by Ryan Stygar
He managed to roll on his back and get a look around. The lot had a row of rolling metal doors on one side and a tall concrete wall on the other. Freight trucks with red and gold Sumatra logos painted on their sides were parked at the far end of the lot. Looking up Adam could see he was at the base of the fifty-five story, amber-gold Sumatra tower; he was currently lying in its utilities complex. A few tugs from a serrated blade cut Adam free, and then the three men got into their white Range Rover and drove away.
Adam stretched a hand down to his bloodied leg and yanked out the wooden shard that pierced him earlier. It wasn’t as big or as deep as he initially feared, which gave him some small comfort. For a long time, he just laid there and breathed steadily. He could hardly believe it, but he was still alive.
A drowsy cloud swirled around him. Labored breaths turned to snores. The Las Vegas Strip hummed to life just beyond the concrete walls of the Sumatra Hotel’s utility lot, and Adam let the noise carry him away. Sprawled out like a broken doll, he fell asleep right where Jacob had left him.
It was a perfect afternoon. Sunshine cast a golden hue onto the park’s rolling lawns of grass. A warm summer breeze pushed the smell of fresh-cut grass against young Adam’s rosy face. His mother smiled lovingly as she cut the crust off his peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
“I see a boy with jelly all over his hands and face, who’s going to clean him up?”
“Nobody! I like my mess!” the child declared.
“Oh we will see about that!”
“Neverrrr!” he shouted. With that the chase was on. He bolted up and ran away as fast as his legs would carry him. Right when he thought he was about to get away, his mother appeared out of nowhere and scooped him in her arms. Both giggled as she held him and pinched his face.
“I’ve got you now!” she teased. He laughed when she pinched him again.
And again.
And then again, harder this time.
“Ouch Mommy!” Adam shouted.
“Mommy?” a stranger’s voice asked. “He might be in worse shape than he looks.”
“That’s saying a lot, what happened to him?”
“I don’t know! I found him like this when I left work.”
“Vince?” Adam said. Two blurry paramedics and the worried face of his closest friend appeared before him.
“See the bruising on his neck? Someone tried to strangle him to death. Have you spoken to the police about this?”
“Police came and went already,” Vince answered. “They told me to get him out of here and not to tell anyone. But look at him, he’s really hurt! Why would they tell me not to call for help?”
The medics said nothing.
Years of experience in Las Vegas taught them two important lessons. The first lesson was that the Sumatra was something of a psychological terror to the police. For whatever reason, cops were always on edge around the place. Despite the stunning beauty and ultra-lux accommodations of the Sumatra, most LVMPD officers refused to even set foot in the place.
The second lesson? If a world-class police force like the LVMPD was afraid of something, then you’d better be afraid of it too.
Vince broke the uneasy silence. “Is he gonna be okay?”
“It’s hard to say just by looking at him; he really needs an x-ray to be sure. We can transport him to the ER right away, maybe get him some drugs for the pain –
Adam jolted and the three men around him jumped with surprise.
“No x-rays!” he coughed. “No hospital!” he coughed again. He pulled himself up to his knees. One of the paramedics offered a hand, but Adam waved him away.
“I don’t have insurance” Adam explained. “I can’t afford to go to a hospital. Please, just patch up my leg and let me go.”
He pointed to the oozing, sticky red mess on his leg where the splinter had pierced him. The paramedics insisted that he go to the ER but Adam wouldn’t have it. After having his wound cleaned and dressed he signed a release form and the ambulance took off. Vince’s lip trembled.
“What happened to you man? Who did this?”
Adam didn’t answer, he just looked at the ground. An angry tear formed in his eye.
“You’re coming home with me,” Vince declared. Adam didn’t argue. With gentle care Vince hoisted his friend’s arm around his shoulder and led him to his tiny yellow Miata. As Adam eased himself into the passenger seat, Vince handed over a large cup of water from the breakroom which Adam happily gulped down. To his surprise, Vince also tossed a joint and a lighter into his lap.
Adam shot an annoyed look at him. “Do I look like I want to hot box a car with you right now?”
“It’s for the pain, dummy. Just smoke it up and drink the water.”
Adam complied. He lit the marijuana cigarette and took a long drag. He coughed a little, sipped the water, and took another hit after that.
Vince scooted his bulky frame into the driver’s seat and drove toward his apartment. Adam noticed with a smile that all his pains and aches had been replaced by a light, tingling sensation. He giggled.
“See buddy?” Vince said. “Much better than Ibuprofen, right? We’re here, let me help you out,”
Vince unloaded his friend from the Miata and then hoisted him up into his arms and carried him up the stairwell to his apartment.
Adam’s body felt numb, but all his other senses seemed to be on overdrive. The bright red and white paint that speckled the apartments swirled around like giant happy splashes of color.
“Look at all these colors!” Adam grinned.
“Deep breaths brother, I think you overdid it back there,” Vince’s voice echoed.
Adam shook his head. “But I don’t wanna wash my face…”
“Oh man, you definitely overdid it back there.”
Vince pulled Adam’s arm over his shoulder and lugged him toward his door. Adam was like a child, lazily dragging his feet as they walked by each apartment door toward Vince’s place. The glean of the sunlight on brass door knobs was too much to resist.
Adam kept trying to catch them, babbling some nonsense about “pretty pocket stars” as he did. Vince resorted to swatting Adam’s hand every few steps to keep him moving forward.
“Just a few more steps, Adam. No don’t touch that… I said stop it. C’mon buddy focus, you’re almost there.”
Minutes later, Adam was resting on the enormous green couch that dominated the living area in Vince’s apartment.
“I feel like a cloud,” Adam whispered
Adam could hear somebody shuffling through drawers in the room. “Ohhh… that doesn’t belong in there… shit that’s not good.”
Vince ran over to where Adam lay and looked into his drifting eyes.
“Hey, uh I messed up a little,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”
A door opened and closed and Adam was alone.
Reggae music played softly from Vince’s stereo as the drowsy cloud returned to him. A falling sensation enveloped his body and Adam slipped into a deep, peaceful sleep.
18
Spring Valley, West Las Vegas, 6:15am
A drian Ramirez liked to wake up early on his mornings off. His morning routine started with a quick cup of coffee followed by a half-hour run around his neighborhood. Early runs had been part of his daily regimen since he was in the Marine Corps; no day felt complete unless he worked up a sweat by sunrise.
He was wearing his olive-green USMC training shorts and had just pulled on a white t-shirt when a thud outside his front door caught his attention. Footfalls padded away from the door and passed by his bedroom window. The sounds were quiet, but all the activity outside his walls triggered an uneasy feeling in his chest. Ramirez quickly laced up his shoes and went to the living room window to see what the noise was about.
“Oh shit!” he gasped.
Instinct made him dive below his window pane nanoseconds before the glass exploded inward.
Broken shards cut into his arms and legs as he roll
ed away from the automatic gunfire. Behind him, bullets whizzed through his shattered windows and tore his living room apart. Ramirez got low to the ground and crawled to the hallway closet where he kept a loaded Mossberg shotgun ready for home defense.
Shreds of upholstery were raining down on his head when he reached the closet. Streams of automatic fire raked his house left and right without stopping, forcing him to stay low as nine-millimeter holes were stitched across the walls. With the Mossberg in his hands he did a perfect combat-roll past his splintered front door and popped up with his shotgun ready.
Two white Range Rovers were idling outside his house. The squad of four or five gangsters, who were each sporting fully automatic MAC-10 submachine guns, started to fall back as Ramirez returned fire. From behind the lead vehicle, a black man with long braided hair was firing his handgun to cover his men’s withdrawal. The glint from his silver pistol caught Adrian’s eye and the ex-Marine quickly swung his shotgun at the new threat, took aim, and pumped off two heavy slugs to force him down.
“Let’s go!” the man screamed as he fell back from his place. His silver weapon skittered onto the street right as his men’s magazines ran dry. They threw their MAC-10s over their shoulders and scrambled into the white SUVs right as Ramirez finished reloading his Mossberg and resumed firing at them.
Adrian fired five shells at the retreating SUVs before they were out of range. Seconds later, a furious French bulldog came running and barking at him from across the street. Behind the little devil, an elderly woman was tying a pink bathrobe around her waist as she rushed out from her driveway.
“Ah-drian! Ah-drian! Ahh you ohkay?”
Mrs. Zimmerman was a seventy-something year-old German woman who lived alone with her French bulldog. She was screaming and waving her hands wildly as her fluffy white slippers scurried across the street.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Zimmerman,” he called from behind his shattered window. He shouldered his shotgun and stepped over the splintered window pane to survey the damage. Bullet holes peppered the entire front of his house and big chunks of plaster were blown off the exterior walls.
Sunlight reflected off the silver weapon in front of his driveway and caught his eye. Adrian walked closer and saw that it was a silver-clad, 1911-style handgun with custom engravings on its side.
Watson Lafayette read the cursive letters inscribed on the barrel. Adrian felt the hairs raise on the back of his neck; only one gang in the city carried guns like these, and now they knew where he lived.
Mrs. Zimmerman rushed up to him and frantically swatted at his arm.
“Who ver zose men? Vhy did zey attack you?”
“I don’t know… are you ok?”
She scooped up her French bulldog and cradled the whimpering animal against her chest. “I am fiyne, but my poor Frauline est so frightened!” Mrs. Zimmerman gasped and pointed at his doorstep. “My goodness! Vhat iz that?”
Adrian turned around and saw the hulking pink carcass on his doorstep. Clearly the attack was meant to send a deliberate message.
He sighed. “It’s a dead pig, Mrs. Zimmerman. You should go back inside,”
Several miles down the road, Watson Lafayette and the other Lieutenants’ Range Rovers were speeding east from Ramirez’s neighborhood.
“Is anyone hit?” Watson asked, looking back at the men in his car.
“We’re good boss. Shit, that was kind of fun,”
“Sometimes business can be a pleasure,” Watson said. He patted at the empty gun holster in his coat and made a frown. “Dammit,”
“Everything ok, Mr. Lafayette?” his driver asked.
“I had to duck when that cop started lobbing shells at me. I lost my silver gun,”
The driver shook his head. “You’ll be fine, Sir. That pig knows what’ll happen if he tries to come at us again,”
Years seemed to pass before a poke in the arm jolted Adam awake. He tried to squirm away but Vince held him still.
“Whoa hold still man; I almost have it!”
With a needle’s cap clenched between his teeth, Vince looked as focused as a surgeon. Adam felt another sting as his friend sank a needle into one of his veins, successfully this time. Vince sighed relief and untied the rubber band from Adam’s elbow. He squeezed Adam’s cold hand a few times to restore circulation.
“Vince… what are you doing?”
“It’s an IV bag. I swiped it from the ambulance before they took off. These help a lot, just relax brother,”
Vince wiped up the bloody mess with a napkin and hung the bag of saline solution from the lamp by the couch. He gave Adam a guilty look.
“I’m sorry Adam, I kinda messed up,” he confessed. “I mixed up my stash and gave you the experimental blend by mistake. You really shouldn’t have smoked that stuff,” Vince looked at the floor sheepishly.
“Great, and you’re the genius I have injecting fluids into my body?” Adam said.
“Hey it was an honest mistake,” Vince said defensively.
“What was in that stuff?” Adam asked, feeling more awake. “That felt like nothing I’ve ever smoked before,”
Vince struggled with his answer as if he either didn’t know or didn’t want to alarm him. “Umm it’s got like a… you know like when you take … um… actually don’t worry about it, just drink this, I think you’ll be fine,”
Adam rolled his eyes. In all fairness the drugs did make his pain go away, so he really couldn’t be too upset. Adam cracked a smile.
“You’re either the worst drug dealer in Vegas, or the best. I haven’t decided yet,”
“Aw you know I just sell a little herb to help pay the bills, I’m small time buddy,” Vince perked up and changed the subject. “Hey I thought you’d be hungry so I got you a burrito,”
“Oh my God you are a life-saver!” Adam gushed.
Vince produced a brown paper bag and pulled out a double XL steak burrito, still steaming hot through its aluminum foil wrapping. Adam scarfed the whole thing down within minutes. Vince may not have been the smartest guy at times, but he was easily the most thoughtful. Adam always thought the world would be an infinitely better place a few more guys like Vince lived in it. When the food was finished Adam leaned back into the sofa and rested. He rubbed a hand along his aching neck.
“Wow my throat hurts,”
“I’m not surprised, look at all the bruising,” Vince held up a mirror so Adam could see the purple marks that formed a ghastly arc all around the front of his neck. Adam tenderly rubbed the bruises as he recalled how close he had come to death at the hands of his kidnappers. Vince looked pitifully at his friend.
“What happened out there man? Who did this to you?”
“I don’t know,” Adam muttered. “It all happened too fast,”
“They obviously wanted something, did they rob you? I found your bag,” Vince handed over the black duffle bag that Jacob’s men had prepared for him. To Adam’s relief, it was clear that Vince had the decency not to go snooping through its contents. Adam carefully unzipped it, being sure to conceal what was inside as he inspected it. It’s all still here, thank God nobody went poking around through this stuff. There’s no way I could explain two burner phones and all this cash.
“All my stuff is still here. It must have been a random act of violence,”
Vince shook his head. “You didn’t see anything? Who were those guys? Jesus, Adam you could have been killed!”
“I’m aware of that! I was there wasn’t I?”
Vince looked hurt, and Adam was immediately ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry,” Adam said. “It’s been a rough day for me; I owe you nothing but gratitude,”
“No, you’re right, I’m sorry. The last thing you need is me grilling you for information. I’m just happy you’re alright,” Vince fell silent for a moment. “Wait right here,”
“Where would I go?” Adam chuckled and gestured around at the tiny, unkempt apartment. Vince smirked in return
and went digging through some boxes under his lifted bed frame. After finding what he was searching for, he returned to his friend.
“What’s in the box?”
Vince shoved the mass of junk mail and muscle magazines from the coffee table to the floor, then he placed the box directly in front of him and lifted the lid to reveal its cargo.
“It’s a Bersa Thunder pistol. It holds seven rounds and it’s perfect for concealed-carrying. It looks just like the Walther PPK that James Bond uses, but they sell it at a price guys like us can afford. It comes with this leather holster, you just slip it into your waistband and no one knows it’s there. I want you to have this,” Vince looked lovingly at his weapon as if giving it some sort of final inspection then slipped it into the holster.
“Take it,”
Adam stared at him in return, dumbfounded. Vince was perhaps the least violent person he had ever met. Sure, he sold weed from his apartment fairly regularly, and no doubt he had a few rivals because of it. But it was only marijuana! In Las Vegas, in the 21st century, pot dealers might as well be selling candy; even the police didn’t really care.
“But I thought you hated guns? How long have you had this?”
“Hate guns?” Vince replied, mildly offended. “I don’t hate anything, Adam, there’s only room for love in my heart!” he smiled. “Still, I like to be prepared. Some of my customers don’t know how to take no for an answer. It can get pretty awkward if you don’t have something to back it up. That’s why I never leave home without protection,”
“Wait a minute” Adam interrupted. “You mean to tell me that you’ve been carrying this in public? Restaurants… bars... even at work?”
“Especially at work! Look what happened to you man,”
“Well damn,” Adam sighed. “You have a point, I’ll give you that,”
Adam’s disbelief that his friend the pacifist even owned a gun was eclipsed only by the shocking realization that guy had carrying a weapon nearly every time that they’d been together.