The Emperor of Vegas

by Ryan Stygar

  “Oh I’m afraid that’s where you’re wrong. You see, it will last. You have no idea how small you are … there’s nothing you can do to us,”

  “I can do plenty to you, Watson Lafayette,”

  Watson glowered at him. “Did you enjoy your wakeup call yesterday morning? I can arrange for you to have more visitors, since apparently once wasn’t enough,”

  “You think that scares me? I kicked your ass last night and I can do it again. You fight like a girl, Watson,”

  Li jabbed Adrian in the ribs to get him to cut it out, but the damage was already done.

  Watson’s temples bulged with rage “You think you’re a real bad motherfucker don’t you?”

  “Maybe I do,” Ramirez glared. “Would you like to find out for yourself?”

  Watson opened his mouth to retort but Li jumped in to interrupt. “Thank you Watson, we’ll be on our way now,”

  The gangster wanted nothing more than to finish it right there. These two pigs tried to kill him, kicked him while he was down, and then had the nerve to try and arrest him. His hand twitched with desire to draw his Sig Sauer and get some revenge, but Jacob’s execution was still fresh in his mind. Jacob signed his own death warrant by causing a scene in public; going after Ramirez now would probably throw Dimitri Jordan into a murderous rage.

  He’s not worth it, Watson thought to himself, bide your time and you’ll get your chance, just wait. Watson made a note that this scar-faced police sergeant would have to be knocked down a few pegs soon. “Don’t be coming back unannounced,” he sneered. “It’s dangerously unprofessional,”

  Ramirez shot a glare at Li as the Sumatra gangsters tapped the hood of the Charger and waved them off.

  “Coward,” Adrian hissed at him.

  “Was it worth it?” Li snapped back. Watson and the other three Lieutenants walked back into the hotel as the police drove toward the exit. Li looked relieved that they had gone, but he still couldn’t believe how reckless Adrian had been. “Hope you had fun catching up with our old friends. You know we can’t arrest him again right? I told you this was a bad idea,”

  Adrian ignored him. He didn’t put on his guns that morning to slink away at the first roadblock, and he wasn’t about to let these guys get away with shooting up his house either. Li was still berating him, saying something about risk versus gain and the ‘unwritten rules’ of Las Vegas, but he wasn’t listening.

  “Wait a minute,” Adrian said.

  “Come on! They just let us go, drop it,”

  “I didn’t become a cop just to ‘drop it’” Adrian retorted. “Look over there,” He pointed to the employee-section of the parking garage. “See that kid in the tan vest?”

  “I don’t know…” Li sighed, nearing the absolute end of his patience. “Big muscular guy, sandy blonde hair?”

  “That’s him. Look at the nametag, is that about the same size and shape as this?” Adrian held up the burnt name tag from the crime scene. He had a twinkle in his eye that Li found unsettling. That crazy Marine was going to get him into some deep shit, he could already feel it.

  “Well, yeah I guess so,” Li conceded. An impatient driver honked from behind and then swerved around them. The sandy-haired valet popped a pair of stud earrings into his ears and bobbed along to a yellow Miata in the employee lot, completely unaware he was being watched.

  “What does it say under the name?” Ramirez said with a grin.

  Li shook his head. “That tag is burnt to shit … I guess it says valet?”

  “It’s obvious this is a valet driver’s tag, I know you can see it. I bet Adam Friend and this guy worked together,” Ramirez turned right to follow the yellow Miata as it pulled away from the Sumatra.

  “You’re making a lot of assumptions all at once, Adrian,” Li said. He pulled out his phone and sent a text to his wife to let her know he’d be getting home late. The Miata accelerated north on the Strip and Ramirez stepped on the gas to keep up.

  “Let’s follow this kid and see what he knows,”

  Li sighed. “You’re gonna get us both killed one day,”

  27

  That Night, Deep in the Desert

  I t’s easy to forget how isolated Las Vegas really is. By day the skyline of hotels glitters. By night every corner lights up with bright colors. Music booms from every direction while a constant river of human energy flows along the boulevard. Every inch is carefully engineered to give visitors the impression that Vegas lies at the center of the world.

  Viewed from space, however, the city flickers in silence. Like a solitary firefly in the dead of night, darkness reigns for hundreds of miles in every direction.

  Far removed from the distant glow of the city, ghostly wisps of air breezed through the sparse forest of Joshua trees, sagebrush, and yucca. Warm currents howled along the valley floor, sending dry, dusty confetti swirling past the mass grave in the sand.

  Nearly two dozen bloated corpses were grazed by the breeze and the debris it carried.

  It was a feather floating across his face that the man first noticed. Dry eyelids flickered open. There was a cough, then a groan.

  The solitary survivor heaved a corpse off his chest with a grunt. Once he rolled the dead body away from him, he struggled onto his elbows looked up and out of the pit for the first time.

  The glow from a hundred million twinkling stars cast silver-blue light across the desert wilderness. Far away, behind rugged black peaks, the orange glow from the city was dwarfed by the vast night sky. There was no telling how long it would take to reach safety. He tried to get to his feet but nauseating pain sprung from his abdomen when he did. Standing was impossible; crawling would have to do.

  The survivor tucked one arm against his side to guard the oozing bullet wounds; they weren’t immediately fatal, but the damage was draining him with time. If he was going to survive he had to get help soon.

  Somewhere in the hills, a pack of coyotes smelled the dead flesh and the promise of an easy feast. Like wraiths they shrieked and howled. It was a chilling, demonic sound that made the survivor shudder.

  He patted his coat pockets and was relieved to find that whoever had tossed him in the pit didn’t take the time to loot his possessions. By instinct he drew his pistol and checked the magazine.

  Six rounds.

  He stretched a quivering hand into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone.

  Eight percent battery, no service.

  With one arm shielding his injuries, he used the other to crawl out of the macabre pit. Ignoring the stench and the twisted, ghoulish faces, he kept his gaze on the only thing that mattered; the sky outside of the grave. Reach, pull, push. The labor was agonizing for the wounded man.

  Frothy sputum clogged his nose and throat and he coughed and hacked until the pink, gooey stuff was clear from his wind pipe.

  Christ, he thought, I’m falling apart.

  At the top of the pit, a final kick sent him rolling away from the stinking dead. Attempts to slow down failed and the world around him spun, gaining speed with each revolution. The roll wasn’t stopped until a stiff, thorny shrub ensnared him. Panting from the sudden rush of movement he tried to lick his dry lips, but his mouth and tongue were nothing but dust. He was dying, and he knew it.

  His eyes traced the path of the long slope ahead of him. It was a relatively low hill, but if there was even a chance that he might pick up some cell service at the top, he had to take it. He took a minute to prepare himself mentally; the trek up the hill would require every ounce of strength he had left.

  It was a war between two fronts. On one front, he battled against the rising slope with his weak and aching limbs. On the other, he struggled to keep his mind from slipping into the dark, unconscious abyss. When he was almost halfway up the hill he checked his phone again.

  Zero service. Five percent battery remaining.

  He moaned. For a brief moment his head nodded lazily forward and hit the dirt. The muscles in his neck relaxed. Dark clouds wafted ove
r his mind.

  Howling cackled over the hills and startled him awake. Those demonic shrieks were calling him to the other side, waiting to feast on his dead flesh.

  “No!”

  Do not give up! You must NOT give up!

  If it was in fact his time to die then he would do so at the top of the hill, after he had fought as hard as he possibly could. Reach as far as you can. Pull forward. Push with the legs. That’s it. Reach. Pull. Push.

  A service bar flickered then disappeared. He redoubled his efforts.

  Reach!

  Pull!

  Push!

  For twenty minutes he didn’t stop crawling. All the while he repeated the words Reach! Pull! Push! in his mind. Howling called to him again, this time from behind. A glance back would have confirmed that the desert’s devils were stalking him, tongues flickering around white fangs in preparation for a fresh meal.

  Tunnel vision caused him to focus squarely on the peak above him. The howling pack skirted around his sides, edging closer to his flanks. Glowing yellow eyes darted in and out the sagebrush. Hungrily gazing at the way the man limped and wriggled. He ignored them.

  The peak was all that mattered.

  After several minutes of crawling the slope leveled off and the survivor was high above the desert valley. At the top of the hill there was a cluster of ancient-looking Joshua trees bordered by an outcropping of boulders. He planted his hands on the warm stone and panted for air.

  He pulled the phone from his pocket. With just one percent of the battery remaining and one steady service bar he dialed. There would only be one chance to make contact before the phone died. C’mon pick up! Pick up!

  Ringing tones struggled to be heard over the static.

  “Lukas?!” someone answered.

  Then it cut out entirely.

  The battery was dead. Despite his noble struggle to the top, it was over. Had he not been so dehydrated, a tear might have formed in his eye.

  The former Spetsnaz warrior had very nearly fought his way out, but the odds were stacked too heavily against him. Lukas Petrov laid his heavy head against the warm rock behind his back and looked at the stars one last time.

  Rustling in the brush caused him to groan with dread. A pair of hot, orange globes glowed from the shadows ahead of him. Another pair emerged from the darkness at his side, then another. A hungry, ghostly howl swept across the brush and pricked up the hairs on his neck.

  The pack had encircled him.

  Fear gave way to fury. How could it end like this? All the battles he had fought, all the times he had cheated death, and here he was, about to become a meal for these mangy beasts.

  “Filthy scavengers,” he spat in contempt.

  Lukas propped up on an elbow. Pressing his back against the boulder to protect his rear, he drew his CZ-75.

  Even now, he was determined to go out fighting. Twelve orange globes flickered and bounced closer. Six sets of jaws opened wide, panting and howling as they closed in. The largest of them, the alpha, locked eyes with Lukas and hunched its shoulders to prepare for an attack. He chambered a round and flicked off the safety.

  “You want a bite of Lukas?”

  He leveled the sights of his CZ-75 right between the alpha’s glowing orbs.

  “Come then! Come get a taste!”

  At once the monsters lunged into him from all sides.

  Lukas screamed in pain as jaws locked onto his limbs. The alpha leaped forward, snapping wildly at his throat to finish him off. A kick forced the beast back, giving Lukas just enough space to aim his gun again. Even with a coyote gnawing into his forearm, Lukas somehow managed to get a clean line of sight. He squeezed the trigger.

  CRACK! The shot ripped across the desert like a thunder clap.

  The deadly clamps on his body melted away.

  CRACK! CRACK!!

  The alpha collapsed in a heap of bloody fur.

  Terrified by their prey’s mysterious power, and without their leader to rally them, the pack scattered off in a yelping retreat to the shadows.

  Silence draped over the desert again. No sound remained except the whistle of wind cresting the peak and Lukas felt the rush of battle fade away. Pain seeped into the forefront of his senses, first from wounds in his belly then from the fresh bites in his limbs. Poor Lukas just moaned in agony and curled up into a ball. How could it end like this? He was one of the deadliest warriors that Russia had ever produced… yet now he was all alone; too weak to make it to safety and too far away to call for help.

  How could it end like this?

  

  Distant footsteps crunched against the dirt and stirred Lukas back into the present. His throat was dry, every inch of him stung and ached, even his vision seemed to be failing him. It was still dark, but how long had he been asleep for?

  The crunching quickened. “Lukas!” a voice called.

  He didn’t have the strength to answer.

  “Lukas!” called the voice again. Footsteps grew louder and faster. Lukas planted his hands on the cold dirt and struggled to lift his torso to get a better look at what was happening. There were streams of light; flashlights! Lukas counted two men halfway up the hill and a third way down at the pit examining the bodies. “Lukas!” yelled one of the rescuers again. “Lukas!”

  He tried to call back but could only manage a croak. His feeble voice was swept up in the desert breeze and carried away. “Lukas!” the voice called once more from down the hill. An idea came to him, and he checked his pistol.

  Three rounds left, thank God!

  He raised it above his head and fired three successive shots in a steady signal.

  The blasts echoed through the hills like a flare in the open sea.

  “Up the hill, this way!” one man called to another. Within minutes two of the rescuers were upon him.

  “Lukas! You are alive!”

  The smell of whiskey on one man’s breath brought a sense of security to Lukas he hadn’t felt since he was a boy. “Papa?” he whispered, his voice finally returning a little.

  “What have they done to you?” Mikhail Petrov stammered. Normally the slur in Mikhail’s words and the alcohol on his breath would be cause for concern, but in Lukas’s hour of need, anything that reminded him of his father was comforting.

  “Don’t just stand there, help my boy up!” Mikhail barked.

  Mikhail was unmistakably intoxicated, as he usually was. The man could probably win an award for being the world’s most high-functioning alcoholic. Still, he required a good deal of help getting Lukas off the ground.

  “They will pay for this outrage!” Mikhail growled as they inched their way down the hill. “We will not rest! Those bastards will pay for this!” He grumbled angrily, vowing revenge and retribution all the way down the hill to the idling Mercedes GLS by the pit.

  Lukas coughed when they sat him down. Blankets were wrapped around his shoulders and one of his father’s companions held a bottle of water to Lukas’s lips. He quenched his thirst in small sips, gaining strength as the water hydrated him. He cleared his throat to speak.

  “What is it Lukas?” Mikhail asked.

  “I hope... I hope you are not… driving,” Lukas said with a weak smile. Mikhail and the others chuckled. Despite his ordeal, the legendary Lukas Petrov still seemed to be in good spirits. Mikhail scooted next to his son in the back seat and produced a small flask. “Today I thought my only son was dead. I will not drive when I have such a change in fortune to drink to,” Mikhail raised his flask to make a toast. “To your miraculous survival!”

  “No..,” Lukas replied, his strength quickly returning to him. “To revenge,”

  28

  V ince set his gym bag by the door when he entered his studio apartment. Kicking off his shoes, he paused at the mirror by the door and practiced some of his bodybuilding poses.

  Biceps are looking good, he thought with a smile.

  Although he was somewhat annoyed at the acne on his back (a side effect of the steroid
s), he was thrilled with the results of his hard work in the gym. He glanced at his cell phone and wondered why his best friend hadn’t called or texted him all day. With a shrug he figured that Adam must still be recovering from being attacked and he decided not to pester him. Instead he just focused on enjoying the rest of his evening.

  He clicked on his TV and found a nature documentary to watch while he cooked a lean meal of teriyaki chicken, rice, and broccoli. Vince went through all his bodybuilding supplements and found that he was due for a refill on his injectable steroids, so he dialed his dealer while he ate.

  “Hello?” a voice answered.

  “Hey Chad, its Vince,” he said through a mouthful of chicken. “I need more of the anabolic stuff, can you meet me tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow’s no good, I have a thing. Can you do the day after?”

  “Works for me,” Vince replied. “See you at your place?”

  “Bring your money this time,” Chad said. “I can’t just give this stuff out for free you know,”

  Vince laughed.

  “Hey I’m serious,” Chad said. “I get screwed when you take three weeks to pay up bro,”

  “Alright, alright no more IOUs …” Vince’s voice trailed off when he saw a bright light flashing behind his blinds. “Hey I gotta go,” he said as he hung up. The bright white lights were waving back and forth behind his window.

  “What the…?”

  A fist rapped against his door so loud it made him jump in his seat.

  “Police! Open up!”

  “Shit,” Vince cursed under his breath. Drug laws were getting looser and looser every year, but you never knew when some cop might decide to go all drug-warrior on you. He scrambled around his apartment gathering all the little vials and needles he used for his steroid cycles. The pounding at the door resumed.

  “Police! Open up!”

  “Just a minute!” Vince shouted through the door, opening and slamming cupboards while he tossed his sizeable marijuana stash behind pots and pans. From the time it was taking him to hide all his paraphernalia, Vince started to wonder if maybe he had a bit of a drug problem.