely to ignore the sound of Danny munching on popcorn and the curious glances from the other men in the room.

Beven gave them one last glance as he left the room, shaking his head in disbelief. Once in the hall, he answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Beven?”

“Greg, how’s it going?”

“Well I’m in town, that’s the good news.”

“And the bad news?”

“Oh, I got a ticket,” Greg huffed.

“What?” Beven asked, trying to hide the smile from his voice.

“Yeah yeah, I know, a speeding ticket. I thought one of Don’s men caught me, turns out he was just an ugly guy who was in a hurry to buy some donuts, I panicked.”

“Sorry to hear it,” Beven said, giving in and chuckling.

“That’s right, laugh it up, man,” Greg grumbled, obviously far from amused, “I’m the one with the car here.”

“Sorry,” Beven snickered.

“Thanks. You gonna tell me where you are or am I going to have to throw darts at a map? If so, your face goes up on the dartboard next, buddy, with my special voodoo darts.”

“Fine,” Beven huffed and rattled off directions to the club. How could such a twisted, immature, bizarre bunch of people possibly have survived what they’d survived?