The Emperor of Vegas

by Ryan Stygar

  “Not so fast, Mr. Jordan,” Ty said, stopping the Emperor from scooping the chips to his side of the table. “I don’t bluff either.”

  He laid down his cards, eliciting a wave of ahhhs from the men around him.

  The dealer read the cards and announced the verdict. “Four Queens. Mr. Marcus wins the hand.”

  Jordan made a double-take at Ty’s cards and then chuckled to himself – the other Lieutenants chuckled as well.

  “Well I’ll be damned, congratulations, Ty.”

  Ty was gathering his massive winnings when Jordan’s phone buzzed.

  “Yes?” he answered. “Is that so? Very interesting… send them inside in a few minutes,” he hung up and looked to the dealer. “Will you please see the rest of our guests out? Give them each a VIP pass to the Nataraja Club for the inconvenience.”

  “Right away, Sir,” the dealer bowed and hurried off to escort the non-affiliated patrons out of the Tiger Room.

  When the last of the guests had left, Jordan addressed his Lieutenants.

  “It appears that Sheriff Wyatt had a falling out with the Russians.”

  Watson looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

  “That was your hit squad on the phone. Apparently they found two Russians trying to dump Wyatt’s body when they were at his house.”

  “No kidding…”

  Jordan pushed away from the table right as the doors to the Tiger Room swung open. “Gentlemen, you are all in for a very special treat, I suggest you stick around for the show.”

  The Lieutenants at the table gasped at the sight of the two bloodied Russians. With their arms shackled behind their backs, they were manhandled into the room by a pair of Lieutenants who kept their silver pistols pressed against their prisoner’s skulls.

  “We found them at Wyatt’s place; the Sheriff’s body was almost totally flattened. We think they must have thrown him off a roof or something.”

  Jordan walked up to the bruised and bloodied Russians and sized them up. “Well I guess I’m not surprised, Wyatt was never very good at making friends, but why?”

  Ivan spat at Jordan’s feet and barked something that sounded like a string of Russian curse words. This elicited nothing but a chuckle from Jordan.

  “I suppose defiance is all they have left,” he shrugged. “Mikhail Petrov and his son are dead, at least ten of your friends are rotting in the desert. I assume that once you two are dead, Viktoriya Petrov will be all alone. By sunrise tomorrow there will be no trace of the Petrov Crime Family, and then I will be sole owner of the entire opium market in the Western United States.”

  Ivan and Leonid glanced at each other, but said nothing.

  Jordan clasped his hands behind his back and looked around at his men. “Now that the Petrov family lies in ruin, I will use its remains to add more revenue to my business. It is the first law of nature; that the strong exist to consume the weak, and in turn the weak exist to feed the strong.”

  He stepped closer to the captive Russians and circled them like an orca around a pair of wounded seals.

  “Like all of nature’s laws, it is inevitable, inescapable, absolute. And now, gentlemen, you will have the opportunity to observe this law in action.”

  Jordan pointed a finger at Ivan’s chest.

  “Khan.”

  At once Ivan was yanked back toward the doors. Jordan then swung his finger over at Leonid.

  “Sasha.”

  Leonid was swearing wildly as he was hauled back and away behind the doors. There was an echo as the heavy timber doors sealed the Tiger Room closed. In anticipation for the big event, Dimitri Jordan strolled over to the bar and plucked a vintage Cuban from a humidifier.

  Minutes later, movement somewhere above the glass enclosures drew the big cats’ attention.

  Sasha purred hungrily as her fiery yellow eyes gazed above her habitat. Khan leaped up against the glass and stretched all eleven feet of his powerful body upward. Both growled at the sight of the men being dangled just above their reach.

  Jordan pulled out a leather chair in the central lounge so that he had a view of both enclosures. He then lit his cigar while he watched.

  Ty couldn’t bear to look. Ghastly screams echoed against the glass on each side as Leonid and Ivan were tossed down to the tigers. They shrieked like trapped animals during their futile attempts to scurry away. When Ty finally opened his eyes, he saw Ivan’s bloody hands clawing desperately at the mouth of Khan’s cave as he was pulled back into the dark cavern.

  On the other side of the room, Sasha’s jaws tore into Leonid’s abdomen and shredded his guts like a meat-grinder. He was still screaming when she planted a powerful paw against his chest and chomped into his body. The screaming stopped only after she’d eaten his lungs.

  Jordan clapped his hands together in a slow applause.

  “Magnificent, just magnificent.” He stood from his seat and addressed Watson. “When you find Omar Khalid, I want you to introduce him to Khan. I suspect he will still be hungry.”

  48

  Temple Lounge, Sumatra Casino, 9:15pm

  A dam glanced at his digital watch as he made his way through the main casino floor. Ty texted him an hour earlier to confirm that he would be attending Watson Lafayette’s birthday party and of course Adam said he would. With less than an hour to go before he would have an opportunity to get at Watson, Adam paced anxiously toward the center of the casino to wait.

  The Sumatra Casino’s central junction was capped by a four-story tall dome which was built to look like an ancient, East Asian temple. The broad dome rested on dozens intricately carved columns that looked as though they’d been imported directly from the Angkor Wat. Twenty foot tall date palms rose up from planters on the red and gold carpeted floors, which were crisscrossed by polished stone walkways that guided guests throughout the various gaming areas.

  Adam stopped at the Temple Lounge, which rose up from a lush green base of tropical plants at the center of the casino floor and arched upward toward the highest point of the central dome.

  “Drinks?” a waitress asked.

  “Gin and tonic please, strong,” Adam replied as he wiped his clammy hands against his designer pants. In preparation for the event in the Nataraja Club, which was one of the most high-end nightlife destinations in Vegas, Adam ironed out the suit given to him after the Battle in the Desert and made sure to look his best.

  Dimitri Jordan would be dead soon, of that he had no doubt. But Watson was going to be a whole other ball game. Even with a ticket to Jordan’s nightclub, Adam had no idea how he was going to kill Watson before the deadline. Hell, just killing Watson without getting himself killed in the process was going to take a miracle.

  “This one is on the house,” the waitress said as she served him his sparkling cocktail. “Compliments of Mr. Marcus.”

  Adam looked up from his drink and met the emerald-green eyes of Dimitri Jordan’s most recent addition to the inner circle. Ty was walking into the Temple Lounge fresh from his big win at the Tiger Room, and he was feeling extra generous.

  “Glad to see you could make it,” Ty said. Adam gulped down a deep drink from his cocktail before extending a handshake to Ty.

  “Of course,” Adam said. He gestured toward a small bottle of tequila with a ribbon tied around its neck. “I brought a gift like you asked.”

  “Very good.” Ty said. He pulled out a stool and took a seat next to him. To Adam’s surprise, he reached inside his pocket and produced a strap of ten thousand dollars and handed it over.

  “What’s this for?”

  “Let’s just say it’s a good time to be part of the Empire,” Ty winked. “This is your reward for helping me take down Mikhail Petrov. That hit made me look really good in front of Mr. Jordan. I don’t think any Lieutenant has ever gotten off to such a good start. Now the Russians are all but crushed and we are mere hours away from controlling the largest opium distribution channel in the United States. Keep up that kind of work and you’ll be a very
rich man, Mr. Friend.”

  Adam thanked him and tucked the money into his coat pocket.

  Ty glanced at the Jaeger-LeCoultre watch around his wrist and announced that the two of them should get going.

  “Did you remember your admission token?”

  Adam held up the red poker chip with the gold elephant embossed on its face.

  “Good man. Follow me,” Ty tipped the bartender and led Adam away from the temple lounge and toward the escalators that led to the second floor. The din of a thousand excited conversations spilled downward as the pair slowly rose to the second floor. At the escalator landing, music boomed from the gates of the Nataraja Club.

  Adam had seen the exterior of the Nataraja before, but with its ultra-selective guest list and a cover price of almost two hundred dollars just to wait in line, he never thought he would see the inside. Two familiar-looking Samoans were watching the door that night, backed up by a team of guards who looked more like Secret Service agents than bouncers.

  “I believe you remember Tua and Natano?” Ty said when they reached the gate. Tua grinned devilishly and Natano made a silly wave.

  “How could I forget?” Adam muttered.

  “Weapons,” Natano grunted. Ty casually drew his silver pistol and handed it over.

  “Mr. Jordan doesn’t allow firearms in his club. No exceptions.” he explained. Ty walked toward the gigantic stone archway that led into the Nataraja Club. Tua patted Adam down, yanked the Bersa from his waistband.

  “No, no, no,” the Samoan chuckled, wagging his finger.

  Ty looked to Adam. “You’ll get it back when you leave. Don’t worry; you’re perfectly safe in here without it.”

  He turned to walk inside, Adam followed. Dammit, how am I gonna take out Watson now?

  49

  Federal Building, Downtown Las Vegas, 9:35pm

  T wo matte-black armored personnel carriers were staged behind ten foot tall, cinderblock walls topped with razor wire at the Federal Building downtown. Over the steady rumble of generator-powered lights, teams of federal agents were preparing for the most daring raid in Las Vegas history.

  Just outside the bright white glare of the staging lights, a pair of LVMPD pilots were running systems checks on their MD530F helicopter.

  The MD530F was selected by the LVMPD over other similar light helicopters due to its ability to perform in high-heat environments, making it the ideal vehicle for deploying elite SWAT units in the Las Vegas desert. Sergeant Adrian Ramirez was briefing his team on the mission as the MD530F’s engines whined.

  “DEA and DHS resources will be securing exit points,” he explained as he laid out blue prints for the Sumatra Hotel. “We expect to catch our suspects by surprise, but the Sumatra gang is still heavily armed and will not hesitate to kill police officers – we are going in fully lethal.”

  The team of six Las Vegas SWAT officers, code named “Zebras”, nodded at the sergeant’s instructions.

  “What’s the plan once we get to the Sumatra?” one of the Zebras asked. She adjusted her tan-colored ballistic vest. Unique to Las Vegas SWAT was the use of tan-colored tactical gear instead of the traditional black favored by other departments.

  “The helo will insert us atop the tower on the southern end of Club Nariphon. The club is closed during the evenings and patrolled by a team of three armed security guards. Our first task will be to neutralize them as quietly as possible.”

  An officer pointed at the black POLICE label embroidered on his vest. “Once they see these they’ll probably comply with our orders.”

  Ramirez nodded. “If they don’t then you are all authorized to use force, but absolutely no shooting unless you are fired upon first, understood?”

  “Understood,” they all repeated.

  “Good, now the real excitement happens once we descend from the pool club on the roof and into to the fifty-fifth floor. Dimitri Jordan’s villa sits at the southern end of the tower with a view of the Strip. An S-shaped hallway follows the curvature of the tower and extends from his front door to the elevator lobby in the middle and then ends at another stairwell on the north side. Both sides of the hall are flanked by his Lieutenant’s private suites – six on each side.”

  He uncapped a red marker and circled the doorways to the Lieutenant’s villas. He then drew triangles over the north and south stairwells to mark them as potential egress points.

  “Once the federal teams secure the exits, they’ll begin systematically moving into the building to force Jordan’s men to retreat upward. Our job is to locate and apprehend Dimitri Jordan, then extract him via airship. No one on the lower floors will see us coming in or out.”

  A broad-shouldered DEA agent approached the group and gave the Zebras a friendly wave. “Distract and cut off their escape from below, then strike like lightning from the top,” Clayton Burns announced. He stepped beside Ramirez and looked down at the map. Like the other DEA agents, he was wearing full tactical gear with his matte-black helmet tucked under his arm. “The DEA thanks all of you for your contribution to this mission. How’re we looking, Sergeant?”

  Ramirez flashed an ‘okay’ sign. “Dimitri Jordan weighs about three hundred pounds, which combined with the weight of our team will push the helo right to the brink of its operational payload. This means he’ll be the only target we’ll be extracting. Any other suspects we neutralize will be flexi-cuffed and left for your team to pick up. We’ll fly the head-honcho back here once we have him in custody.”

  Clayton made a tight smile and nodded.

  He looked at the Zebras who were standing in a semi-circle around the blueprints of the tower. “I understand that Dimitri Jordan has a fearsome reputation in this city, and I want you all to know how much I appreciate your courage in helping us bring him to justice. Tonight, Mr. Jordan is facing the full fury of top DEA agents backed by elite DHS resources. Combined with the hand-picked officers from Las Vegas SWAT, I’d say he’s finally met his match. Let’s stay safe out there. And, most importantly, let’s go get this bastard.”

  Clayton received a round of woops and slaps on the back for that last bit.

  After a few hands were shaken, Ramirez motioned that Clayton should follow him a few paces away so they could speak privately. “They don’t know about Wyatt yet,” he whispered as they stepped away. “I didn’t want the news that their Sheriff is a dirty cop to affect their morale.”

  “I understand, you can count on my discretion in the matter,” Clayton Burns replied. “Speaking of Wyatt, there’s something you should know; he’s dead.”

  “What?” Ramirez said, obviously surprised. “What happened?”

  Clayton held up a finger when his phone started buzzing wildly in his vest pocket. Pulling it out, he mouthed “Omar Khalid” to Ramirez before answering.

  “This is Agent Burns…” he answered. Shock rippled across the federal agent’s face an instant later. “Whoa slow down, Omar, slow down. Omar? Omar!”

  Clayton pulled the phone from his ear and turned on the speaker. Horrified shrieks crackled up from the device and sent shivers down Adrian’s spine. “What’s going on!?” he gasped.

  Clayton’s jaw dropped when a blood-curdling roar drowned out Omar’s screams for help.

  Then the line went dead.

  “What the hell happened?!” Ramirez said.

  Clayton was shocked. “I don’t… I don’t…”

  “Was that a roar I just heard? I thought he was protected!”

  “He was… we had armed agents watching him in a safe house,” Clayton said. “Oh my God.”

  Ramirez was furious. “Jordan’s not getting away with this.”

  “You’re goddamned right he’s not,” Clayton growled angrily. “Khalid was under protective custody, how the hell could anyone have found him?”

  “Jordan has spies everywhere. He must have tracked him down.”

  Clayton shook his head. “I need to go check on my guys, if something happened to them…” he took off at a trot befo
re finishing the morbid thought.

  Ramirez called after him. “Do you need backup?”

  “I’ll be fine, just stick to the schedule!”

  

  The Tiger Room, Sumatra Casino

  Dimitri Jordan snuffed out his cigar and leaned back in his seat.

  Behind the glass to his right, Khan hunched behind a broad green palm and gnawed on the bloody femur bone of Omar Khalid.

  Dimitri turned to face Watson Lafayette, who was reentering the Tiger Room after excusing himself from the bloody execution.

  “Thus always to traitors.” Jordan sighed. “Did your men have any problems at the safe house?”

  Watson Lafayette shook his head. “Nothing serious; two agents were guarding him but they didn’t offer much of a fight. We’ve been monitoring DEA activity and it looks like Khalid’s cries for help are having the desired effect. We’ll have men ready for them when they come.”

  Jordan shrugged and stood from his seat. “I have always preferred to exercise our strength quietly, but it appears that recent events are forcing our hand.”

  “The blowback from attacking Feds is going to be serious,” Watson warned.

  “Oh I’m aware,” Jordan said. “But the consequences of inaction are unacceptable… for now our immediate priority is to protect what’s ours. I’ll deal with the consequences once we’ve put a stop to the DEA’s interference in our affairs.”

  “Not that I’m uncommitted, Sir, but would it be better just to pay them off?”

  Jordan shook his head. “One can’t go around offering carrots without the occasional reminder that the stick is both ready and deadly. The DEA will be more amenable to a deal once they’ve realized that they can’t outmuscle us.”

  Watson nodded, understanding Jordan’s logic. He was nervous, but Dimitri Jordan didn’t become the Emperor of Vegas by being a fool. He trusted the big man’s judgement.

  Jordan wrapped a muscular arm around Watson’s shoulders and walked with him toward the exit of the Tiger Room. “How many MAC-10s do we have downstairs?”