The Emperor of Vegas

by Ryan Stygar

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I’m laying a trap.”

  41

  The Next Day, LVMPD Headquarters, 4:00pm

  O ne hundred police cruisers followed Brett Li’s hearse down Las Vegas Boulevard. The procession snaked through the heart of Vegas and ended at LVMPD Headquarters. A crowd of over one thousand police and civilians came to bid farewell to the fallen officer. At the steps of the main administrative building, Officer Brett Li’s portrait sat to one side of a temporary stage.

  Hot wind made red, white and blue banners flutter in the crowd. With the pages of his speech tucked under one arm, Sheriff James Earl Wyatt climbed the steps to the center of the temporary stage. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he looked out into the crowd. Something stung his belly as he watched the sea of dark green and brown uniforms shuffling up to hear him speak. He had allowed his conscience to shrink steadily over the years, convincing himself that accepting bribes from Dimitri Jordan and silencing witnesses were all necessary steps to maintain order. But a lonely white speck remained in his black heart which refused to die. As he took his place at the podium, the single morsel of morality that survived his transformation into a truly corrupted Sheriff screeched mercilessly at him. He did his best to ignore that little voice.

  He avoided looking at Brett Li’s widow, who was weeping softly during the mayor’s opening remarks. Li’s orphaned son was only three or four years old; too young to understand what was happening, but his mother’s broken heart caused him to sob too.

  Wyatt loosened his collar when the mayor introduced him. Polite applause rippled across the crowd as Wyatt tapped the microphone and began his speech.

  “Thank you, Mayor Salazar.” Wyatt began.

  The afternoon sun was beating down on him like a hot lamp. Sweat glistened against his brow and then trickled down his cheeks as he became increasingly uncomfortable. He paused several times to wipe his face as he flipped through his prepared speech. “…And thank you to all our police officers and their families for coming here to honor a fallen brother.”

  He paused for the round of polite applause.

  “Honor, duty, and sacrifice are the core principles that distinguish the best police officers. Officer Brett Li embodied these principles to the highest order, we are all proud to have served with him…”

  Sergeant Adrian Ramirez was standing several rows back as Wyatt delivered his speech.

  “He has got some nerve…” Ramirez grumbled, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Beside him, Officers Thomas Garrison and Janet Kinsey, who had both freshly returned to full duty after their close call against the Sumatra gang, grunted their agreement.

  “I don’t care what anyone says,” Kinsey whispered. “You weren’t responsible for what happened to Brett.”

  Ramirez shook his head. Too many thoughts and emotions were stirring for him to form a coherent sentence. Part of him blamed Wyatt for Brett Li’s death; releasing a dangerous gangster from custody was what put them in danger in the first place. At the same time, however, a large part of him believed that his eagerness to deliver justice was the real reason his partner was crushed by a Range Rover that night.

  Thomas Garrison leaned close to Ramirez, “We have to prove that Wyatt is dirty,” he whispered. In the crowd their words went unnoticed by the other officers, but they each kept their voices low during Wyatt’s speech. “Brett would still be alive if Watson Lafayette was in prison,” Garrison continued, “I don’t know how, but it had to be Wyatt who let him out.”

  “Li’s blood is on Wyatt’s hands, not yours, Sarge,” Kinsey added, her voice then lowered to a growl. “Wyatt’s a murderer. And he’s a dirty cop too.”

  Ramirez held up his chin and stayed defiantly quiet as the crowd applauded the end of Wyatt’s speech. He sighed as Dimitri Jordan’s powerful body hulked up the stairs and toward the podium. “And here comes Wyatt’s master. It’s like he has no shame at all.”

  “Or control,” Kinsey said. Garrison brushed a strand of red hair from his forehead and looked around nervously for any sign of the white Range Rovers. He shuddered at the sight of six white SUVs lined up in a neat row behind stage-right. Dimitri Jordan’s Bentley Mulsanne sat beside the Lieutenant’s vehicles.

  Jordan was wearing one of his finest suits as he walked up to the podium. He paused at the top of the stairs while the Sheriff made his introduction. With a big smile Jordan reached out to shake Wyatt’s hand for the cameras. Then he leaned down to whisper in Wyatt’s ear.

  “Get used to attending these little funerals.” he said chillingly. “Unless you get your people in line, this will become a very common occurrence for you.”

  Wyatt was sweating profusely when he retreated off the stage. From the podium, Jordan looked out to the crowd and waved.

  “Thank you, Sheriff Wyatt.” Dimitri Jordan began. “It is with a heavy heart that I stand here today, and I would like to begin by acknowledging the courage and sacrifice of Evelyn Li and her son, Brett Li Junior. It is brave families like yours who give our officers the support they need to protect our great city.”

  The crowd applauded his words.

  “The motto of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department is ‘Partners with the Community’. Today, we honor the memory of a man who sacrificed his life while protecting our community…”

  Ramirez couldn’t tolerate it any longer. He abruptly turned around and pushed his way through the crowd with an angry tear trickling down along his scar-line. That two-faced, silver-tongued bastard.

  “… of course there is nothing I can do to properly repay Brett Li or his family for their service, but with this donation to the Friends of Law Enforcement Fund, I hope to offer a token of my eternal gratitude…”

  Ramirez forced his way past the rear of the crowd and found a row of canopies that had been erected for the ceremony. Under the shade he grabbed a complimentary bottle of water and poured the cool liquid over his head. It offered relief from the heat, but there was no escaping the deep boom from Jordan’s amplified voice.

  “… I have pledged one million dollars to be donated annually, on the anniversary of Officer Brett Li’s passing.”

  The crowd clapped wildly at the casino tycoon’s generosity, but Jordan held up a hand to request that they settle down.

  “This money will be used to benefit the brave families of our police force,” Jordan continued without reading his notes. Despite the heat of the day, there was not a single drop of sweat on his face. The Emperor of Vegas was so cool he was almost cold, his voice was so steady it was almost still. His presence was awe-inspiring.

  “Evelyn Li,” Jordan said. He gestured down toward Brett’s widow. “I want you to know that should you need anything during the struggles ahead, my door is always open. And in addition to my donation for the FLEF, I have set up a special fund for your son, Brett Li Junior. I want you to know that Brett will be receiving his college education absolutely free, wherever he decides to go. From the bottom of my heart, I offer this gift in gratitude for your courage.”

  The crowd exploded in a standing ovation. Evelyn Li burst into happy tears and raised her hands toward the Emperor of Vegas, who made a great show of leaving his podium to humbly kiss her hand. Ramirez stormed away from the ceremony. That monster thinks he can just throw some money around and make everything alright…

  A woman’s voice called to him from behind.

  “Sergeant Ramirez?”

  He turned and saw two suits walking quickly to catch up with him. The woman, a blonde with sharp facial features that made her look about ten years older than she probably was, shot out a hand to greet him.

  “Yes?” Ramirez asked, carefully eyeing the woman and her partner as he took her hand. Her grip was strong and confident. Ramirez got the sense that there was something special about her right away.

  “Patricia Klein,” she said, introducing herself. “I’m with the DHS.” She held open her badge. “This is Clayton Burns with the DEA.”<
br />
  Clayton was a slightly overweight man who stood about three inches taller than Ramirez. He had the look of a former athlete whose muscle had slowly jellied into fat as a result of the passing years. Despite this, Clayton Burns of the DEA had a bone-crushing grip when he shook Ramirez’s hand; clearly the fading athlete was still a force to be reckoned with.

  “It’s an honor to meet you,” Burns said. “Agent Klein told me about your heroism during the war in Afghanistan, thank you for your service to our country.”

  A few seconds passed before Ramirez quietly thanked Clayton Burns for the support.

  The crowd was beginning to shuffle away from the podium and toward the reception area at the rear of the lot. A pair of black GMC Yukon SUVs rolled up along the sidewalk where Ramirez and the two federal agents were standing.

  “Sergeant Ramirez,” Agent Klein began. “I apologize for the suddenness of our arrival here, but it is a matter of national security. I am requesting that you come with us for a few hours; we need your help.”

  “What is this in regards to?” Ramirez asked as he watched the black GMCs idle by the curb.

  “We’ll discuss details in a more private location,” Agent Klein said. She motioned for Ramirez to follow her toward the lead SUV. Agent Clayton Burns held open a door for them.

  “Broad strokes then,” Ramirez insisted. “Just tell me why I’m getting in your car instead of attending my friend’s funeral reception.”

  “Broad strokes,” Klein agreed with a nod. “Someone in your department is helping a dangerous gangster smuggle opium into the United States. The money from that operation is being used to fund terrorist organizations that threaten American interests and those of our allies.”

  “Which is why I’m talking to agents from the DHS and the DEA?” Ramirez asked.

  Both nodded.

  “And you think you know who is behind this?”

  “We know the key shot-callers, yes,” Burns answered. “We’re ready to take them down, but we need local support to make the arrests.”

  “I see. You should know that the man you’re going after…” Ramirez nudged his head toward the podium where Jordan stood, “… is incredibly dangerous, and he has help from local law. I hope you’re prepared.”

  “We understand,” Klein answered. “Which is why we we’re speaking to you directly, and we’ll appreciate your discretion going forward. Will you help us take Dimitri Jordan down?”

  Ramirez perked up when she voiced the man’s name. Without a word he hoisted himself into the backseat of the SUV and looked back at the federal agents.

  “Well let’s not waste any time; I’m in.”

  42

  Red Star Tower, 5:00pm

  T urning to the Russians for help was a decision made from pure desperation. Wyatt had bullied and extorted the Petrovs for months. Now there he was, hat in hand, about to ask the beleaguered Russian crime family for a favor. Karma was turning out to be a real bitch.

  Wyatt looked at the shimmering blue glass of the twenty-story corporate tower and scratched his head nervously. He came alone; the brutal murder of Captain Williams spooked his once-loyal group of crooked police, leaving him almost entirely isolated. With fewer and fewer friends to help him, Wyatt slipped away from Brett Li’s funeral to make amends with the sole surviving heir to the Russian crime family; Viktoriya Petrov. Ice cold air from the AC whooshed past him as he stepped into the main lobby.

  “Sheriff Wyatt?” a heavily accented voice echoed in the granite lobby. Wyatt turned and saw two Russian guards exiting an express elevator from the top floor.

  “Yes,” Wyatt said, noting with a quiet shudder that the men wore Beretta M9 pistols on their leather shoulder holsters.

  “I am Ivan, this man to my left is Leonid. Mister Petrov has agreed to meet you.”

  “Mister Petrov?”

  Ivan held out a hand. “Yes. But first you must surrender your weapon.”

  Wyatt opened his mouth to protest, but when the men turned to leave him, he quickly changed his tone; he was truly desperate.

  “Okay fine!” he said and handed over his Glock. Ivan tucked the gun into his own waistband and motioned for Wyatt to follow.

  At the top floor, Wyatt was ushered to a study with a view of the Strip on one end and wood paneled walls on every other side. Books lined the walls like a library, but what really intrigued him was a row of seven rucksacks lined out against the far wall. Each was covered in dark green military camouflage. A yellow and blue patch with a picture of a black bat spreading its wings over a globe was sewn into each bag.

  Wyatt was examining the mysterious bags when he heard the door click open behind him.

  “Luggage,” Lukas explained as he closed the door behind him. “I have some friends visiting from the Motherland.”

  “Lukas…” Wyatt stuttered, dumbfounded. “I thought you were…?”

  “Dead?”

  “Well… yeah. Dimitri Jordan thinks so too.”

  “I am sorry to disappoint everyone.”

  Lukas approached the square-shaped arrangement of sofas at the center of the study. He noted with a smirk that Wyatt was pale as a ghost.

  “I did not invite you upstairs to kill you in my study, Sheriff. You can relax.” He gestured toward an empty couch at the center of the room. “Please, take a seat and tell me why you are here.”

  Wyatt cautiously stepped into the seating area and sat as far from Lukas as possible.

  “I’m happy to see you’re alive,” Wyatt began. “But I’m sorry to say you don’t look quite well, what happened?”

  “I was shot,” Lukas said bluntly. Against Dr. Kraineva’s orders, he produced a crystal glass and poured himself some vodka. He didn’t offer any to Wyatt. “I was shot, and then I was thrown into a shallow pit full of my countrymen’s corpses. After that I was left for dead in the middle of the desert.”

  He took a sip of his liquor and leaned back in his seat. “My father rescued me… you remember my father, Mikhail. He and I were very close.”

  “Were?” Wyatt asked. He was beginning to fear that he’d chosen a particularly terrible time to ask the Petrovs for help.

  “Last night I found my father’s head in a box.”

  “My God…” Wyatt gasped.

  “Needless to say, I have no money for you, if that is why you are here. If I may offer some advice; protection rackets only work when the person running the racket can actually protect his clients. Otherwise it’s nothing more than extortion.”

  “Lukas…”

  “I am not finished,” Lukas interrupted. “You know, Sheriff, after the battle in the desert I was thinking about conceding everything to Jordan. He killed almost all of my men and he nearly killed me too.”

  Lukas drew his CZ-75 from his shoulder holster inspected it as he spoke, sliding out the magazine to check his ammo. “But you see, there are some things that cannot go unanswered.”

  With a click he snapped the magazine into the weapon. “I am going to kill Dimitri Jordan, then I am going to kill every single one of his Lieutenants. And unless you can offer me something useful…” he cocked the CZ-75 and pointed it at Wyatt, “... then I am going to kill you, too.”

  Wyatt held out his palms. “Lukas no!”

  “Easy, Sheriff.” Lukas said calmly. “I am going to listen to what you came here to say, but know that you are not among friends here. I am angry. My rage is deadly. Tonight I am going to exact my revenge. Mark my words; I will wreak havoc upon my enemies like this city has never witnessed before. Now… what is it you want to say?”

  Wyatt gulped hard as he looked at the Czech-made weapon in the Spetsnaz veteran’s hands. The hate in Lukas’s eyes glowed like fire. Wyatt always knew that Lukas Petrov was a dangerous man, but this was the first time he genuinely felt afraid of him. “Can you lower the gun?”

  “Niet,” Lukas sneered.

  “Fine,” Wyatt sighed. “I suppose an apology won’t help much so I’ll save it. I am sorry about your
father, though.”

  Lukas sipped his vodka and kept his weapon pointed at the Sheriff.

  Wyatt continued, “They say that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. You say you want to bring Dimitri Jordan down? Well, so do I. That asshole’s ego is growing so fast that it won’t be long before he comes after me too. I see it happening; he wants me dead just as much as he wants you dead.”

  “I have seven elite Spetsnaz warriors preparing for battle,” Lukas said dryly, “what use do I have for you?”

  “Jesus Christ, you brought a bunch of Russian special ops guys here?”

  Lukas nodded.

  Wyatt pressed his thumb and forefinger his temples. “How did everything go to shit so fast?” he asked himself. “So what’s your plan? You’re not gonna bust into the Sumatra and just start shooting at every black man in a fancy suit are you?”

  “No options are off the table.”

  “You’re all gonna die,” Wyatt said. “Jordan has almost infinite stores of money, weapons, and men to draw from, it doesn’t matter how well-trained your guys are.”

  Lukas shook his head. “My sister is laying a trap. Where is not your concern, but the result will be the same; Dimitri Jordan and all his wretched Lieutenants will die.”

  “If you do this, you’ll need my help to stay out of jail.”

  “My father was murdered and his corpse was defiled! I’ll avenge him and accept every consequence!”

  “Your sister too? She won’t last a day behind bars without her big brother watching over her. Do you want her to go to prison?”

  “Viktoriya can handle herself.”

  “Dammit,” Wyatt grumbled.

  “It appears you have nothing to offer me,” Lukas said. “You did, however, extort me for millions of dollars while providing aid to my enemies. So what do you think happens next?”

  Wyatt could sense Lukas’s grip tightening around the trigger of his CZ-75. “Please!” he squeaked. “We’ll work out a new arrangement, I … I can give your family more control of the city.”