The Emperor of Vegas

by Ryan Stygar

Moans of wounded bystanders were wailing up from the escalator below. Everyone else who heard the blast assumed there was some sort of terrorist attack happening and stampeded toward the exits right as the swarm of Las Vegas Metro Police officers were arriving on scene.

  Ty Marcus, with five or six other gangsters behind him, was nearly trapped by the converging pincer of police squads. Ty’s men shot wildly to keep them back.

  “This is out of control!” Ty shouted as he recovered from the blast. His ears were ringing but, miraculously, he wasn’t hurt. Everywhere he looked, people were running away, but the presence LVMPD uniforms was growing steadily stronger.

  “What do we do, boss?” one of his men asked.

  “Hesitation’s will only get us killed; we need to finish what we started and then we’ll worry about making a getaway.”

  A police officer emerged from behind the escalator. “Police! Let me see your hands!” he voice shouted. Ty’s shot and killed the officer without a thought, then ran off to catch Adam Friend.

  61

  Sumatra Hotel, 50th Floor, North Stairwell

  W atson caught his second wind somewhere between the thirtieth and thirty-fifth floors. His lungs still burned, but with each passing flight of steps, he started to feel more and more like an engine running at maximum efficiency. His legs found a perfect rhythm as they pounded up the metal stairs. Above him, fluorescent lights flickered and the electronic fire alarm continued to wail. His nostrils flared; a hint of smoke was seeping down from the fires above.

  The DHS SWAT team was well-behind him now, but he still had to get to Jordan in time to help him.

  Footsteps pounding against the stairs over his head caught his attention. Drawing his Sig Sauer, Watson aimed at the top of the next flight of stairs ahead of him and prepared for the unseen bodies to arrive. He was ready to shoot as he watched the two shadows grew larger against the clean white walls. What were they? SWAT? Feds?

  Watson lowered his gun immediately when he saw the woman turn the corner at the top of the stairs. “Miss Kiersten! Are you okay?”

  “We’re being attacked! Dimitri ordered me to meet him at the Invictus – he’s still up there!”

  Jordan’s guard, Damien, was struggling to keep up as Kiersten scrambled down the stairs to meet with Watson.

  “Is anyone with him?” Watson asked. Kiersten shook her head.

  “He’s alone except for one guard and a couple of Lieutenants, where are the others?”

  “They went off to kill Viktoriya Petrov… police are everywhere; I don’t think anyone will be able to come back for us.”

  A load groan rumbled down the staircase. Heat and the smell of smoke grew noticeably more potent. Watson looked warily over his shoulder. “We don’t have much time. Are you armed?”

  She nodded yes and tapped the Walther in her waistband. Watson extended a hand and told her to hand it over.

  “She needs protection!” Damian protested, but Watson shot him a sharp look. “There’s another SWAT team coming up these stairs and God knows how many more are watching all the exits – they’re not here for her, they’re here for us! If she’s unarmed then they won’t have any reason to stop her. It’s her best chance to escape.”

  He looked at Kiersten as she placed the weapon in his hands. “Just act like another frightened tourist trying to get away. Damian, you’re coming back up with me.”

  “But Mr. Jordan said–

  “Dammit Damian, I am Mr. Jordan’s heir! You will do as I say and you will not question me again. Kiersten, get downstairs and do whatever it takes to get out of the city. Damian, get ready to fight, Mr. Jordan needs us now more than ever.”

  Kiersten gave Watson a lingering look as he hurried up the stairs. “Take care of him, Watson!” she said as their footsteps trailed up and away. “Take care of him!”

  Turning to face the empty stretch of stairs beneath her, which seemed infinitely more frightening as a result of the flickering strobes and wailing alarms, she began her descent.

  Five floors above their heads, Dimitri Jordan was in a fight to the death against Sergeant Adrian Ramirez. With the Spetsnaz team attacking from below, Ramirez decided that the best way to save the rest of his officers was to go through Jordan.

  Over the dead corpse of Zebra Two, Ramirez raised his shotgun and fired two quick bean-bag rounds at Dimitri Jordan’s back. The lead-filled projectiles slammed into Jordan’s spine and rib-cage at a velocity of three hundred feet per second, sending him spinning onto the ground like a jet struck by a missile.

  Ramirez whipped out his baton and pounced on Jordan within a second. Jordan absorbed two or three direct hits with his arms before one of his powerful hands locked onto Ramirez’s baton and yanked it away like a toy from a baby.

  Adrian Ramirez stumbled forward before regaining his balance. Jordan was impossibly strong, and nothing Adrian did seemed to slow the man down. He threw a punch into Jordan’s ribs, but to no effect. Jordan made a fist and swung at him with all his might – striking Adrian’s ballistic helmet so hard that the chinstrap snapped and the helmet flew down the hallway. Stunned, but not out of the fight, Adrian recovered and threw a perfect punch right into Jordan’s nose. The hit drew blood from the gangster for the first time.

  “That’s for the SWAT officers you just killed,” Ramirez growled. He cocked his arm back and then hit Jordan again. “That’s for Omar Khalid!” He hit him a third time. “And that’s for Brett Li!”

  Jordan spit out a mouthful of blood. Without a word he shot out an arm to catch Ramirez by the throat. Ramirez fought to break free, but no amount of Marine Corps training could help him; Jordan was simply too powerful.

  The Emperor of Vegas easily hoisted Ramirez up by the neck and rose to his feet. Ramirez’s boots kicked almost a full five inches above the floor while his hands slapped against Jordan’s tree-trunk-sized arm in a futile effort to break free.

  Jordan bared his blood-stained teeth and roared in Adrian’s face like a tyrannosaurus. Adrian was then flung across the hall. Jordan hurled him into the wall with so much force that the impact shattered the wood panels. Adrian was unable to resist when he felt the vice-grip clamp around his throat and hoist him up again. Jordan thrust him against the wall a full foot above the ground.

  It was like fighting a demigod. Adrian was one of the best SWAT officers alive, but he was still only mortal; he was simply no match for the monstrous Emperor of Vegas.

  It was over.

  Holding his victim in place, Dimitri Jordan cocked back his fist. A single blow was enough to kill one SWAT officer already, now it was Adrian’s turn. As Jordan’s fiery amber eyes met with Adrian’s heavy lids, the three hundred pound man let out a deep, terrifying laugh. “This one is just for me!”

  Jordan’s black fist came barreling toward Adrian’s head like a hammer. But fate intervened.

  A dozen ear-ringing pops fired off from the end of the hallway. The noise was so jarring that it caused Jordan to flinch and miss Adrian’s skull by inches. Micro-seconds later, the volley of bean-bag rounds slammed into his body.

  One bag struck Ramirez and sent shooting pain through his chest, but the other’s landed perfectly on their target. At once the death-grip around Adrian’s neck melted away and he was dropped to the floor.

  Jordan cried out in thunderous agony. He fell to a knee as three Las Vegas SWAT officers pumped their shotguns and shot him again. Like a trio of futuristic storm-troopers, the ragged but still formidable Zebras rushed down the hall to rescue their commanding officer. Jordan was flailing his limbs drunkenly as he tried to get up – a sign that the terrifying man was not entirely invincible.

  One of the Zebra’s screamed an order, “Get on the ground with your hands over your head – NOW!” The SWAT officer drew his Glock and aimed right at Jordan’s chest while the other two helped Ramirez to his feet.

  “It’s over Jordan! Surrender now or we will kill you!”

  They were closing in to arrest him, but then it was Jorda
n’s turn to catch a lucky break.

  There was an electronic chirp at the opposite end of the hallway, followed by the whoosh of a door. Jordan, with a hand pressed against the bloody purple lumps forming under his white shirt, looked up at the police with a smirk.

  “You’re right,” he said as he glared down the L-shaped turn in the hall to see who had just arrived to help him, “it is over.”

  Right on cue, Watson and Damian burst around the corner with their guns blasting. Two bullets slammed into Zebra Six’s ballistic vest and sent him crumbling to the ground. The vest did its job; Zebra Six was survived, but he was still in a world of hurt.

  Jordan leaped to his feet and sprinted down the hall and took refuge behind his rescuers. Hooking around the L-shaped turn, Jordan disappeared with Damian in tow behind him. Watson nearly turned to follow, but stopped short when he recognized the scar on one of the officer’s faces.

  “You…” Watson snarled as he swung his Sig Sauer at Adrian Ramirez. He fired only one shot, which missed wide to the right when Ramirez ducked to dodge the bullet. When he squeezed the trigger again his gun clicked against an empty chamber. Furious, Watson clicked the trigger four more times before hurling the weapon at Ramirez’s face and turning to flee.

  “Sarge!” Zebra Five called out. “Enemy to the rear!”

  Each of the remaining SWAT officers, even the badly injured Zebra Six, drew their side arms. They were forced to take cover and return fire when two red berets emerged at the top of the stairs with their CZ-75’s firing away.

  “This shit just gets worse every second!” Ramirez spat to himself. He watched with anger as Watson escaped through the emergency exit down the hall. “This is Las Vegas Metro PD!” Ramirez shouted hoarsely; his throat still burning from his near-death experience at Jordan’s hand. “We have reinforcements on the way. Drop your weapons or you else will all die!”

  Ramirez aimed his Glock down the hall and squeezed off several rounds to emphasize his point.

  A voice with a heavy Russian accent called to them from behind the wall by the stairs.

  “We have no quarrel with you, Sergeant Ramirez!” Lukas said. His two remaining men took shelter with him on the stairs that led to the second floor hallway. Lukas continued, “Your men are dead and dying only because they have resisted us! Let us pass and we will not harm you.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” Ramirez shouted back. “DHS SWAT is going to be up here any minute, surrender now or die – that’s your choice!”

  “You know me, Sergeant,” Lukas Petrov called out, peaking his head around the wall to show his face. “The last time you and I met, you were able to arrest me. But tonight I am armed and I have highly skilled men with me. Let me take what I came here for… or else more of your friends will die.”

  Ramirez aimed his Glock right at Lukas.

  “I remember you, Lukas Petrov. You’ve crossed way over the line this time. Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up!”

  Lukas scoffed, “Or else what? I see three dead police officers in this villa. How many of you are left? And how much longer can you really last? I do not wish you dead, Sergeant Ramirez, but I will not hesitate if you force my hand.”

  “I know you’re losing men too! The difference is that I have more on the way. You’re alone, Lukas, give up now!”

  “Sarge!” one of the officers whispered from behind. When he turned around, he could see that his once-formidable SWAT team was in a desperate state. Zebra Five was bleeding profusely from his shoulder. Zebra Six was on a knee and reeling from the pain of taking two rounds to his ballistic vest. Both tapped on their empty magazine pouches.

  “I’m all out, Sarge,” Zebra Six wheezed.

  They had put up one hell of a fight, but they were nearing the end of their ability to resist any more hostile attention. Goddammit, Ramirez thought to himself. Quickly sliding out the magazine in his Glockh he realized he was down to only four more bullets. Technically, it was enough to kill Petrov and whatever was left of his team, if only he could make every bullet count. But the hard-fought nature of the night’s battle suggested that four bullets wouldn’t be nearly enough to get him and the rest of the Zebras out alive.

  Lukas’s voice echoed down the hall again. “Dimitri Jordan killed my father… I’m prepared to die avenging him. Are you prepared to die Sergeant? Are your men ready to die? This can end for you right now, just let me and my men pass.”

  Ramirez looked at Zebra Five and Zebra Six again. They were tough, but they couldn’t fight on without ammo.

  “What do you want?” Ramirez called down the hall, his gun still ready. Lukas made a quiet sigh of relief that the notorious ex-Marine was giving him some ground.

  “I am coming up with two other men. We are armed with Saiga semi-automatic shot guns and CZ-75 pistols. We all have plenty of ammunition to fight, but we do not wish you harm. We want Dimitri Jordan, nothing more. Let us pass and we will leave you to tend to your dead and wounded unmolested.”

  Ramirez hesitated for a moment. To show that he really meant business, Lukas racked the slide of his Saiga and blew an eight-inch crater in the wall behind Ramirez’s head. “You are brave, but you are outmatched. Let us pass. I will not ask again!”

  Ramirez cursed. There were no other alternatives that didn’t involve fighting the Russian commandos to the last man. Ramirez told his team that he was going to let them pass. They agreed with his judgement.

  “Fine! You and your men can pass. But I swear to God, if you try to pull anything, we will defend ourselves!”

  “And we will do the same, should you try anything with us,” Petrov replied. “We are coming through now.”

  One by one, the three red berets emerged from the top of the stairs and trotted down the hall. The man at the rear was holding a black satchel and stopped to plant plastic explosives along the thick load-bearing members along the hallway.

  “You’re gonna blow this place away?” Ramirez gasped.

  Lukas nodded, “You’d better run.”. His voice was without menace but also without kindness.

  Ramirez helped his team up and quickly filed past the Russians like a retreating army. He hated it, but he knew he was making the right call to protect his team. The blue and yellow patch on Lukas’s shoulder caught Ramirez’s eye as he passed through.

  “Spetsnaz?” he whispered.

  Lukas flickered a quick grin. “Dah, You made the correct choice tonight, Sergeant. Run now.”

  “You’ll be hearing from me again,” Ramirez said sternly. “This is a parlay, not a surrender.”

  “Call it what you must. I will look forward to our next encounter…” Lukas saw that the Semtex was armed and ordered his men to follow him down the hall. Before he left, he looked at Sergeant Ramirez one last time. “You had better get going.”

  With a huff, Adrian Ramirez turned to follow his team. Trotting down the stairs as quickly as they could, they were taken aback by the carnage left behind in Dimitri Jordan’s living room. One Spetsnaz soldier lay dead on the floor while another was slumped over on a couch with his pistol still clutched in his cold hands. In the hallway outside the door, black smoke was steadily draping the hall in darkness like a curtain.

  The other Zebras tried to collect their dead comrades’ bodies but Ramirez ordered them to leave the bodies alone. He pointed to the black smoke and flickering red flames outside the villa. “This place is gonna fall apart any minute. We have to get out of here.”

  62

  A rmed with a copy of Viktoriya’s keycard and a single-minded determination to rescue Lily no matter what got in his way, Adam Friend left a trail of surprised and bloodied security guards in his wake as he charged up to the Penthouse Suites.

  Wiping the last security guard’s blood from his knuckles, Adam found Viktoriya’s Penthouse Suite and swiped the card. The guard snored unconsciously in the elevator lobby while the electronic lock flashed green and clicked open.

  Inside, the Venetian’s
Penthouse Suite was 2,900 square feet with an ultra-lux living room and kitchen at its center and posh bedrooms to the left and the right. Behind the glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Las Vegas Strip sparkled in a million colors. Just a few blocks to the north of the Venetian, Adam could see heavy smoke and fire was billowing up from the top of the Sumatra Hotel.

  “Daddy!” A little voice squeaked. Standing in the doorway to one of the bedrooms, the tiny three year old was smiling at him.

  “Lily!” Adam whispered. “Lily, baby come here!” He dropped to a knee and held open his arms. But Lily stopped in her tracks.

  A gun clicked behind Adam’s head.

  “Stand,” Viktoriya’s voice ordered.

  Adam’s jaw clenched. So close. He was so close. Lily wasn’t able to fully understand what she was watching, but her intuition told her that the pretty woman was angry with her father. Lily’s big blue eyes watered and her lower lip trembled.

  “It’s okay Lily.” Adam said. He then spoke to Viktoriya without looking back at the muzzle she had aimed at his skull.

  “I did what you asked. Let me take her home.”

  “My brother is still fighting in that tower. Until he returns safe to me, she goes nowhere.”

  “Brother? What are you talking about?”

  Viktoriya scoffed, “You thought I would pin all my hopes for revenge on a little man like you? Niet. Lukas is alive and he’s delivering justice to Dimitri Jordan as we speak.”

  “That’s impossible… I saw Lukas get shot! You said yourself he was dead!”

  “Russians do not die so easily. We are warriors! You, however, are just a pawn to be controlled. Now get out.”

  “Not without Lily! What do you have to gain by keeping her here?”

  “Collateral. You are stupid if you think I’m going to just let you go free when we both know I cannot possibly trust you. If you leave now, I might forgive your foolish intrusion here.”

  Adam looked to the little toddler, who was about to cry after hearing the adults hiss so aggressively at each other.