By Blood We Live

He nodded, studying their predatory eyes before slipping out of the casino floor monitoring room. Maybe he was losing it, if they could see it so clearly. Sharks could always sense blood in the water from miles away, and from what Fat Joe had said and the expression on his face, it was obvious he was bleeding to death. But the big question was, had his cover been blown somehow? And ultimately, did that matter? If he was a traitor, he was dead; if he was perceived as a liability, he was dead. Sharks would eat their own if one of them was weak or injured.

Right now he seemed weak, seemed injured. He knew his eyes had given him away. His sweat in a cool, air-conditioned room had telegraphed to them that something out of the blue had made him freak. He could have replayed the images, but what if what he saw was all in his head? Then there'd be questions, deeper digging into his background. He couldn't fully trust his own, either. There had been a leak back at the Federal Task Force on Organized Crime, Jersey Division.

After what they'd done to his Meghan, his partner, and his partner's wife, there was no time for so-called healing. He kept walking. If they snuffed him in the men's room, then he'd take several of them with him.

Checking the stalls briefly, he walked past the urinals and went to the sinks splashing water on his face quickly so that his senses remained alert. He grabbed a paper towel and stared in the mirror as he wiped away the water, not seeing himself, but the fire before he turned away.

His partner, Nate, was the inside man, he'd worked the logistics in the office. Their wives were dear friends. That day, Meghan had gone over to personally tell Carol the good news… she was pregnant. Tony briefly closed his eyes. The kids, thank God, were in the yard when Carol turned on the burner under a tea kettle. Both women were at ground zero when the blast rocked the kitchen. Nate heard it on the police band. Evidence of the charred radio told them that. He'd never made it home to collect his devastated children or to bury his wife. They'd duct-taped explosives to Nate's chair, and then allowed the warehouse to go up like a Fourth of July display.

He needed a drink, even though that was thoroughly against casino policy. Fuck it. No wonder he was seeing things. Following the rules had never been his forte, at least not after what went down had gone down.

Heading toward the elevators, he kept his gaze scanning.

He'd known all along that there had to be a leak, no matter what the internal investigation revealed. His own personal investigation told him otherwise. Some people even suggested that he rest, stop asking questions, take a vacation, take time off to grieve Meghan. There were a lot of people who didn't want the Gambiotti family to have any legal problems. Political incorrectness was entrenched in the system, as was payola. He took their advice for three months, took time off to do what he had to do. So when bodies within the department started dropping, they never suspected it was one of their own making a surgical strike. It wasn't murder, in his mind; it was a matter of principle.

Chaos bred panic. Those within the department left in the chain of command wanted the loose ends tied up quickly before death came to their door. They wanted him back on the job, back in play; suddenly, they didn't care about his healing or his loss. Survival instinct was a motherfucker. They knew that a man with nothing to lose was a dangerous thing, so they set him on the other side like a rabid dog-never the wiser about who was hitting dirty feds-and they sicced him on the side that had given the hit order. He could go after the Gambiottis with impunity, as long as he yielded results… but if he was caught doing anything outside the scope of the law, he was on his own, a rogue that they would necessarily disavow.

The bell sounding the elevator arrival gave him a start. He stepped inside, glad it was empty, and went down to the casino floor. He

had to talk to that black jack dealer and pit boss before he left to go out for a smoke. A small dive bar around the corner was calling his name, but so was the need to know.

He approached the table carefully, watching the patrons and the dealer until the young man noticed him. After the hand, he shut the table down.

"Yo, man, I knew y'all was coming-ask Stan, the chick said it was my tip. Y'all ain't breaking my legs for no bullshit. I don't steal from the house, never have."

"The kid is clean, Tony," Stan said, his voice low as he entered the quiet but intense conversation.

"I haven't said a word and you all have jumped to a defense," Tony said coolly, regarding both men.

"C'mon, Tony. What are we supposed to think? One of you guys comes down here from the monitoring booth, shuts down the table, and whatever, right after the kid gets a big tip." The old man lifted his chin. "It ain't right."