The Emperor of Vegas

by Ryan Stygar

  A fifth Range Rover appeared on Jacob’s side to help finish off the Russian resistance.

  Petrov ducked his head and sprinted toward the Mercedes SUV. Twenty guns roared like deadly thunder when he did. Halfway toward his objective, Petrov was hit, then hit again. He stumbled, but stayed on his feet. A third bullet grazed his abdomen right as he made it behind the shelter of the building.

  “No!” Adam screamed. Lukas Petrov was his only chance to get out of this alive, and now the man was seriously wounded. Petrov’s bloodied hands fumbled in his coat for the keys to the SUV, but he didn’t speak. Two bright red patches bloomed from the holes in his shirt. He fell to a knee first, and then collapsed entirely.

  Hoping he could still make a getaway, Adam rushed to take the keys that had fallen by Petrov’s side. Gunfire and shouts from the other side of the building startled him so much that he accidently squeezed the trigger of his gun and fired two rounds before he regained control of himself.

  The battlefield had fallen silent; Adam’s shots echoed across the quiet desert valley.

  Seconds later, a dozen men stormed around both corners of the building with their guns drawn. Stunned by the overwhelming numbers, Adam froze with his weapon still clutched in his hand. He was surrounded.

  Jacob emerged from the group with an automatic pistol pointed right at Adam’s heart. He was panting like he’d just finished a marathon and he was glaring like a monster.

  Adam clenched his eyes shut and prepared for death.

  A few seconds passed with only silence. Adam hadn’t been killed. In fact he hadn’t even been touched. What was happening?

  Adam opened one eye, then the other. Jacob looked at Petrov’s body, which was sprawled out just short of the escape vehicle, then at Adam.

  “What happened back here?” Jacob demanded.

  Adam stuttered senselessly for a moment. Finding words was difficult while thirteen guns were pointed at him. He looked at Petrov’s body, then at the car, and then at his gun. He knew what this looked like, and an idea sparked in his mind. There was a way that he could spin this. He could tell them the truth, but only part of it. Adam pointed at Petrov’s body with his gun.

  “He almost got away,” he said, hoping to convince Jacob that he was on his side after all.

  Jacob enunciated every word that came next, he was loud, but he wasn’t yelling. There was only one thing he wanted, everything else secondary.

  “Where is the binder?”

  Adam slowly held up the duffle bag.

  “In here. Please, take it.”

  Jacob held out a hand and Adam immediately surrendered his gun, a move that seemed to calm the crowd of men around him. Their guns were still up, but their fingers peeled away from the triggers.

  Jacob unzipped the bag and began rifling through its contents. Adam heard him scoff once or twice under his breath while he did. After a few seconds, Jacob lowered his gun. To Adam’s infinite relief, the other men did as well.

  “Crazy-ass white boy,” Jacob muttered. He then pulled out the stack of ten thousand dollars from the bag and waved it scornfully at Adam.

  “When I pay you this kind of money to do a job, you should just put it in a safe like a normal person. Carrying it around like this will get you robbed someday.”

  “Who’s your boy, Jacob?” a voice in the group asked.

  Jacob looked Adam up and down, then gave a small, almost approving grin. “He’s our newest employee,” he answered. He held up Adam’s gun. “You’ll get this back after we speak with Mr. Jordan.”

  Jacob turned to face his small army.

  “Find a place in the desert to bury the dead. This will be a big job so I want four or five men to stay behind. The rest of you will follow me to the Sumatra. It won’t be long before Lukas Petrov’s father retaliates, so I want all of you to be on high alert. I will meet with Mr. Jordan to see what our next move is. Mr. Friend, you’re coming with me.”

  Adam was relieved to be alive, but terrified to find himself back in Jacob’s custody. Dimitri Jordan’s empire was a mysterious and frightening new power and now he was trapped in its gravitational pull. A guard escorted Adam back to the white vehicles as the group followed Jacob’s lead.

  On the other side of the building Adam saw that a sixth Range Rover from the Sumatra fleet was arriving to assist Jacob’s men. Bodies and bullets were scattered everywhere. Every single Russian was killed, about a dozen of Jacob’s men had fallen as well, not including the man who was killed back on the Strip.

  “Jesus,” Adam whispered as he surveyed the carnage.

  In less than twenty minutes of fighting, Dimitri Jordan had deployed seven vehicles and nearly forty armed men to this desolate place. Unbelievable. How could one man have that kind of power?

  All the legends and whispered stories about the Emperor of Vegas were true, Adam had just witnessed it for himself. There was no question who reigned supreme here.

  “In the back,” a guard ordered when they arrived at an undamaged SUV. Adam scooted obediently into the seat. Jacob took his place in the front passenger seat.

  “To the Sumatra,” Jacob ordered.

  22

  Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department Headquarters

  T he daily hum of the LVMPD was kicked up to a full-blown swarm. Everywhere he looked, Sheriff Wyatt saw officers running back and forth while administrators were fighting a losing battle to answer all the calls to their offices. Above the buzzing bullpen of desks, widescreen TVs mounted on the ceiling played an endless loop of reporters delivering breaking news about the shooting on the Las Vegas Strip.

  On one of America’s most famous boulevards, an incident like this quickly became the hot story of the day. Wyatt forced his way past a horde of people clamoring for his attention. When he reached his office, he had to battle his way through a band of admins before slamming the door shut behind him.

  “What a mess…” he sighed, clicking off his computer to avoid the deluge of urgent emails. “What an absolute mess.”

  He reached under his desk and retrieved a bottle of whiskey. He had just poured himself a glass when a deliberate knock on the door forced him to quickly swallow the fiery liquid and conceal the bottle.

  “I’m busy,” Wyatt coughed as the liquor burned his throat. “Come back later.”

  “It’s a matter of national security,” a woman’s voice replied from behind the door.

  “National security?” Wyatt grumbled to himself, pushing up from his seat and making his way to the door. “What a load of –

  He stopped short when he realized he didn’t recognize the forty-something year old blonde woman outside his door. She was wearing a pant-suit with a wide blue collar. In her arm she carried a thick dossier with the Department of Homeland Security seal embossed on its cover. Wyatt felt his mouth go dry.

  “Sheriff James Wyatt?” the woman asked.

  “Yes…” Wyatt answered, sizing her up.

  “I’m Special Agent Patricia Klein, DHS. My partner here is Clayton Burns with the DEA.”

  Handshakes were offered and accepted.

  “We’ve had some trouble getting in touch,” Klein said after releasing Wyatt’s hand. “We need to speak with you right away,”

  “I’m sorry, but as you can see we are having an unusually busy morning,” Wyatt said, gesturing toward the chaotic scene in the open bullpen. “Is there another time we can do this?”

  Special Agent Klein shook her head. “I’m afraid our federal mandate takes priority regardless of the circumstances. Can we speak privately? It’s extremely urgent.”

  She didn’t wait for him to answer before stepping into the office. Taking her lead, Clayton Burns followed shortly behind her.

  Klein took a seat by Wyatt’s desk and gestured that he should sit as well. “I understand you’re busy, so we’ll skip the pleasantries and get down to it,” she said. “I am here as part of a federal case involving a narcotics smuggling operation that leads directly to organized cr
iminals here in Las Vegas.”

  Wyatt felt his heart skip a beat. “Well…” he uttered, dragging out the word while he collected his thoughts. “If there’s some way that the LVMPD can help, then of course you can count on our full support,”

  Patricia gave her partner a knowing look before turning to face Wyatt again. “I’m happy to hear that, Sheriff Wyatt. Because at the moment, and I hope you will excuse my bluntness in this matter, it appears that Las Vegas PD is actually getting in our way more than it is helping.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow…” Wyatt said. He placed his hands under the desk so that the federal agents wouldn’t see that they were trembling.

  Special Agent Clayton Burns explained, “A few days ago we lost contact with a federally protected witness.”

  He produced a sheet of paper from his briefcase and slid it over to Wyatt. The sheriff felt uneasy when he realized that the face on the sheet was Andrew Kremenski.

  “Federal…” Wyatt gulped, “federal witness?”

  “Yes, Andrew Kremenski,” Clayton answered. The salt and pepper haired man leaned forward to indicate the summary under Kremenski’s file. “Andrew Kremenski was deeply involved with a group of Russian nationals operating in Vegas. They were opium smugglers known to the DEA as the Petrov Crime Family. Long story short, the Petrovs were experiencing strained relations with their largest client – a very wealthy gangster located here in Las Vegas. As a result of the tensions between the two gangs, Andrew Kremenski was beginning to fear for his life. In order to protect himself he called the DEA and offered to blow the whistle on the whole thing in exchange for a deal.”

  Agent Klein chimed in, “When Kremenski revealed that the money from the Russian opium ring was funding terrorist groups in Afghanistan, the investigation was then placed under DHS authority. We’ve been watching the Russians ever since.”

  Clayton Burns then slid a candid picture of Lukas Petrov. Unaware that he was being photographed, Petrov was casually speaking on a cell phone outside Red Star Tower in the high definition picture.

  “Armed with Andrew Kremenski’s testimony, we were about to put a stop to the whole thing,” Burns said. “Kremenski was going to provide us with the vital link between the Russians and big money behind the whole operation. Without him, our investigation is at a standstill. Timing is everything, Sheriff, and we lost contact with Kremenski not more than three days before we were planning to pull the trigger on this thing.”

  Wyatt felt a cold sweat form on his brow. If the Feds had been working with Kremenski then there was no telling how close they were to discovering his own involvement with the Petrovs. Wyatt leaned forward in his seat to say something, but the headstrong Patricia Klein jumped right into her line of questioning.

  “I understand that Kremenski was arrested about a year ago and was then released with some kind of plea deal?”

  “Well…” Wyatt said, scratching his head.

  “We’d like to review the details of that deal as soon as possible.” she interjected. “We’re officially requesting any and all of your documentation regarding Andrew Kremenski.”

  Wyatt tried to deflect. “We’ve just had a major incident. I can assign a team to help you with all this, but it might take a few days, maybe a week.”

  Patricia Klein leaned forward. She handed Wyatt a sheet of paper with a list of names and dates typed on its face. “We don’t have that kind of time, Sheriff Wyatt,” she said, tapping the sheet of paper. “I need everything you have on these areas of interest immediately.”

  Wyatt’s beady eyes narrowed as he read the bullet points on the sheet, then he felt a chill creep down his spine. “Andrew Kremenski… Sumatra Hotel… Dimitri Jordan?”

  “We understand he is a very wealthy and influential man, but he’s of particular interest to our case. We’ll need to review any documentation you have regarding these inquiries. Can you get that to us by this afternoon?”

  “Can you come back tomorrow?” Wyatt said as the sweat glistened on his brow. “We can get you access to our files once the dust settles from the Las Vegas Boulevard incident.”

  Agent Klein gave Agent Burns a sideways look. “Sheriff, there is a reason I am here speaking to you in person,” she began quietly. “You see, my DHS authority grants me unlimited access to the electronic databases of all local police departments, including yours,” she then lowered her voice so that she was almost whispering. “I’ve already performed an extensive search of your records over the past few months. The problem is that there have been some… inconsistencies that are causing me concern.”

  Clayton Burns nodded. “We viewed the details of Kremenski’s murder just a few days ago; we even recorded the names of your primary suspects. But now we are finding that all the key data on Andrew Kremenski and the Sumatra organization is just… missing. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that this is a very serious situation,”

  Wyatt turned about three shades paler. He opened his mouth to speak but a few moments passed before he found words. “We’ve… had some problems with our Incident Reporting Database recently,” he said. “I have the IT department working to fix the problem.”

  Klein glanced at her partner, who offered a slight shrug in response. She stood from her seat and Burns followed her lead. “I see…” Klein said as she turned to leave. “Well, as soon as it’s fixed I’m sure you’ll turn over your records to us immediately?”

  Wyatt wiped his sweaty palms against his slacks before offering each of the federal agents a parting handshake. “Absolutely,” he said.

  The special agents were just a few paces away from Wyatt’s office when Patricia Klein turned her head.

  “One more thing, Sheriff?”

  “Yes?”

  “The DHS and the DEA will be working in temporary offices downtown for the duration of our inquiry here. Once you get your… IT problem fixed, we will be expecting full access to LVMPD resources.”

  “Of course,” Wyatt said with an awkward smile. “Anything we can do to help.”

  When the assertive blonde and her salt and pepper haired partner were finally out of sight, Wyatt retreated into his office. He locked the door and poured double-serving of whiskey for his nerves. Holding the liquor just inches from his lips he whispered, “This is getting out of hand,” and then drained the glass in a single gulp.

  23

  Club Nariphon, Sumatra Hotel, 11:00am

  F ifty Five stories above the Strip, the most exclusive pool club in Vegas glistened under the desert sun. The knee-high wading pool at its center sparkled as Dimitri Jordan’s gangsters lounged in luxurious cabanas. Warm breezy air wafted past the thin white linens which hung from the colonnade of marble arches that encircled the central pool, casting just enough shade to keep guests cool without blocking too much sunlight. All around the perimeter, infinity pools seemed to run right over the thick glass edges of the top of the tower, giving bathers the illusion that their personal oasis was flowing all the way down to the thumping, bustling Strip below.

  Club Nariphon got its unusual name from a magical tree described in Thai folklore. According to the ancient legends, the Nariphon tree grew deep within an enchanted forest inhabited by the gods. There it was said to bear beautiful young women as its fruit. Dimitri Jordan loved the story so much that he spared no expense in building an enchanted Nariphon of his own.

  Dimitri Jordan made certain that his own sky-high oasis lived up to the legend; he packed the club’s pools with scores of gorgeous young women. The sheer, pastel-colored sarongs wrapped around their feminine curves left little to the imagination.

  Aesthetics, however, were only part of the Sumatra experience; customer service was priority one. Without regard to cost, legality, or even basic morality, every whim of Club Nariphon’s guests was eagerly satisfied.

  Jordan’s personal jacuzzi commanded the best view. From its corner of the tower, it seemed to hover over the Strip and overlooked the Bellagio fountains below.

  The Emp
eror of Vegas sat in silence, his mighty arms stretched out along the granite border of his spa. He hadn’t spoken to his men all day. He just puffed smoke from his cigar like a furnace.

  The Lieutenants, fresh from the battlefield, didn’t take much notice; they had a victory to celebrate. A milky-skinned beauty with generously exposed cleavage approached their spa to take orders for libations. Champagne was the choice drink of the day.

  Jacob raised a toast. “The Russian’s forgot whose city this is! Well, we gave them a stern reminder today. Isn’t that right boys?”

  A chorus of cheers rose up in response. “Nobody goes toe-to-toe with the Sumatra and comes out alive! Nobody!” another Lieutenant yelled.

  “How many Russians do you think we killed?” one of the men asked, filling a crystal flute with Dom Perion.

  “I haven’t gotten the official body count from the guys on burial duty,” Jacob responded while caressing the hips of a nearly nude red-head at his side. “From what I saw, I’d guess at least ten, maybe eleven.”

  “Damn, Jacob. We unleashed all hell on those bastards.”

  “It’s the only fate for anyone stupid enough to attack the Sumatra!” Jacob shooed away the girl at his side and ordered her to fetch more champagne.

  The men laughed and swatted at her exposed buttocks as the poor girl scurried off to fulfil the order. Jacob smiled and raised a glass to Jordan. “Gentlemen, I’d like to propose a toast to the man who built our empire. To the man who brought peace and prosperity to a city of thieves. To the Emperor of Vegas, Dimitri Jordan!”

  “To Dimitri Jordan!” the twelve Lieutenants shouted together.

  Jordan raised his glass of chilled vodka to acknowledge the honor. His massive diamond earrings cast brilliant stars of light against his ebony skin, but his face remained neutral, expressionless.