by Ryan Stygar
Nametag, without a doubt. Ramirez pulled a penlight from his uniform pocket and shined it on the magnetic tag. After a minute of careful inspection, he could see the word Sumatra engraved in a thin line. It was enough to send a chill down his spine.
“Who… who owns this motel?” he asked.
“This building was managed by the Sumatra Hotel Group, so I suppose it must be one of Jordan’s,” O’Hanlon mused.
“Dimitri Jordan?”
“I believe so.”
Ramirez nodded in acknowledgment. According to the top brass at the Sheriff’s office, the notorious gangster had been doing little more than quietly counting his billions and planning for his retirement. Was it possible that they were missing something?
“What were you two sons of bitches doing in here?” Ramirez whispered to himself. He turned to face the fireman.
“Chief O’Hanlon, I’m going to call Sheriff James Wyatt out here to take a look around with me. He and I will require some privacy, can you arrange that?”
He reached into his back pocket and produced a neatly folded, one-hundred dollar bill.
O’Hanlon raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have any idea what my salary is, do you?”
Ramirez scoffed and shook his head. “Asshole.”
He pulled another one hundred dollar bill from his pocket.
The fireman’s chapped lips curled up into a grin. “Pleasure doing business with ya’. The place is all yours. Just try not to be inside if it collapses.”
He tucked the cash into his denim pocket and strode out the door, whistling to himself as he did.
Alone, except for two dead men smoldering behind him, Ramirez took another look at the piece of evidence in his hand. Sumatra he read again. It was possible that the tag could have migrated from one building to the other in the regular course of business. Still, Ramirez was very interested in having a word with whomever had their name engraved on the tag.
He scraped away some of the ash on the tag. It was heavily charred and slightly warped from the heat of the fire, but it wasn’t enough to hide what had been engraved into the magnetized metal. “Adam Friend” he read aloud.
Ramirez took in a deep breath of smoky air and exhaled slowly. The next step in the case would be to find Adam Friend and get some answers.
9
A dam woke in the back of his small pickup truck tightly wrapped in his old blanket. It had been a sleepless, chilly night for him. His eyes ached from the lack of rest and he tried to squeeze them shut and curl into a more comfortable position. Like most mornings, however, the cold air that bit against his skin made returning to sleep impossible. Unable to rest and too sore to remain in place, he reluctantly crawled out of his pickup and stepped into the morning light. Behind the glittering towers of the Strip, the purple horizon was turning light blue as the sun climbed higher.
He pulled on a sweater and looked around his lonely lot. The asphalt space that had become his permanent residence was originally built to serve a K-Mart back in the nineties. Nothing remained of the old store now, only a chain-link fence and a dirty old Lot for Sale sign. Clearly there were no interested buyers.
The only semi-modern building within several blocks was a relatively new McDonald’s restaurant. The Golden Arches were visible from Adam’s four-wheeled estate and his belly growled at the sight.
It had been nearly a day and a half since his last real meal. Long ago, when he first ran out of money, he accepted the fact that someone in his position could not expect to eat every day. Not that he was necessarily starving. On most days he was able to scrape some sort of sustenance together and do alright for himself. There were still days, however, when he simply had to tolerate being hungry.
But now he had a massive pile of cash in his car. Twenty bucks made you a king at McDonald’s, and Adam figured he was long overdue for a proper meal.
Inside the McDonald’s he ordered two egg and sausage breakfast sandwiches, hot coffee, and a crispy-gold hash brown which he wolfed down so fast he barely tasted it.
It was just after seven in the morning when he finished breakfast. An early start and a full stomach was a good way to begin what promised to be a very complicated day.
He recalled the instructions Joe had given him the day before. “You will wait all night if that’s what it takes,” he explained. “You will call this phone number no later than the next afternoon. If I do not receive your call I will assume you are dead, but I will search to verify. If you do not call me and you are not dead then we will have a serious problem, a very serious problem indeed Mr. Friend,” The recollection made Adam shiver, and then a troubling thought crossed his mind.
The men from the black SUV were Russian… or at least they sounded like Russians. They seemed to know exactly what Adam was doing and they were obviously searching for that metal binder. Who were they working for and why did they attack him?
Adam groaned and pushed his fingers through his hair as if doing so would brush away the tension forming at the top of his skull. Perhaps, he wondered, all hope wasn’t lost just yet. Picking up his head and staring out the window toward the lot and his little truck, he realized that he still held a bargaining chip that could save his life. Maybe, just maybe, Joe would be so happy to get the metal binder, which everyone seemed to want, that he would even pay Adam some sort of reward for it.
Adam scoffed at his own optimism. It wasn’t a great chance, but it sure beat going on the run with a team of murderous Russian gangsters on his heels.
He reached into his pocket to pull out the card with Joe’s phone number on it, then fired off a torrent of obscenities when he realized it was empty. How could he be so stupid? How could he be So. Damned. Stupid!
Of course his pockets were empty! He was wearing the jeans he took from Andrew Kremenski’s luggage. In his hurry to change out of his bloodied clothes, he’d forgotten all about the card in his pocket. It was still in my pants! The pants that I incinerated last night!
Adam’s outburst had earned him the ire of an oversized mother-bear on the opposite side of the Micky D’s. Her eyes shot daggers at him while she clasped her hands around her children’s ears.
“I’m having a hard time, lady,” he steamed, returning her glare. She shook her head in disgust.
Adam shot up from his seat and stormed toward the double doors. In an angry fit he kicked a stool on his way out the exit.
“Yeaowww!” he yelped as his foot collided against the unmovable stool bolted to the floor. The mother-bear’s little minions shrieked in delight while he hobbled away.
“Mommy he’s goofy!” they squealed from behind his back.
He sat on the edge of the sidewalk and nursed his throbbing foot. The world around him felt immense and unnavigable. How the hell was he gonna find Joe? More important, what was he gonna do if he missed the deadline and then Joe found him? A tingle of fear crept up his spine. Stop it! That kind of thinking isn’t getting me anywhere, just think! How do I fix this?
He hoped, desperately hoped, that by some miracle his pants and the card inside them might have survived the fire. He limped along the sad boulevard all the way back to the Sunset View Motel in an attempt to salvage his situation.
It was a remarkably stupid idea.
The motel was blockaded by yellow tape and a small army of police cruisers. Two vans from the Coroner’s Office and a bright red SUV with the words “Arson Unit” painted on its side were parked conspicuously in front of the smoldering black crater that was once Motel Room 204.
Adam stared slack-jawed at the carnage his fire had caused. The building had mostly collapsed and in some places wisps of black smoke still curled up from piles of charred debris. Police were setting up little flags where evidence was found, snapping pictures and bagging specimens from the site. The efficiency, the attention to detail, the sheer professionalism of the LVMPD made Adam break into a cold sweat. If there was anything left to find, they would find it. Those guys weren’t playing games.
&n
bsp; A sizeable crowd had gathered around the block to gaze at the scene, but an awful sense of guilt made Adam feel as exposed as a high nail on a board. When a police officer emerged from within the smoking caverns of the building Adam instinctively ducked behind another onlooker. From behind the shoulder of a man in the crowd he stared pale-faced at the item in the cop’s hands.
The tool was bent out of shape burned black, but Adam still recognized the old tire iron he’d used to murder those men. Now there it was, right in a Las Vegas Metro police officer’s hand. The cop paused to remove his sunglasses and wipe a bead of sweat from his brow, revealing a long, discolored scar that ran the entire length of his face when he did. A woman wearing a navy blue jacket with the words “Forensic Division” printed on the back met with the scar-faced officer and took the murder weapon from him.
Adam’s shoulders sagged. He’d just killed two men and he’d done a piss-poor job covering his tracks. Now there was a trail of evidence a mile long. He was without a doubt the worst hit man he’d ever heard of… and it was showing.
On the hood of his unmarked Dodge Charger, Sergeant Adrian Ramirez stared at a pile of half-finished paperwork that would need to be processed before ending his watch. He sighed at the mountain of bureaucracy and, clicking his pen, reluctantly acknowledged that it wouldn’t just finish itself.
“Coffee, Sergeant Ramirez?” a boy-faced rookie offered. He handed over a steaming paper cup. Ramirez pushed some of the paperwork aside, happy for any excuse to procrastinate the tedium.
“Thanks, Garrison,” he said and took a deep gulp of the coffee. “Did your interviews turn up anything new?” he asked the young officer.
“I think so,” replied the rookie, brushing a strand of bright red hair from his freckled forehead. Garrison was about as intimidating as an altar boy, but his gentle appearance belied a lion’s heart in the young man’s chest. Ramirez predicted a bright future for his young protégé.
Energetic, honest, and eager to serve, Garrison reminded Ramirez of some of the young guys he’d served with in the Marine Corps. Garrison grinned excitedly and pulled a thoroughly inked notepad from his uniform pocket.
“Witnesses said two white males were loading luggage into an SUV and arguing about something. Then they pointed at one of the rooms in the motel and ran inside. They were both armed. Less than two minutes later, smoke was filling the building and witnesses reported hearing gunshots over the fire alarm. A few minutes after that, the men were seen limping out of the building before driving off in the same vehicle.”
Ramirez rubbed his chin. “Description and plate number?”
Garrison read the handwritten description on his notepad. “Black Mercedes G 500 SUV, brand new, Nevada plates, last two of the license plate was Eight-Golf,” The young police officer smiled sheepishly and looked up at the scar-faced sergeant. “I hope you don’t mind I put out a notice for patrols to keep an eye out for that car. It seemed like enough evidence to justify it.”
Ramirez nodded gave him a pat on the shoulder. “No not at all… you did the right thing. You’ll let me know if anything comes up?”
“Of course, Sir” Garrison said. He gave a respectful nod and walked off to get a cup of coffee for himself.
Fifteen minutes later the radio in Ramirez’s Charger squawked to life.
“Patrol 318 to Sunset View Incident Commander, priority information on tactical net.”
Ramirez waved down Officer Garrison before snatching up his Motorola radio to reply.
“Sunset View IC to Patrol 318 on tactical net, go ahead with your priority information..”
“I have two suspects in custody, Caucasian males, one with serious but non-fatal injuries to his eyes. Their vehicle matches the description from the notice. Upon searching the vehicle we found unregistered weapons and large amounts of cash. We have secured the scene and we’re awaiting further instructions.”
“I copy, nicely done Patrol 318. Hold your current position and relay your coordinates. I’m coming to meet you,” Ramirez clicked on a ballpoint pen and took down the information as it came over the radio. Garrison was flush with excitement, his interviews had just yielded information that led directly to the arrest of two dangerous criminals with a car full of cash. In his heart he knew that putting out the call made his city a little safer. He loved it; it was precisely the reason why he joined the LVMPD.
Ramirez finished typing the coordinates into his dashboard computer and looked at the red headed officer. “Nice work. You want to come with me to meet your suspects?”
“Oh yes I do!”
10
Sumatra Hotel & Casino, 55th Floor
J acob Cartwright ran his fingers through the girl’s soft blonde hair. Leaning back in his leather chair, a lustful moan escaped his lips.
“Don’t stop.”
His eyes drifted upward, briefly taking in the circle of marble columns that loomed over his living room. “Faster,” he whispered. Frantic knocking at the door to his villa went unanswered; nothing short of a nuclear attack would spoil his climax. Primal instincts made him deaf and blind to everything but the sensation of the girl’s soft lips against him.
The knocking began again, followed by the click of the electronic lock springing open.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” Jacob barked over his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Sir, but it’s important!” the courtesan panted, holding up the cellphone in his hand. His face paled at the sight of the girl on her knees and he quickly shot his eyes to the floor. “It’s Dimitri Jordan, he says it’s urgent!”
Jacob swore under his breath. Perhaps a nuclear explosion would have gone unheeded, but Dimitri Jordan was a force far more powerful than mere plutonium. In a panic he shoved the girl away from him and yanked up his pants.
“Shit! Tell me he’s still on the phone…”
“He is, Sir. Here, take it.”
The attendant handed the phone to his boss while keeping his eyes glued to his feet. Jacob threw a bundle of clothes at the girl and demanded that she leave immediately.
“Out! All of you get out now!”
He panted deeply to calm himself before un-muting the receiver on the phone.
“Mr. Jordan! How can I serve you, Sir?”
“What took so long?” boomed the voice from the other end of the line.
“I… uh,” Jacob stuttered, gathering himself. “I was just … attending to some important business with our escort services. I’m happy to report that, uh, profits are steady and the girls are happy.”
Silence.
“Mr. Jordan…?”
“Keep your cock away from my employees, Jacob,” the voice replied. “If you cannot control your unclean urges then you can hire your own prostitutes. You are not to waste my girls’ time while they are on duty. I will not ask you again.”
Jacob shuddered. “Of course, Mr. Jordan. I’m sorry.”
“I accept your apology, but this is the last time,” the deep voice grumbled. “I have a task for you, its urgent. I want you to gather five of the other Lieutenants and have them assemble their men. Take six Range Rovers from the White Fleet and head north on the I-15 right away. I’ll have your destination texted to your phones shortly.”
“Of course,” Jacob said. Already he was gathering up his silver 1911 and the keys to his Range Rover.
“My spies report that two Russian fugitives were detained by police a few minutes ago,” Jordan explained. “My source says that they have the Russian opium binder that your man was supposed to purchase. I also hear that they have our money with them. Something went wrong.”
Jacob gulped. He was in charge of ensuring Ian’s deal with Andrew Kremenski went through without any interference. Instead he spent the night at the Angels Strip Club. Now the Russians were in police custody with the book and the money. Jordan was displeased, he could hear it in his voice, but punishment would not be administered until the crisis was resolved.
“You
will use overwhelming numbers to surprise the police,” Jordan instructed. “I want you to execute the Russian thieves and then recover the stolen goods.”
Jacob stopped in his tracks. “Sir, with all due respect… if the police have the Russians in custody then it will be extremely difficult to gather those things… I could lose men in the process.”
“I’m aware of the risk, which is why you must move quickly and bring six Lieutenants with you. Six Lieutenants with squads of four men each will be an impossible force for the police to resist. Speed, numbers, and shock are your weapons. I will use my influence to ensure you are not pursued afterward. Understand?”
Jacob was rightfully nervous. Direct confrontations with police, although not unheard of for the Sumatra gang, were still high-risk operations. Staring down a bunch of badges while his groin ached from a severe case of blue-balls was not how he preferred to spend an afternoon. But Dimitri Jordan commanded, and so the Lieutenants obeyed.
“What if the police react violently? If they start shooting then we will have no choice but to defend ourselves, officers will die, then what?”
“Speed. Numbers. Shock,” Jordan answered stubbornly. “The LVMPD officers are brave, but they are not stupid.”
Jacob hoped that his boss was right. At the end of the hall he arrived at a lavish elevator lobby that served Dimitri Jordan’s and his Lieutenant’s penthouses. Four men were lounging and chatting when the heir to Dimitri Jordan’s empire arrived and motioned that they should follow him downstairs. Jacob tapped the silver pistol tucked in his waistband and the men reacted by gathering their own weapons.
“I understand, Sir,” Jacob said, hitting the buttons on the elevator.
Jordan explained further, “As of today the Russians are officially our enemy; once they are gone then we alone will control the opium supply. Get the money, kill the Russians, and return to me with the master opium binder. That is your mission. The police will know better than to interfere, and if they don’t, then Sheriff Wyatt will handle them.”