The Emperor of Vegas

by Ryan Stygar

  “One moment,” he said between his heavy breaths. Streaks of sweat glistened against his black skin. Behind him, Kiersten leaned against a squat rack and admired her lover’s powerful body as he grasped the half-ton hunk of metal.

  “He’s about to break his personal record,” she said to Watson before blowing Jordan a kiss. “You can do it baby!”

  Jordan gritted his teeth and growled like a lion. Activating every muscle in his body, the black Hercules heaved upward. Watson couldn’t help but shudder at the awesome display of power. Jordan deadlifted the bar five times without stopping. When he dropped it to the floor the entire building seemed to shake.

  Kiersten bounced up to Jordan and planted a kiss on his sweaty cheek.

  “Way to go babe! Five reps at one thousand, one hundred pounds, with perfect form!”

  Watson offered an enthusiastic round of applause. “Well done Mr. Jordan!” he called. Jordan accepted a bottle of water and a towel from Kiersten.

  “Would you believe that I was once unable to lift even a tenth of that?”

  “Hard work pays off,” Watson said admiringly.

  Jordan wiped his face with the towel and changed the subject. “Is everything in order for tonight?”

  “I sent two Lieutenants to Wyatt’s home with silenced pistols. The Sheriff’s office will have a vacancy any minute now.”

  “And our missing engineer?”

  “We searched his office and found a call to a DEA line in his phone records… it appears Omar Khalid has turned on us.”

  “That needs to be fixed immediately,” Jordan said.

  “I sent men to search for him, it shouldn’t be long before he’s found.”

  Jordan grunted unhappily. “I do not enjoy ordering so many deaths in one night, especially against law enforcement. This is basically our nuclear option; the fallout will be difficult to manage, but it appears we have no reasonable alternative.”

  “War is Hell, Sir.”

  “Indeed it is… this Omar Khalid situation could be disastrous if left unchecked.”

  “I’ll get our best assassins on it right away; as long as Omar Khalid is in Vegas, there’s no place the DEA can hide him where we won’t find him.”

  “Just be sure you are a safe distance away from the action. I don’t have any friends in the DEA; if you fall into their hands I won’t not be able to help you,” Jordan cautioned.

  “I’ll be safe here at the Sumatra,” Watson said. He then shifted on his heels. “And what about our plans for tonight?”

  Jordan smiled. “I would be remiss if I didn’t celebrate my top Lieutenant’s birthday. Once this DEA situation is under control I want you to meet me at the Tiger Room. We can enjoy a few hands of poker while we conduct our business.”

  “Thank you, Sir.” Watson said before turning to leave. Being next in line for Jordan’s throne was hard work, risky too, but as he walked away from Jordan’s gym and got ready to play cards with the most powerful man in the city, he decided that the perks were well worth it.

  

  Federal Building, Downtown Las Vegas

  Sergeant Adrian Ramirez was poring over a set of blueprints of the upper floors of the Sumatra Hotel when someone knocked at the door to his temporary office.

  “Come in,” he said. He stood to greet Agent Klein as she came through the door. Klein held a stack of documents under one arm and ushered in an Arab-looking man in his forties with the other.

  “Sergeant Ramirez, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” she said. “This is Omar Khalid. Omar, this is Sergeant Adrian Ramirez of Las Vegas Metro PD.”

  Khalid bowed his head and extended a hand. “It is an honor to meet you, Sergeant. Agent Klein has told me stories of your bravery against the Taliban.”

  Ramirez shook Khalid’s hand respectfully. “You can just call me Adrian,” he said. He gestured that Khalid and Klein should take a seat at the table. “I was just going over the floorplans for the Sumatra… is there something I can do for you?” he asked. Agent Patricia Klein answered first.

  “Actually, Mr. Khalid is here to help you. He was the lead engineer during the construction of the Sumatra, I want you to use his knowledge of the building while you plan your raid.”

  “I know every beam, bolt and strut in that building.” Omar said, tapping the side of his head. “It is all up here. Dimitri Jordan may own the Sumatra, but it was I who created her. That building is like a child to me.”

  Klein added, “If there’s a point of attack that can offer you a tactical advantage, Mr. Khalid will know it better than anyone.”

  Ramirez leaned back in his seat and regarded Khalid with interest. “I appreciate your assistance, Mr. Khalid, and I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you helping us? Surely Dimitri Jordan would crucify you if he found out you went to the police… why should I trust you?”

  Patricia Klein was clearly offended when she spoke up in Omar’s defense. “Mr. Khalid’s information is crucial to our operation.”

  “Oh I believe that,” Ramirez said smoothly. “I just want to know why… considering the risks involved, I’m surprised that you chose to defect. Please help me understand your choice.”

  “The DHS trusts him,” Patricia insisted.

  “Please, Miss Klein it is quite alright,” Omar said diplomatically. “Adrian, I can tell you are a very professional man. You have every right to know who you are working with, so let me explain myself; I have worked on Dimitri Jordan’s building for many years. I always knew he was a gangster – that is a secret to no one. But I simply kept my head down and did my job. Nothing I did ever hurt anybody, so my conscience allowed it.” He leaned back in his seat and looked the former Marine up and down. “I hear that you were given a medal for your heroism in Afghanistan?”

  Ramirez thought this was an odd change of subject, but nodded politely. Pointing to the long scare on his face he said, “I got this as a parting gift from the Taliban. I spent two deployments fighting them in the Korengal Valley.”

  Khalid nodded. “The Taliban are savages,” he said under his breath. “You and I have a mutual enemy. You see, I was fortunate to be spared from those barbarians, but many of my friends and relatives are currently suffering under Taliban rule.”

  Ramirez made the connection. “Jordan’s opium money is funding the people who are terrorizing your family.”

  “Exactly. Dimitri Jordan spent many years making sure that the Russians were entirely dependent on him for their business; they could only sell opium to him. Once he was their only customer he began making plans to cut them out and then take all of the business for himself. He asked me to translate a series of documents which he was using to smuggle in and then sell the drugs here – I committed as much of it to memory as possible and immediately called the DEA for help. As it turns out, they had already been tracking Mr. Jordan for some time.”

  “Khalid came forward at a critical moment for us,” Klein added. “With his testimony and the evidence he can provide, we are on track to take down the Las Vegas opium trade for good.”

  “And what happens when Jordan notices that one of his key confidants is missing?” Ramirez asked.

  “Mr. Khalid will be under protective custody with the DEA while we dismantle the Sumatra criminal network.” Klein added.

  “Dimitri Jordan is paying millions of dollars to evil, violent men,” Khalid said. “I prayed to Allah for guidance. I admit I am afraid, but in my heart I can hear Him commanding me to help put a stop to this. Whatever happens next is His will.”

  Ramirez held up a hand. “Okay, I’m convinced,” he said. He reached over and patted Khalid on the shoulder. “You’re very brave to come forward like this, I am sure your God is pleased with you.”

  Agent Klein’s phone range, after checking the ID she looked up at Khalid and Ramirez. “It’s Clayton Burns, I have to take this. I trust you two can work together on the plan?”

  Both nodded and she took her leave. When the door close
d behind her, Khalid turned to Ramirez. “Promise me something?”

  “Maybe.” Ramirez answered. “What is it?”

  “When you capture Dimitri Jordan, I want you to give him a good punch in the face for me.”

  Ramirez smirked a little. “It will be my pleasure. But first, show me where I can safely land a helicopter on that building.”

  

  Spring Valley

  Vince sat up when he heard the roar of the Lamborghini outside Chad’s door. He’d been alone for some time. Once Chad’s body was disposed of, Adam had no reservations about swiping the keys to the dead man’s lifted F350 super truck and roaring off to the Sumatra, leaving Vince alone to contemplate what he’d just seen his friend do.

  Adam was a father first; everything else came second, especially while his child was in danger. Vince tried to rationalize it, but watching Chad die right in front of him was making it hard to dismiss Adam’s bloody rampage.

  He shouldered the bag of steroids when Kiersten knocked on the door.

  “Good afternoon,” Vince said with the friendliest smile he could work up. The raven-haired beauty wore a row of diamond studs on her left ear while her right was draped by her long black hair.

  “Where is Chad?” she asked, looking behind Vince at the broken mirror in the foyer. “I’m supposed to meet with him.”

  “Chad had to run – personal emergency. I’m Vince,” he held out a hand.

  Kiersten regarded him with a degree of suspicion before accepting his palm and shaking it. “Yes, I remember you from my last visit. Very well then, do you have everything?”

  Vince quickly gathered up the bag and handed it over. “It’s all in there, Chad told me to make sure you got it all.”

  Kiersten unzipped the bag and inspected Dimitri Jordan’s latest batch of muscle-building serums. Vince started to sweat when he saw the white Range Rover idling behind Kiersten’s Lamborghini.

  “What’s this?” she asked, holding up an empty vial. Vince bit his lip to avoid gawking at the sight of the empty vial of poison. Adam was in such a hurry to get to the Sumatra, he must have dropped it in there by accident after lacing Jordan’s steroids.

  “Uh… that’s… just an extra vial,” Vince lied on the spot. “You know… in case you overfill a syringe and need to drain some of the fluid.”

  Kiersten held her gaze for a moment, making Vince’s heart race.

  “It prevents waste,” he added. After an extremely uncomfortable couple of seconds she shrugged and tossed the vial back into the bag. “Dimitri always takes the maximum dose, but thanks for your consideration,” she placed the strap of the bag on her well-toned shoulders and turned to walk away.

  “Tell Chad I’ll be back again in two weeks.”

  “Of course… will do,” Vince said with a wave. A black man armed with a silver pistol held open the door to Kiersten’s Lamborghini, then shut it for her when she sat in the driver’s seat. Vince let out a sigh of relief when she and her guard drove away.

  “That was close.”

  

  Red Star Tower, 8:00pm

  The Twentieth floor of Red Star Tower, in addition to extensive office spaces and the study, also contained Lukas Petrov’s personal suite. Relatively small by Petrov family standards, Lukas lived in a two bedroom penthouse. He still enjoyed breathtaking views of the city and all the luxurious amenities that he’d grown accustomed to during his career as a gangster, but he simply preferred smaller spaces.

  Small accommodations reminded him of his officer’s quarters aboard the Soviet-built, Krivak-class frigates that were his home away from home during covert Spetsnaz operations. It was a way to ensure he never lost focus; providing him a place to relax without growing spoiled or complacent.

  He’d just stepped out of the shower and was combing over his genetically inherited bald spot when someone rapped smartly against his door. Wrapping a towel around his waist, Lukas opened the door and met one of his senior Spetsnaz veterans, a well-tanned man with dashing blonde hair and a severely angled jaw named Peter.

  “Peter, what can I do for you?” Lukas asked in his native Russian. Although many of the Spetsnaz men were fluent in multiple languages, Russian was the single language they all spoke in common.

  “I am just here to tell you that the others are waking up, and we are all hungry. Do you keep a kitchen up here?”

  “Dah,” Lukas answered and turned to pick up a phone from beside his sink. “I’ll have my staff prepare something for you and the team, are you all properly rested?”

  Peter nodded. “We are ready to avenge your father.”

  “Very good,” Lukas said. “I’ll have a light supper delivered to the conference room, but be sure not to eat too much. If any of you takes a bullet to the abdomen I want to ensure your chances for survival are maximized.”

  “Blood concentrates around a full belly,” Peter agreed. “Very wise. Is there coffee?”

  “Two doors down from here, drink as much as you’d like.”

  Peter turned to leave.

  “Peter,” Lukas called from behind.

  “Dah?”

  “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  Peter smiled and gave a precise salute. “Mikhail was a good man. We want revenge almost as much as you do.”

  He left to make coffee for the others. Lukas activated an intercom in his bathroom and called his servants to prepare a light meal for his Spetsnaz assault team.

  He was just finishing getting dressed when his sister called him on his cellphone.

  “Viktoriya?” he answered.

  “Everything is in place,” she said on the other end. “Adam Friend will attack Dimitri Jordan and his top Lieutenant tonight. Whether he succeeds or not, the Sumatras will want to retaliate right away. When they are scrambling to hit us back then that will be your chance to strike. Are your men ready?”

  “They need about two more hours for supper and a final gear check, then they will be ready to fight.”

  “Very good. I have made my presence at the Venetian easy to trace. After Adam makes his move they will immediately send men to try to assassinate me.”

  “I’ll send some men for you to command during the ambush. The others will come with me to plant the explosives at the Sumatra. I have made arrangements for us to escape back to Red Star via helicopter.”

  “I am proud of you, big brother.”

  “You make me proud too, little sister,” Lukas said. “By sunrise tomorrow, our father will be avenged and we will be the new rulers of Las Vegas.”

  47

  The Tiger Room, Sumatra Casino, 8:35pm

  S ituated four stories above the main casino floor, the oval-shaped Tiger Room was the most exclusive high-limits room in Las Vegas. Tables with minimum bets as high as ten thousand dollars a hand lined the perimeter of the room. When guests weren’t gambling their fortunes at the tables, they made themselves comfortable at the luxurious cigar lounge in the center of the room. Drinks were made to order by Dimitri Jordan’s world-class bartenders using a selection of ultra-rare vintages.

  Music played softly through speakers concealed above the drooping green vines on the ceiling. Dimitri Jordan, Watson Lafayette, Ty Marcus, and two other Lieutenants were playing Texas Hold’em while their assassins were out doing their bloody work.

  The pot had reached over seventy thousand dollars when Ty cleared his throat and announced that he would like to raise the bet.

  “Very bold,” Jordan said admiringly. “I’ll call.”

  The Emperor pushed twenty thousand dollars’ worth of chips into the pot to match Ty’s raise. The Queen of Hearts, the King of Hearts, and the Queen of Spades were showing in front of the dealer.

  “You’d better not be bluffing,” Jordan warned him with a smile.

  Ty opened his mouth to retort but was cut off by a spine-tingling roar from behind the table. Everyone in the room was shocked into silence by the fearsome sound as it bellowed up and then settled into a low growl.


  One by one, chuckles broke out as the guests laughed off their fearful reaction to the mighty orange and black beasts.

  “Looks like nap time is over,” Jordan remarked, pointing at the seven hundred pound predator lurking behind the dealer. The long, oval perimeter of the Tiger Room was flanked on its left and its right by glass-enclosed, tropical habitats which were home to two fully mature Siberian tigers. The initial design called for two Sumatran tigers, but Jordan was disappointed to learn that the Sumatrans were one of the smallest subspecies of tiger. After donating the smaller cats to a conservation society, he ordered two Siberians to be imported via the black market. The Siberian tigers were now one of the hallmark attractions of his exclusive high-limit lounge.

  “Beautiful,” Watson gasped as one of the tigers leaped up from her cave and prowled back and forth along the glass window that separated her from the high-limits room. On the other side of the room, her brother let out a deep, powerful yawn and lapped at a pond beneath the bamboo forest in his enclosure.

  “Ace of Hearts.” the dealer called he laid out the next card. An audible groan swept across the table. Watson and the other two Lieutenants folded immediately.

  “Looks like it’s just you and me now, Ty,” Jordan said, his fingers dancing across the stack of chips in front of him. “I’ll raise you twenty.”

  “Make it thirty,” Ty grinned. “I have you right where I want you.”

  “Thirty it is,” Jordan slid the chips across the table.

  “Number one versus number thirteen,” Watson remarked, “it’s a smack down for the ages.”

  The others laughed.

  “King of Clubs,” the dealer called.

  Jordan looked at his youngest Lieutenant. “I’ll go first.”

  With a broad grin the Emperor of Vegas laid out his cards.

  “Full house,” the dealer announced, “Aces and Kings.”

  Ty leaned back in his seat as he looked at the hand. “Damn,” he whispered to himself. The pot was well over six figures and Jordan had just put up an impressive hand.

  “One thing to remember about me, Ty,” Jordan said as he reached for the pot, “I never bluff.”