Table twelve. Baccarat.
The man in the grey suit had been here four hours. She knew this the way she knew most things — the Sense had filed it when she'd reviewed the floor cameras from the car. He was winning at a rate. Not the irregular, lurching rate of luck. Not the cautious, compounding rate of competence.
The rhythmic, suspiciously consistent rate of a man who knew something he shouldn't.
She reached the bar.
"Sixteen," she said.
Her floor manager, Lena, materialized at her right shoulder with the speed of someone who had been watching for her arrival.
"Eyes on table twelve since your call," Lena confirmed, voice low and level. "He's not touching the cards. Clean hands all night."
"Show me the chips."
Lena tilted her tablet. Avriana looked at the denomination spread without leaning in. Her eyes tracked the denominations, the positioning, the frequency of wins by card value.
"He's reading the shoe," Avriana said.
