Crum was a dead man walking. He sat, wet-assed in a puddle in the narrow alley behind the Golden Ticket rubbing his temples with one hand and feeling out a rib to see if it was broken with the other. He decided it wasn’t broken, just bruised, consoling himself with the thought that, if the device’s after-effects worked the way he thought, the goons inside wouldn’t feel any better. After this, they’d give him a wide berth, remembering a much bigger dust-up than had actually happened, to explain their collective aches and pains over the next couple of days. Wouldn’t do his reputation as a fighter any harm.

And that was no consolation at all. Because Dom had made it clear that he held Crum personally responsible for the loss of the pot and was not about to forget it. Crum was on the hook for a couple million plus the vig to Dom. The vig, of course, being unspecified, and bound to increase to more than Crum could pay, to keep him in hock ad infinitum. Owned. Just like Duke before him. Dumbass.

Which would have been bad enough to put a dent in Crum’s mood all on its own, but was far from the worst of his problems.

Because Dom was just a schoolyard bully next to Yarek. And Yarek wouldn’t just want his own million back. He would want the pot, with a vig to match Dom’s. Because heaven forbid anyone in hock to him should be further in hock to someone else, just on principle. Dogs with two masters, and all that.

But the money, in truth, was nothing. The device was the issue. Crum wasn’t sure which would have been worse. Going back to Yarek with the bad news the device didn’t work. Or going back with the news the device worked, but was broken. Crum really hoped it wasn’t broken. At least the self-interested part of him currently in charge did. There was a tiny, altruistic voice whispering a prayer that it was broken beyond repair, and that the blueprints, source code, and anything else needed to recreate it were lost in a fire. A saint shouldn't have that kind of power over others, let alone a scumbag like Yarek. Crumb stuffed a rag in its metaphorical mouth before his rational brain could get involved and bog his lizard brain down with questions about ethics and moral relativism.

He touched his fingertips to his bust and bleeding nose gingerly. Not because of the pain, which he was used to. But to locate the implanted device. When he felt the hard lump, about the size of a grain of rice, he ran his thumb over the skin above it, guiding it down to the top of his nostril. Then he closed the other nostril with his fingertips and huffed, forcing the object out, into his palm, along with a glob of mixed mucus and blood.

Seemingly instinctively, he recoiled and shook his hand. Swore softly as the blood, mucus, and the device flopped from his hand into the puddle beside him. Then wiped his palm on his ripped and bloody shirt, before rinsing it off in the puddle, and feeling around on the coarse concrete for the device.

He found it and wiped the slime off, passing it to his clean hand before wiping the dirty water off on the remains of his shirt.

Anyone watching would think he was just dusting himself off after a beating. He made a show of huffing and puffing his way to his feet, dropping the device into his trouser pocket as he stumbled to his feet.

It was broken. He knew, from the slight bend in the grain. The self-interested part of his brain hoped it wasn’t beyond repair, while the altruistic part gave a smug little chuckle. Conscious Crum hoped it wasn’t an early one-of-a-kind prototype, drowning out the unconscious noise. He assumed the brief dip in water wouldn’t have done any damage, since it had been implanted inside him.

"Dumb place to plant a device, the nose," he muttered. Especially when you were putting it in the nose of an undercover operative with a military background, who boxed, and lived more on his fists than his wits, he added silently. You’d think the boffins capable of coming up with tech like this would have the common sense to put it somewhere it wouldn’t be exposed to occupational violence, right?

Again. No consolation. Yarek wouldn’t take it out on the boffins. He’d add the cost of the device to Crum’s tab, thereby ensuring his grandkid’s grandkids, should there ever be any, would be as much in debt to Yarek’s descendants.

Crum started the slow walk out of the alley. He was still assessing the situation ahead of figuring out his best course of action in relation to Dom, Yarek, and getting the hell out of dodge, when the back door of the Golden Ticket opened. A tall, slim figure in a long dark coat, carrying something that looked like a gym bag, slid out. 

Crum shook his head in confusion. It couldn’t be. That made no sense. The guy had disappeared into thin air a good fifteen minutes before. Why would he be in the back alley now?

But there he was. Gangly as life, his lanky frame gliding into the night, bag swinging, no doubt full of the cash from the game.

“Oi!” Crum yelled, quickening his pace to a lumbering jog. If he could at least get the money back, that would get Dom off his back. Might even cancel the vig if he got it back quick enough. Then he'd be back to only having Yarek to worry about.

Who was he kidding? 

The stranger made no sign of having heard him. He didn’t look back or change his pace. Crum sped up into a full run. The figure turned the corner, exiting the back alley onto a side street, heading away from The Golden Ticket. This road was quieter than the main drag, but still with enough people out walking this time of night to feel safe.

Crum slowed as he reached the street. Found his target, further ahead than expected, but still within range. Chasing him down in public wouldn’t look good, Crum reasoned, especially in his dishevelled state. Better to follow him, bide his time.

Just as Crum was about to step into the street, a van pulled in sharply, cutting off his view of his mark. Crum craned his neck to keep the stranger with the bag in his line of sight, as the van’s front door opened. A stocky young man dressed in black sprang out. The van’s side door sliding open was like a match sticking on Crum’s vagus nerve, his lizard brain cursing at having let its guard down.

Crum attempted to step back, too late to prevent the dark cloth sliding over his head, blocking his vision completely, the hands grabbing his arms and twisting them behind his back, or the boots swiping his feet from under him simultaneously.

At least they had the manners to wrap him up quick and clean, Crum, thought, as he landed in a heap in the back of the van. It was about the most courteous anyone had been to him in a while. Professional. Impersonal. If he didn't know better, he'd have said almost deferential, even. Which made no sense under the circumstances.

So, probably not Yarek’s men. Which made even less sense. Because who else would be following him? Who else knew about the device?