The Emperor of Vegas

by Ryan Stygar

  “Twenty… maybe twenty four, I’ll have to check,” Watson answered.

  “Twenty will be enough,” Jordan said quickly. “What about ammo?”

  “Enough to invade a small country.”

  Jordan nodded. “Good. I want this DEA situation nipped in the bud. I trust you can get those guns into the right hands?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Jordan tapped the cellphone in Watson’s hand. “Leave this with me; I’ll deliver the order personally. Once you get the guns ready I want you to go to the Nataraja and enjoy the rest of the evening.”

  “Of course, thank you, Sir.”

  “Happy Birthday, Watson.”

  50

  Red Star Tower, 9:50pm

  L ukas stopped dialing Leonid and Ivan after his fourth attempt went unanswered. With a heavy sigh he accepted the fact that wherever they were, there was no helping them now. War is Hell, he thought to himself. He pocketed his cellphone and walked down the hall to the conference room.

  Seven dark-green camouflaged uniforms gathered in Lukas Petrov’s study. The stone-faced Spetsnaz veterans wore their red berets with polished gold stars pinned against the felt. On their shoulders, the blue and yellow patch embroidered with the black bat marked them as the most elite fighting men of the Russian war machine.

  Lukas dusted off his old beret and placed it on his head.

  “Quite a handsome lot, aren’t we?”

  The men chuckled as they ran a final inspection over their weapons.

  “This mission is about one thing; retribution,” Lukas continued in his native Russian. “Our purpose tonight is to inflict maximum damage upon the bastards who slaughtered our countrymen and murdered my father. We will be swift. We will be deadly. Our enemies will scream for mercy but they will find none. Dimitri Jordan has awakened the sleeping bear, now he will face its claws!”

  “Here! Here!” the men called back.

  “Team One, you will come with me. Our mission is to infiltrate the Sumatra and plant the Semtex in Jordan’s residential villas. Once the chopper extracts us we will detonate the explosives and destroy the entire top floor of the Sumatra. Team Two, you will wait at the Venetian. My sister has arranged for an assassin to attack Dimitri Jordan and his top Lieutenant tonight. The attack will infuriate the Sumatras; we expect immediate and clumsy retaliation. Viktoriya has ensured that her presence in the Venetian will be easy for them to track down. There you will wait for Jordan’s hit squad and slaughter them down to the last man.”

  “We are with you brother!” Peter shouted. Approving whoops rippled across the group as the men shouldered their weapons and equipment.

  The windows of Red Star Tower rattled. An EC145 helicopter swooshed up over the floor-to-ceiling windows and thumped over their heads, revving to a high whine before touching down atop the tower. Lukas picked up his gear bag.

  “It appears our ride is here.” He threw up a hand to salute his comrades. “Spetsnaz!” He bellowed with pride.

  “Spetsnaz!” The men saluted back. In single file they then followed Lukas upstairs toward the awaiting aircraft.

  

  Except for special occasions, Dimitri Jordan’s rooftop pool club was closed at night. Access to the club was limited by a single grand entrance from the main elevator lobby and two emergency exits on the north and south sides of the building. The most exclusive pool club in the city, Club Nariphon was inaccessible without a VIP pass or special key-card, but Jordan took security very seriously and so a team of three armed men patrolled the roof at night as an extra precaution.

  Javier Benitez had worked for Jordan’s rooftop security detail for three years. Armed with a flashlight, a small walkie-talkie, and a handgun that had never been fired, he and the other two guards patrolled the pools at twenty minute intervals during their shift. Because Club Nariphon’s ingress points were so restricted, they hardly ever encountered anything interesting.

  Over the years Benitez busted no more than a handful of hotel guests looking to sneak into the pools after hours. His favorite story, one he never failed to recount during social functions, was the time he stumbled upon a couple making love in one of the pools. Other than that, the highly secure Club Nariphon was little more than a quiet and well decorated place to pass the evenings during his shift.

  “Take a break,” Benitez said to one of the younger security guards as he entered the guard booth. “I’ll take the next patrol.”

  “Watch out for skinny dippers,” his employee chuckled. “I caught some college kids in the main pool a few weeks ago.” The younger guard, a Las Vegas native named Fernando, placed his flashlight on the small table inside the booth and sat by the television set.

  Benitez made a goofy salute. “Oh I’ll keep a sharp eye.”

  Ten minutes into his walk, Benitez became aware of an especially loud helicopter hovering near the south end of the club. Helicopters in Las Vegas are about as common as ducks in a pond. With so many tourists eager to take an aerial tour of the city, plus the ultra-lux crowd who would rather die than wait in traffic with the filthy masses, Benitez’s mind had gradually relegated the thumping sounds to mere white noise.

  But there was something different this time. When he turned he saw the dark silhouette of an airship hovering a mere twenty feet over the far end of the club. Against the glow of the city behind it, he saw the bulky shadow of a man dropping down to the roof from a line attached to the chopper.

  “What in the…?” Benitez raised his walkie-talkie to his lips to alert the others. “Hey Fernando, do you –

  A gloved hand clamped over his mouth and cut him off. Javier tried to scream and get away, but he was quickly overpowered. The last thing he saw was the glint of a blade flashing against the city lights before it sliced open his throat.

  Fernando’s voice called from the dead man’s walkie-talkie. “Javier? Javier what’s up?”

  The young security guard looked out the window of the guard booth to see what had happened, but he saw nothing unusual among the dark shadows of the empty pool club. “Javier! Javier are you there?” he called.

  “What’s going on?” the guard behind him asked. Fernando clicked on his flashlight and did a sweep of the club. “I don’t know… Javier isn’t answering his walkie-talkie.”

  “Probably taking a piss somewhere,” his partner said. With a shrug he returned his attention to the Raiders game on the television in the booth.

  Fernando stepped outside to get a look around. An uneasy feeling was forming in his belly. Sweeping his flashlight side to side, he walked all along the pathways that snaked through the lush tropical gardens. “Javier!” he called through the broad banana leaves.

  Something rustled behind him.

  “Who’s there?” Fernando whipped his light around toward the source of the noise. “Kyle, is that you?”

  He shined his light at the guard booth. Except for the office chair laying on its side, it was empty.

  Fernando was thoroughly spooked now. Turning to run, he was stopped dead in his tracks when an arm emerged from one of the planters and yanked him into the bushes.

  There was a wet, slicking sound, followed by a muffled rustle.

  “Rooftop is secure,” Peter said into his throat mic as he wiped Fernando’s blood from his knife. “Commence with phase two.”

  Lukas Petrov rappelled from the EC145 helicopter while carrying two satchels loaded with Semtex. When he hit the ground he let out a quiet yelp. Shooting pain stung him from his stitched wounds.

  “Are you okay?” one of the Spetsnaz soldiers asked. He ran to Lukas’s side and unloaded the heavy explosives from his shoulders.

  “Dah,” Lukas said and waved the man off. “I’m fine, just not fully healed yet. Take the satchels for me and I’ll lead the way.”

  Lukas sucked in a deep breath of air to ease his pain, then swung his Saiga semi-automatic shotgun up to his shoulder and led his team to the emergency exits that led to the stairwells. Peter emerged from the b
ushes and joined them with his own Saiga ready for action.

  When they reached the doorway, the fourth and fifth members of the team trotted up to them with their AKS-74U compact assault rifles drawn. With their backs turned to the other members of the team, the men with the compact assault rifles protected the rear. Lukas disabled the alarm attached to the emergency exit and cracked open the door.

  51

  DEA Safe House, Paradise, Las Vegas, 9:55pm

  R ed and blue lights flashed from the grilles of the black GMC Yukon SUVs. Speeding through traffic, the pair of DEA vehicles blew through intersections with their sirens wailing. Clayton Burns was in the passenger seat of the lead SUV.

  Two DEA agents were assigned to watch over Omar Khalid in a secret safe house in Paradise. Somehow, Omar Khalid had been abducted and was last heard screaming for help.

  “When was their last check in?” Clayton asked.

  “Agent Nogales called in at twenty-hundred hours,” one of the DEA agents replied as he double checked his Glock 17 pistol. “They weren’t scheduled to check in again until twenty-two hundred hours.”

  Clayton glanced at his G-Shock tactical watch. “That’s in five minutes, but I don’t think we’ll be hearing anything.”

  He keyed the mic connected to the radio on the GMC’s dashboard. “Car One to Car Two, any luck contacting the safe house team?”

  “Negative,” replied the woman’s voice on the radio. “We’ve been hailing them for the past ten minutes.”

  Clayton held on to his seat as his driver swerved right onto a residential street and stepped on the gas. Over the roar of the V8 engine, the electronic siren wailed and wobbled. Clayton pointed down the road.

  “Four houses down, it’s a two-story Mediterranean with a palm tree in front of it. Get ready.” he keyed his mic again. “Car One to Car Two, we’re going in hot. I’ll take the front and you’ll secure the rear.”

  “Roger, Car One, we’re ready,” the radio squawked.

  Tires screeched as the two DEA vehicles roared in front of the safe house. Black doors flew open and six DEA agents emptied from their SUVs with Clayton Burns taking the lead. Keeping his Glock pointed ahead of him, he led his team to the front while the second team swooped around to the back of the house. Ten seconds later, Clayton cautiously approached the front door with his finger on the trigger.

  “Son of a bitch,” he gasped.

  Unnoticeable from a distance, he could see now that the door jamb was damaged as a result of being kicked open.

  “The door’s been breached,” he whispered into his radio. “Be on alert for hostiles.”

  “Copy,” a voice whispered in return.

  Clayton and the two agents behind him clicked on their flashlights and held them up beneath their guns as they poured into the front door. With Clayton in the lead, the other two swept left and then right as they methodically cleared the house.

  They met the second team in the living room. Clayton ordered them to clear the second story while he and his team double-checked the first floor for any trace of the two missing DEA agents.

  “Team Two to Team One,” the radio squawked a minute later. “We found them; agents are down. I repeat; agents are down.”

  Clayton cursed under his breath and hurried upstairs.

  “What happened?” he demanded. A female agent with her hair tied in a tight ponytail had a grim look on her face. She nudged her head toward a bathroom in the upstairs hallway. “In there.”

  Clayton poked his head through the door. Two sets of bloodied limbs were hanging out of the bathtub. It was all he cared to see; he quickly turned away as anger and disgust smoldered in his chest.

  “There’s more,” the female agent said, her voice filled with dread. “Both of their radios are gone…”

  “Christ no…” Clayton gasped. “I want radio silence from now on!” he ordered. “Who knows who might be listening or what they plan on doing next.”

  “We have to warn the others!” one of the agents said. Worry was all over his face. “Go-time is in less than an hour.”

  Clayton turned to run downstairs. “Maintain radio silence, we have to get back to the Federal Building and warn Agent Klein that our comms have been compromised.”

  Emergency tones squelched from their radios all at once. A voice screamed over the radio. “Mayday! Mayday! Shots fired! Shots fired at–aahhhhrrrrggg!”

  Automatic gunfire blasted outside the house.

  “Shit!” Clayton shouted. “All of you on me now!”

  The agents charged down the stairs and tried to get outside, but they were pinned down when the first floor windows exploded inward. Bullets slammed into the interior walls and forced them to drop low for cover.

  “The female DEA agent screamed and clutched at her thigh. I’m hit!” Dark red blood seeped through her fingers as one of the agents tried to pull her away from the barrage of bullets.

  “Take cover! Take cover!” Clayton ordered.

  He keyed his mic and put out a distress call. While the emergency tones screeched from his radio he crawled to the shattered living room window facing the street to get a visual on who was shooting at them.

  Bullets raked across the living room as four white Range Rovers rolled past the house. Like battleships delivering full broadside barrages one after the other, fiery orange bursts flashed from their open windows while they cruised past the house in single file.

  “Sumatras!” Clayton shouted back to his agents. He raised his Glock to fire back. He managed to squeeze off only four rounds before a nine millimeter hole was bored into his throat. Blood poured down his tactical vest as his carotid artery was ruptured by the bullet. Special Agent Clayton Burns was conscious for ten excruciating seconds before the blood loss put a merciful end to his suffering.

  52

  Nataraja Club, Sumatra Hotel, 10:05pm

  T he twenty-foot tall gate to the Nataraja Club was flanked on each side by statues of spearmen carved from marble. Like an ancient fortress, its doors were made of heavy timber with iron handles which were pushed inward to reveal a long hallway lined with stone arches.

  Adam felt the bass from the music more than he heard it. The dancers in the hallway pulsed and swayed to the rhythm as the EDM music grew louder. White mist flowed down from the mouth of the hallway, shrouding the club behind it in hazy, flashing colors.

  Ty smiled as he dipped behind the misty white curtain. “Welcome to the best club in Vegas.”

  On the other side was the circular chamber of the Nataraja Club. Four stories tall, with glowing blue and orange lights pulsing from every corner, the Nataraja was a twenty million dollar construction project designed specifically to put every other club on the Strip to shame.

  Like an East Asian coliseum, its stone arches circled the entire dance floor. Each archway had a balustrade that enclosed a VIP table – of which the Nataraja held over one hundred unique arrangements for its wealthiest guests. Orange and gold banners hung down from the very top of the dome and Adam gasped at the sight of muscular acrobats twirling and flipping from them in perfect synchrony.

  “My God that’s incredible,” Adam said. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “It takes years of training to do that,” Ty said. “Each of them is insured for half a million dollars. Fortunately none of them has fallen yet – knock on wood.”

  While Ty led the way to the third floor, Adam gazed in awe at the massive gold statue that loomed high above the crowd from behind the DJ stage. The four-armed deity was cast in a dancer’s pose and emitted lasers from its eyes as the electronic dance music ebbed and flowed.

  “That’s the Nataraja,” Ty explained as they climbed the stairs to Dimitri Jordan’s private booth. “It’s covered in real gold. During some parts of the show it will shoot flames from its palms. It’s quite a sight, I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  “This place is incredible.”

  “The best in Vegas,” Ty boasted, he pointed up to a staircase that rose up to
the third floor. “Watson is in a VIP booth up there. I’ll formally introduce you and you can wish him a happy birthday. The rest of the night is yours; consider this a reward for making me look good in front of Mr. Jordan.”

  Adam followed him. Passing by a bar lined with expensive liquors, he saw the bartenders preparing fresh basil, rosemary, slices of lime, and other herbs for their craft cocktails. Adam’s palms grew clammy when he noticed the paring knife sitting on top of the granite bar. With Ty just a few paces ahead of him and the bartenders busy preparing for the night, Adam seized the opportunity to arm himself.

  In a subtle swipe he scooped up the knife and tucked it up into his sleeve without looking down. All he needed now was a chance to catch Watson alone.

  Adam fidgeted with his cufflink as he sat in Watson Lafayette’s VIP booth. The paring knife up his sleeve slipped and sliced his skin more than a few times before he arrived at horseshoe-shaped booth. High above the bustling crowd on the dancefloor, Watson’s booth was level with the golden head of the Nataraja idol, whose eyes were casting red flashes of light across the plush seats.

  Adam looked at his sleeve and could see some blood dripping down his fingertips. While Ty and Watson busied themselves with conversation, Adam reached across the table at the center of the VIP booth and plucked a napkin from the arrangement of drinks, glasses, and hors d’oeuvres. Adam had just wiped away the blood and discretely tucked the napkin between the seat cushions when Ty waved him over.

  “And here he is; the Russkie-slayer,” Ty said, introducing him to Watson with a smile. Watson offered a hand and Adam gave him a polite handshake.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Friend.”

  “Happy Birthday,” Adam said, bowing his head respectfully.

  “Thank you,” Watson said. He took a deep drink from his glass of champagne. “I appreciate your role in assassinating Mikhail Petrov. By the end of tonight, the Russians will be destroyed and we will be the new masters of the US opium trade.”