Double-Blind: A Modern LITRPG

Chapter 315

As the three of us idled in the empty, unfurnished unit, Jackson occasionally crossing the vast expanse of carpet, dust, and open space to peek at the street through the blinds, we played poker.

I fidgeted with the thumb drive Chuck copied the video file to, flicking the lid open and closed before folding a mid hand, checking my DMs for a response and finding none.

The mercenaries' betting pool, comprised of provisions and random materials jotted down on small slips of paper, multiplied, resembling a craft store heap of confetti. Jackson would win this hand if he stayed in, as Chuck had nothing.

You could tell a lot about a person by the way they played cards. How they dealt with loss and adversity. How clever they were, how careful.

So far, Jackson was winning in more ways than one. I'd been skewing the odds in his favor for a while, only in part because I didn't like Chuck, primarily because it presented an everyday opportunity to practice more subtle applications of my Ordinator abilities.

"This is horseshit," Chuck groused after they both placed their cards down, and Jackson, still cross-legged, leaned forward to sweep the heap of slips into the towering nest of paper at his side.

"Gotta agree." Jackson tilted his head, mouth quirked in puzzlement. "Rather catch this kinda streak at a high stakes table. The cards I'm getting, feels like tapping generational luck for small potatoes."

It was a courteous way to put it that wasn't entirely accurate. Unless I was completely wrong, Jackson was enjoying the hell out of fleecing Chuck. But he wasn't letting the wins go to his head. He was the sort of person who derived quiet satisfaction from minor victories, instead of growing overconfident and egotistical.

Naturally, Chuck went the other way. As he shuffled, he peered at his associate, tight-mouthed and suspicious. "Assuming you're not cheating."

"Sir." Jackson rolled his eyes. "They're your cards. And you've shuffled and dealt every round. So please, explain to my simple ass how that's even possible."

"Let you know when I figure it out," Chuck muttered.

We played a few more rounds, Jackson rising every so often to check the street. Chuck recouped some of his slips, though that had less to do with me altering the odds than Jackson—unexpectedly—folding when he didn't have to, presenting a consolation prize. That only made me respect him more.

In reality, they both likely made enough in an hour to recoup any potential loss, let alone what they were betting. The difference was Jackson seemed more concerned with the possibility of pissing off future associates than he was with winning, while Chuck was completely preoccupied with the game itself, low-key desperate to regain his losses.

If pressed, in need of a tech guy with no better alternative immediately on hand, I'd probably call on Chuck again.

But over the course of the last few hours, it was clear that Jackson had real potential for more involvement.

As Chuck dealt the cards, I closed the lid of the thumb drive too hard, resulting in an audible snap. Chuck pretended not to notice, dealing my first card and moving on. "Just out of curiosity—"

"No," I said.

"Didn't even let me finish." He sighed, all but flicking the second card at me. It landed on the first and kept its momentum, bumping directly into my knee. "Come on. I pieced the damn thing back together."

"A service for which you were generously compensated." I took the cards, idly noted a pair of queens, then set them back down.

"It wouldn't have been hard to keep a copy," Chuck observed, a faint edge to his voice.

"Which of course, you weren't foolish enough to do. Because no curiosity's worth risking what we're gettin' paid," Jackson shot back.

"Yeah, yeah." Chuck huffed, backing off a little. "Played the good little Boy Scout. Now I'm curious as hell." He looked at me. "Want to bet on it? Make this round interesting?" R̃aNŐ₿Èṣ

"Acting like a kid begging for presents on Christmas Eve." Jackson shook his head. "Sometimes in life you're better off letting questions go unanswered. Purged video file on a fed's laptop—somethin' he went out of his way to obscure—can only be so many things. Most of 'em? Ain't good. Let it go."

"Really believe that?" I asked, mostly biding time, laddering the drive between my fingers.

"Yup."

That cinched it. Jackson was smart, perceptive, quick to follow orders, but had no issue questioning his clients or their behavior if he predicted a possible issue. I'd need to do more background for anything longer term, but for today, it was more than enough.

"That why you've been folding solid hands?" I stretched out on the carpet, steepling my fingers behind my head. "To keep our mercurial friend placated?"

Jackson made a tutting noise. "And Chuck thinks I'm the one he needs to worry about." He stood and approached the window, splaying two fingers to part the blinds.

"Anything?" I asked.

"Not so much as a drive by." Jackson shrugged. "Been long enough that there should have been something by now. Think we're clear."

The violet alert notification illuminated in the bottom left corner of my vision, indicating a new message. I focused on it until it expanded.

I blinked. The typically dour Steward was so much friendlier in text.

The second message, which kept the friendly tone, was decidedly less so in content.

I grimaced and shot a message back.

I fought a wave of frustration.

There was a feeling of tightening skin, as the usual vein stood out on my forehead. The Steward was being annoyingly circular about this—not to mention maintaining a constant vagueness that gave the impression he was somehow, irrationally worried that someone other than the two of us might read it.

It didn't really matter what I'd already done. The value wasn't the point. The Steward had enough of a bug up his ass about the "rat" that he was willing to twist arms to solve the problem, and I had the misfortune of being the first person outside his domain to offer one.

And yeah, sure, I was desperate.

But that didn't mean I couldn't rub it in his face a little.

lot more, considering how unsecure your entire operation was before it was brought to your attention.>

I swiped the message screen away, frustrated, not bothering to look as another message arrived, the light chime and system notification that accompanied a new quest appeared a few seconds after.

"Bad news?" Jackson asked. While I was quietly wrestling with The Steward, he'd started cleaning the room, eliminating any evidence that someone was here.

"Not quite." I bit my lip. I'd been warming to the idea of keeping Jackson on for a while longer. Given the situation, I was hesitant to trust new people. But with Miles breathing down my neck, waiting for an excuse to scoop up known associates, I couldn't exactly rely on old contacts, either. The strike team was out. The friends I was going to the tower with were out. Family was absolutely out. There was always the Nursery, but outside of a few exceptions they weren't ready, and leaning on them in any meaningful way could come back and bite me in the ass if Miles caught me out.

"Got a lot to do today. Most of it menial, though to be perfectly honest, some isn't. Nothing too rough. Getting it all done by this evening is gonna be the trick." I glanced at him. "Wanna stay clocked in after Chuck dips? Tag along?"

"Beats staring at the countdown." Jackson shrugged. "Where we going?"

"Couple stops along the way, people to talk to, things to deliver," I recited.

"And after that?" Jackson asked.

I thought of Vernon. My original plan was to save retrieving him from The Order for the end of the day. There were a lot of moving parts, and it wasn't necessarily something I could handle quickly. Getting Vernon out alive meant removing his Geass, which required negotiating with Hastur. And there was no being more long-winded in any version of reality than a god.

If The Steward insisted on dropping his problems in my lap at the worst possible time, it was better to handle his quest last. If I ran out of time, there wouldn't be a contingency. But that was better than dropping the ball altogether.

"Relocating a VIP. But before that, we need to see a lady about a book."