West of Sin

by Wesley Lewis

  “Ms. Williams,” interrupted Dudka, his voice calm, “I’m much less concerned with assigning blame than with retrieving my eight hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Take it up with the Nye County Sheriff’s Office,” said Crocker. “I don’t know what Scarlett told you, but we don’t have your money. We never did.”

  “She told me as much. She also told me you have a plan to replace it.”

  “What?” Crocker looked to Scarlett for an explanation.

  She smiled. “Five hundred players checking in over the course of five hours, a tournament room located nowhere near the vault, and a million dollars sitting in a glass safe in the center of the gaming floor.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Scarlett’s recital of Crocker’s words hung in the air.

  Jennifer’s mind scrambled to arrange the pieces of the puzzle. “You’re talking about the poker tournament—La Tournament or whatever it’s called?”

  “Le Tournoi,” said Crocker. “Scarlett, what the hell have you gotten us into?”

  “She’s offered you—all of us—a way out of this mess,” said Dudka.

  “You can’t seriously expect me to rob a Las Vegas casino. You may be greedy and corrupt, but you’re not stupid.”

  “It’s neither greed nor stupidity, Mr. Crocker. It’s necessity. I’m a businessman, and as such, I have overhead to cover and, more significantly, partners to compensate. A loss of this magnitude is simply unacceptable.”

  “If you’re a businessman,” said Jennifer, “write it off.”

  Dudka snorted. “Thanks to our local economy, I’m drowning in write-offs—two failed restaurants, an abandoned real estate development, and a winery that consistently operates at a loss. But the IRS doesn’t offer a deduction for money seized in a botched robbery.” He hesitated. “And my partners don’t accept excuses in lieu of cash.”

  Jennifer knew plenty of people who’d lost their shirts on botched real estate developments, but she was astonished that someone could so effortlessly traverse the line separating legitimate business ventures and criminal endeavors.

  Beside her, Crocker shifted uncomfortably on the stone hearth. “How exactly do you expect me to steal eight hundred thousand dollars from Le Tournoi?”

  Dudka grinned. “Any way you can.”

  “And if I refuse? Do I end up a headless, limbless corpse like your three couriers who got arrested in California?”

  Dudka’s grin faded; his eyes narrowed. “If you refuse, Sasha and Ilya will disperse your remains across twenty thousand square miles of desert, and I’ll recoup some small fraction of my loss by selling Ms. Williams to one of my clients overseas.”

  Jennifer emitted a shallow gasp.

  Dudka turned and looked her over. “Don’t take this personally, dear, but your young blond friend would have fetched a much better price. You’re pretty enough, but you have some—what’s the term?—city miles on you.”

  Jennifer winced, both at the threat of being sold as a sex slave and the suggestion that she was too old to fetch a good price. She opened her mouth to tell him to go fuck himself, but a hiss of static from the intercom box near the door preempted her.

  Sasha pivoted toward the source of the noise and placed one hand atop a small bulge at the back of his shirt.

  “Hey, guys,” crackled Vegas’s girlish voice over the intercom. “Anybody there?”

  Dudka looked at Scarlett. “Take care of it.”

  She walked to the intercom and pressed the talk button. “What do you want, Vegas?”

  The box hissed again. “Are Matt and Jennifer back yet? I want to stop by and pick up my phone and wigs and things before I join the lineup.”

  “Sorry, they’re not back yet.”

  “Can I come wait for them with you guys? I really need my stuff.”

  “Tell her you’ll bring it to her,” said Dudka.

  Scarlett pressed the button. “Larry and I are kind of . . . umm . . . busy right now, but as soon as Matt and Jennifer get back, I’ll grab your stuff and run it down to you. Okay?”

  “Busy, huh?” Vegas giggled. “Okay, I guess that’ll work. Just don’t take too long. None of my regulars can reach me if I don’t have my phone.”

  Scarlett returned to the couch and reclaimed her seat beside Dudka.

  “Should this concern me?” he asked.

  “Nah. Vegas just wants that phone Sasha found, plus the wigs and dresses she loaned Jennifer.”

  “Fine. Take them to her.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, before she gets impatient and comes looking for them.”

  Scarlett sighed and stood again. “Sasha, hand me that ugly-ass bag you took.”

  He picked up the diaper bag and tossed it to her.

  “Hey!” She reacted just in time to catch it. “I said hand it to me.”

  He shrugged.

  Scarlett turned to Jennifer. “I need those too.”

  “Need what?” asked Jennifer.

  “The wig and dress. Take ’em off.”

  Jennifer recoiled. “Fuck you. I’m not taking off my dress.”

  Scarlett looked back at Sasha. “Get the dress.”

  He took a step toward Jennifer, who felt the same panic she’d felt at the Placer Gold truck stop.

  “No!” she screamed.

  Crocker jumped to his feet and stepped between Sasha and Jennifer. Ilya raised the Makarov and pointed it at him.

  Crocker looked at Dudka and said, “If you want my cooperation, you’ll let her change in the bathroom.”

  Nobody moved or spoke. Ilya kept his gun trained on Crocker’s head. Dudka seemed lost in thought.

  Finally, the Russian mob boss looked at Jennifer and asked, “You have something else to wear?”

  Jennifer nodded and pointed to the diaper bag. “In there.”

  Dudka turned to Sasha. “Check the bag. Make sure she doesn’t have a phone or a weapon.”

  Sasha retrieved the bag from Scarlett and began sifting through the compartments.

  Dudka continued, “Ms. Williams, I will give you exactly three minutes in the toilet. You will leave the door cracked. If you take longer than that, I’ll send in Sasha to deal with you as he sees fit.”

  Jennifer nodded, her heart still pounding from the threat of having her clothes ripped off.

  Dudka turned to Scarlett and added, “You get dressed too. I intend to move this party someplace I can control.”

  Scarlett offered a coquettish smile. “Whatever you say.” She untied the kimono and let it slide from her shoulders and drop to her feet. Completely naked, she kicked the silk garment to the side and whispered, “Be right back.”

  Crocker’s and Sasha’s eyes followed the nubile young woman as she jiggled her way across the living room and into what Jennifer assumed must have been the master bedroom.

  Dudka’s gaze remained fixed on his two hostages. “Sasha, does that satchel contain anything that should concern me?”

  “Nyet,” replied Sasha as he palmed a handful of condoms into the front pocket of his jeans. “Clothes. Makeup. A wig. Rubbers.”

  Dudka nodded and turned to Larry. “Where is the toilet?”

  Larry pointed to a door near the entryway. “There.”

  Dudka turned back to Sasha. “Give her the bag, and check the toilet.”

  Sasha tossed the bag at Jennifer’s feet and marched off toward the bathroom.

  Dudka glanced back at Jennifer and nodded toward the bag. She leaned forward and grabbed it.

  The sound of drawers and cabinets being yanked open and slammed shut echoed from the bathroom. A moment later, Sasha emerged carrying a pair of styling shears and a nail file.

  “Clean,” he said.

 
Dudka checked an expensive-looking wristwatch. “Ms. Williams, your time starts . . . now.”

  For a brief moment, Jennifer thought he was joking. When she realized he wasn’t, she jumped to her feet and ran toward the bathroom.

  Dudka added, “Please be so kind as to leave the door cracked a few inches. If Sasha hears anything out of the ordinary, he has my permission to conduct as thorough an investigation as he sees fit.”

  Once inside the bathroom, it took all Jennifer’s willpower not to slam the door and lock it behind her. Her every instinct told her to put as many barriers as she could between herself and Vladimir Dudka’s goons.

  She summoned her self-control and left a half-inch crack between the door and the jamb. Almost immediately the door pressed back against her hand, opening an extra three inches.

  “Like this,” said Sasha as he pushed from the other side.

  “Okay, okay!” pleaded Jennifer, not wanting him to open the door any farther.

  Ever cognizant of the ticking clock, she dropped the diaper bag on the counter and dug through it. For the moment, she was less interested in finding her clothes than in finding anything Sasha might have overlooked, anything that might help her and Crocker.

  She pulled out useless item after useless item—her uncomfortable stiletto heels, the clothes and wig Ashley had worn, her overpriced little black dress, the extra pair of panties Tom had bought, Vegas’s makeup kit, a pack of tissues—nothing that was going to save the day. She checked the side pocket and found that Sasha had cleaned out the stash of condoms, leaving only a bottle of K-Y Liquid and a couple of Viagra tablets.

  Panic began to set in. If she and Crocker couldn’t find some way to escape before Dudka’s men dragged them off to God knew where, they might never be heard from again.

  “Two minutes,” called Dudka from the living room.

  Does he mean that I have two minutes or that I’ve used two minutes? wondered Jennifer, her panic level rising.

  With no time to waste, she pulled the bright red wig from her head, stripping bobby pins from her hair. She dropped the wig onto the counter and, stretching her right arm to its limit, yanked down the zipper on the gold sequined dress. She reached for the hem of the dress and, finding it even higher than she remembered, pulled the whole thing up over her head.

  As she dropped the dress onto the counter, she saw a small white card flutter to the ground. She knelt and picked it up.

  It was Sheriff Cargill’s business card, the one Crocker had given her atop the Stratosphere. She flipped it over and saw the handwritten phone number for FBI special agent Bruce Eastland.

  If only I had a phone.

  That thought gave way to another. Jennifer dropped the card onto the counter and dug through the pile of items she’d removed from the diaper bag.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Sasha eyed the bathroom door as if ready to pounce. Crocker prayed Jennifer wouldn’t try anything desperate.

  To his left, Ilya stood with his pistol pointed low, at the ready. Crocker studied the gun out of the corner of his eye and noticed that the muzzle end was thicker and rounder than that of a standard Makarov. He’d heard that select units of the Soviet special forces were issued Makarovs equipped with integrated silencers, but those guns were ghosts, something one expected to find displayed in a museum, not carried by a mob enforcer.

  It occurred to him that he hadn’t heard Ilya speak. It was possible the man didn’t speak English. Knowing for sure could prove to be of vital strategic importance.

  He caught Ilya’s eye and asked, “You were Spetsnaz, weren’t you?”

  Ilya watched Crocker in silence. Finally, he smiled and, in a posh English accent, replied, “No, Mr. Crocker, my talents lie elsewhere.”

  Both Ilya and Dudka burst into laughter as Crocker stared in disbelief.

  The bedroom door swung open, and Scarlett emerged wearing a pink jogging suit. She glanced around and asked, “Is the bitch done changing?”

  Larry pivoted in his chair and replied, “Darling, there is only one bitch in this house, and right now she’s wearing the velour tracksuit I bought her.”

  Scarlett smiled and walked to the couch.

  Dudka looked at his watch and said, “Time is up. Get her out here.”

  Sasha gave the bathroom door a shove. It swung open just as Jennifer pulled the little black dress down over her hips.

  Sasha filled the doorway, blocking her exit. The two of them stood almost nose to nose.

  Jennifer turned to her left and raised her right arm. “Zip me.”

  The young man glanced around as if suspecting a trap. When he’d apparently concluded that the dress wasn’t wired to explode, he reached forward, grabbed the zipper, and jerked it violently upward.

  “Thanks.” She bent down to put on her high heels.

  Sasha grabbed the packed diaper bag from the counter.

  “Search every pocket of that thing,” said Dudka. “Make sure she didn’t slip a note into it. Then give it and the phone to Ms. Scarlett to deliver to her friend.”

  “Khorosho.” Sasha knelt to inspect the bag.

  “Once the bag is delivered, you and Ms. Scarlett follow in Mr. Chappell’s car. His absence will seem less suspicious if his car is gone.” Dudka pointed to Crocker’s pile of security items lying on the floor. “Don’t forget all of that.”

  “Khorosho.”

  Crocker tried to remember if his alma mater had offered Russian as a foreign language. At the moment, his four semesters of Latin were not coming in handy.

  Dudka scanned the room and said, “Ilyusha, would you be so good as to ask Jesse to pull the van up front? It’s time to go.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The back of the cargo van smelled like a gym locker room. There were no windows and no seats, just worn carpet stained with God knew what. Jennifer thought she detected a hint of urine beneath the overpowering stench of sweat.

  Squeezed between Crocker and Larry, she felt almost claustrophobic. The three prisoners rode with their backs against the front bulkhead, facing rearward. Across from them, Ilya leaned against the rear cargo door, his eyes alert, his gun at the ready.

  Jennifer wasn’t sure how long they’d been on the road—at least thirty minutes. She glanced once again at Crocker, hoping for a bit of reassurance, but his eyes were still shut.

  As soon as they’d turned out of the Prickly Pear parking lot, Crocker had closed his eyes and disappeared into his own world. His occasional head tilts—slow and deliberate—were the only indication he wasn’t asleep.

  After a couple of failed attempts to coax information from Ilya, Larry had settled for staring at the floor. For the past twenty-some-odd minutes, they’d ridden in silence.

  The van slowed, made a sharp turn to the right, and eased to a stop. Jennifer heard a series of hums and creaks that she recognized as the sound of a garage door closing.

  Crocker opened his eyes. “Is this it?”

  Ilya smiled and, in his incongruous English accent, replied, “Home sweet home.”

  The sound of the garage door ceased, and Ilya turned toward the rear of the van just as the cargo door swung open. Outside, Dudka waited beside a toadlike little man who held the largest handgun Jennifer had ever seen.

  Dudka surveyed the prisoners and said, “Jesse, help Ilya escort the men to the basement. Make sure they’re secure; then come help my team load the van.”

  In a raspy voice, clearly American, the rotund man replied, “Whatever you say, boss.”

  “Ilyusha, stay with the men until Sasha returns; then come find me. I’ll be in the bedroom with Ms. Williams.”

  Jennifer glanced at Crocker, her eyes screaming, THE BEDROOM?

  Crocker didn’t respond, and Jennifer prayed he hadn’t taken leave of his s
enses.

  Dudka extended a hand into the van. “Shall we?”

  She glanced at Larry. His eyes conveyed at least some hint of sympathy. Reluctantly, she crawled forward, accepted Dudka’s outstretched hand, and let him help her out of the van.

  To her surprise, she found herself standing in a standard two-car garage containing two identical white vans. She’d expected something a bit more elaborate, perhaps a row of expensive sports cars or a wall of torture implements.

  Dudka positioned himself behind her and pointed to a door in the corner of the garage. “This way.”

  She walked to the door and glanced back at Dudka.

  “You can open it,” he said. “The bedroom is to your left, at the end of the hall.”

  She turned the knob and gave a slow push. The door opened, and she stepped into what looked like a standard suburban home. To her right was a living room that might have been lifted from one of the hundreds of ranch-style homes she’d shown during her brief stint as a residential Realtor. To her left was a short hallway with two open doors on the right and a closed one at the far end.

  She turned down the hallway and moved slowly toward the far door. She could hear Dudka’s footsteps a couple of paces behind her.

  She approached the first open door and recognized the foul stench of a well-used bathroom. A quick glance as she passed confirmed that it had not been cleaned in a very long time.

  As she approached the second door, the smell of the bathroom gave way to a caustic industrial smell. Glancing inside, she saw a four-poster bed, atop which rested a pile of guns. Two large men in sleeveless shirts sat on the once-white bedspread, which was now ragged with holes and stained with splotches of dark gray, cleaning a pair of military-style rifles.

  Jennifer recalled once seeing a news report about a police raid on a Dallas home that had been found to contain a meth lab. The neighbors interviewed for the story had expressed shock and outrage that their quiet middle-class subdivision could play host to a drug lab. She wondered what the residents of this neighborhood would think if they knew they were living next to a safe house for the Russian mob.