Lion

by Matt Rogers

  Slater ran through his memory, wondering if there would be any witnesses to greet him. It had seemed like a fairly secluded stretch of the lobby, reserved for whales and high-net-worth visitors only, which meant all would be well if the concierge had returned to his desk.

  If not, Slater would have some explaining to do.

  But as he stared at the panel of buttons symbolising nearly fifty floors he had the choice of visiting, he realised the lobby was by far the best bet. Any other option would effectively act as a random guess, except for level 22, which would see him burst out into a corridor filled with paying customers, carrying an unconscious guard on his shoulder.

  So he left the control panel as it rested, allowing the cable car to descend straight back to the ground floor. He crouched on the soft carpet and touched a pair of fingers to the side of the security guard’s neck, wading through a river of blood to do so.

  He found nothing.

  The guy was dead.

  31

  As the elevator slowed, Slater’s heart leapt into his throat when he realised he hadn’t prepared for any kind of resistance. The control panel omitted a high-pitched ding to indicate it had arrived at the requisite floor, just as he dove for the dead guard’s body and wrestled a Beretta M9 out of the holster at the guy’s waist. In the chaos of the hand-to-hand fight, the man hadn’t found a spare second to draw his weapon.

  Slater disengaged the safety with a practiced flick of the index finger, swinging the barrel up to head-height as the doors whispered open.

  Whoever lay in wait on the other side would either catch a bullet in the forehead, or a rapid outburst of commands to hit the floor and keep their head down.

  In reality he required neither course of action.

  The elevator doors slid open without a noise, revealing an empty hallway. In the distance, Slater heard the commotion of visitors moving in droves around the vast lobby, but this section of the ground floor was, just as he suspected, reserved for the high rollers and exclusive guests. There was no sign of the concierge — clearly the man had more important business to attend to than wait around to see if Slater would return.

  Slater burst into action, re-engaging the safety and slotting the Beretta into his waist band. He would need both hands for the task ahead.

  He hauled the badly-beaten corpse of the security guard out into the corridor, dragging the man unceremoniously by the collar. It proved messy work — Slater took the utmost caution not to get a speck of blood on his clothing. If he wanted to carry on like it was business as usual, he couldn’t set off alarm bells with crimson stains on his wrists.

  The corpse did nothing to help that, bleeding from everywhere at once. Slater’s breath caught in his throat as he managed a glimpse at the damage he’d inflicted on the guard’s face.

  He had untamed power, and he was afraid what he might do with it if he confirmed his suspicions of a darker side to Mountain Lion.

  So far, though, he had nothing.

  He had a relentless stream of Forrest’s men coming at him — something he had no choice but to defend himself from — but other than that, there was no proof of any kind of sinister intentions behind Forrest’s actions. Slater didn’t even know what the man looked like. He was rolling with gut feelings, positing the potential reasons for kidnapping a nine-year-old girl and holding onto her for such a significant portion of time.

  Slater hurried the corpse across the corridor, exposing himself to potential arrest and life imprisonment if law enforcement decided to stroll in at that moment. He shouldered the door to a small storage room inward and left the dead man in a bloody heap next to an empty bucket and mop. Then he turned on his heel and closed the door quietly, checking in either direction for any surprise arrivals.

  Still empty.

  His heart pounding in his chest, he crossed to the same elevator — the doors were in the process of whispering closed — and sliced between them, re-entering the same cable car with a second to spare. If he’d missed that opening, it would have been a painful wait for the next elevator.

  He rode the twenty-one floors to the same VIP room with his pulse pounding. There was nothing he could do physically to mute the sensation — the fight had been savage, and a split second of reaction speed either way could have turned the tide.

  Despite dominating the encounter from start to finish, Slater knew he’d come dangerously close to death.

  A sensation that never grew old.

  And, more importantly, he didn’t know whether he’d showed up on any cameras in the process.

  He checked the roof of the cable car but found nothing visible. If cameras had captured the ordeal, there would be an army of security heading his way, and nothing he could do to change that. He’d left the Beretta on the dead man’s body out of necessity — the first time he’d stepped into the VIP room, they’d waved a metal detector over his suit to make sure he hadn’t come to cause any trouble.

  That was the reason he’d entered Mountain Lion unarmed in the first place.

  The elevator made a brisk return to level 22, and the doors sliced open before Slater even had a chance to compose himself. He stepped out to face a largely confused Asian man in a tailored suit, no taller than five-foot-six, staring around the hallway as if he’d lost his wallet.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Slater said, like he hadn’t a care in the world.

  The man snapped to attention, delivering every ounce of customer service required for a role in such an exclusive location within the casino. He beamed, flashing a row of white teeth, and it was as if there had never been a problem at all. ‘My sincerest apologies, sir. It seems one of my staff was meant to be here to greet you. I do apologise again — this is completely unprofessional of him.’

  Slater stared left, then right. ‘Huh. That sure is odd.’

  ‘Certainly. I’ll be sure to follow it up immediately.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  ‘Are you here for the VIP room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right this way, please.’

  The man turned and set off at a brisk pace down the hallway, no doubt determined to resolve the situation of his missing employee — which bode trouble for Slater. He was operating on a limited time frame. He’d hoped to eliminate the guard in such an effective fashion as to raise no concern about the guy’s whereabouts. But he’d forgotten the golden rule of VIP rooms — no-one misses a minute of required work. These were the best of the best in terms of hospitality and attention to detail.

  So he didn’t have long to make his move.

  The small man ushered Slater toward a vast opening built into the end of the corridor. Shaped like a giant church entrance, the pathway led through to a bustling hive of commotion — Slater heard the excited murmuring of high-rollers, and the distinct clicking of casino chips against felt tables. He made to stride directly past the man beside him, but something made him pause.

  ‘Where do you think your man has disappeared to?’ he said, posing the question with as much innocence as he could muster.

  ‘I’m not sure, sir. It’s quite unlike him. The cameras in the hallway will show where he went. I’ll go check them now. Good luck on the tables tonight, sir.’

  With a slight bow, the man turned on his heel and set off down the corridor at a brisk pace, hustling past the entrance to the VIP room and ducking into a side passage manned by two stern-faced security guards. The alcove rested around a bend, meaning the guards hadn’t seen Slater’s initial arrival.

  It had saved his life.

  Slater froze on the spot, halfway between the VIP room and the elevator, plagued by indecision. The head of security would see the footage of his employee being dragged into the elevator — Slater doubted the elevators would be blocked from view. Then the situation would become a ticking time bomb, counting down until all the security in the complex descended on him.

  He had minutes, if not seconds.

  It would have to be a brazen, all-out move to ge
t himself downstairs. He would have to approach one of the most important-looking figureheads in the VIP room and insist on being ushered to the darker section of Mountain Lion immediately.

  If one even existed.

  He’d have to be off this floor before the head of security alerted his staff.

  There was almost no chance it would work.

  Or he could retreat.

  He stared at the elevator doors, beckoning him, urging him to make the smart decision. But when had he ever done that?

  Forward, or backward?

  Forward.

  Always forward.

  Slater strode straight through into the VIP room.

  32

  It only took a simple, four word request from one of the security team inside the entrance to the VIP room to flip the entire situation on its head.

  Slater had started scanning each face in the room the moment he entered, eyeing dozens of baccarat and blackjack tables sprawling across a grand chamber-like space, with a high-domed roof reminiscent of a cathedral. He had a limited amount of time to accomplish what he wanted — he imagined the head of security navigating to the correct archive of footage, playing the tape, witnessing Slater wrench the guard into the elevator and return minutes later on his own.

  He was so desperate to seize advantage of any opportunity he could get that he ignored the three-man team of suit-clad security by the entrance, barging straight past them, urgency in his gait.

  One of the men reached out and seized Slater by the shoulder, his grip firm enough to indicate they knew something below surface-level.

  Slater stopped in his tracks, ruffled by the sudden change in momentum, fully aware of the ticking clock in his head.

  ‘What’s up?’ he said, his tone biting. ‘I’ve already been granted access to this room. I’m a regular.’

  The member of security who had grabbed him — a powerfully-built Chinese man with a thick jawline, a buzzcut and an earpiece in one ear — creased his mouth into a hard line and narrowed his glare. He could see right through Slater’s charade.

  Slater wondered what the hell had changed.

  ‘Sir, this way please,’ the man said, and the atmosphere shifted.

  They know.

  Everything came together, a giant synapse firing inside Slater’s head that connected the dots. On the way in, no-one had checked how many chips he was carrying — it had been an odd request on the concierge’s part to ask in the first place. Slater had gone along with it, in sheer survival mode, not thinking of the ramifications.

  They’d caught Samuel Barnes with a hundred thousand dollar Mountain Lion chip in his hands.

  Fuck.

  They knew Slater was hiding Shien — as soon as he’d pretended to lose the chip gambling at a rival casino, they’d seen straight through the facade and moved to intercept him. They couldn’t do it in the lobby because he’d already been on his way up to the VIP room, but here it would be as simple as ushering him out of sight and falling on him in droves.

  Slater shot rapid glances in every direction at once. There were dozens of men and women in formal attire dotted around the expanse — far too much collateral. He eyed holsters on the waists of the three men surrounding him. Each of their safeties on their sidearms had been disengaged. He could probably wrestle one weapon free, but three at once — unlikely. Besides, even if he dealt with these men there would be pandemonium in the VIP room. The crowd would surge for the elevators and the emergency stairwells, and it would be simple enough to catch a stray bullet in the chaos.

  Too many variables.

  Slater ran through every possibility in his head in the time it took the security guard to finish the sentence, ‘Sir, this way please.’

  Almost immediately, he nodded his understanding, feigning innocence. He raised an eyebrow, subtly questioning where to go.

  The three person team settled into a practiced rhythm, one man on either side of Slater with a hand clamped down on each of his shoulders, the third taking up the rear to make sure he didn’t make a wild break for it. An effective cordon, but Slater could sense the weakness in their grips. It was a subtle thing, something ordinarily not palpable, but underneath their suits he could sense the soft bodies of undisciplined men.

  They might box recreationally at the local combat club on their off days, but they would all crumble against someone like Slater.

  Confidence surged through him as they led him along one of the curving walls, keeping out of the way of the patrons. Some glanced in his direction, noting Slater’s forceful departure from the premises, but most were focused on the hundreds of thousands of dollars in play on the tables before them.

  They wouldn’t bat an eyelid if Slater decked all three men right here.

  But he didn’t, because he knew he would get the opportunity in seconds. Sure enough the trio led him through a narrow door labelled “STAFF ONLY”, hurrying him into a claustrophobic corridor with none of the luxuries afforded to the VIP rooms. The hallway provided direct access to the kitchen, where Slater could hear a dozen cooks slaving over hot plates in the distance, preparing gourmet delicacies to be funnelled out to the paying customers.

  But there was no-one in sight, except for a fourth security guard striding fast toward them. The party would meet halfway along the corridor — Slater and his three buddies moving one way, the new arrival intercepting them for added support. The guy’s face was twisted into a snarl. Dark purple bruising had swollen into place underneath one eyelid. Slater guessed he might have been responsible for Shien.

  A second later the man confirmed it, unleashing a tirade.

  ‘You really think you could just snatch someone like her out from underneath us and expect to—?’

  His tone swelled to a crescendo, his rant almost complete.

  Slater didn’t afford him the opportunity.

  He shot a dark look to his left, anticipating an instinctual reaction from the guard on that side. The Filipino man responded in predictable fashion. Filled with confidence, satisfied that he’d managed to hurry Slater out of the public eye, he returned the glare with equal verve, offended at Slater’s attempt to appear threatening.

  Slater hadn’t intended to appear menacing.

  He just wanted the man to look in his direction.

  Without an inch of wind-up he headbutted the guy full in the face.

  33

  Slater’s forehead broke the guard’s nose and he went down without resistance, letting go of his grip on the shoulder in the process. Slater leapt a full foot into the air and planted both feet on the collapsing guard’s chest, pushing as hard as he could.

  It achieved two things.

  First, it sent the guard with the broken nose clattering into the wall — there was little space to move in such close quarters, which proved cumbersome — and second, it sent Slater careening back into the man on his right. He crushed the second guy against the opposite wall with enough force to squeeze the breath out of his lungs, and as he clattered back to his feet he stumbled once and narrowly avoided a swinging left hook from the guard taking up the rear.

  The third man had been in place precisely to prevent Slater from breaking free, but he only had one attempt at a punch before Slater could capitalise. They were operating in the fine gaps that rested between milliseconds of hesitation, and Slater had spent what felt like half his life in those gaps. When he felt the displaced air of the man’s overpowered hook swinging through the air beside his ear — the guy clearly had combat training if he could throw a punch that fast — he voluntarily bounced off the opposite wall and delivered a staggering uppercut against the underside of the third guy’s chin.

  Either a bone in Slater’s hand shattered, or the guy’s jaw cracked.

  He couldn’t be entirely sure in the heat of the moment.

  He would find out once the adrenalin wore off.

  The fourth guy — who had been approaching in a flustered hurry — didn’t know how to react to the escalating situation, and
chose to merely fall on Slater in a half-hearted attempt to tangle him up for long enough to gain the advantage.

  Slater sensed the man bearing down on him and slipped a hand under each of the guy’s armpits — known as underhooks in mixed martial arts. It gave him all the leverage, which he used to pivot on the spot and drop the guy on the back of his neck.

  In the movies, taking a man to the ground never amounted to much.

  In real life, where bodyweight was real and highly dangerous, Slater came down with the point of his elbow on the guy’s throat, sandwiching him between the carpet and the weight on top of him.

  He spluttered, horrified, his thorax damaged and all the fight sapped out of him.

  Slater’s mind raced, even as he demolished the four men around him. He noticed the Beretta M9 in the holster at the fourth man’s waist while pivoting and thundering an elbow into the side of the second man’s head. The guy dropped, shut off at the neurological power switch. Slater turned straight back to the guy with the injured throat and wrenched the Beretta free.

  Slater sensed the first man — the one he’d head butted in the face — charging at him. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted hands darting for a holster at the waist. The guy was going for a gun. Violence and testosterone dripped in the air — this was the primal moment when one had to make a decision, regardless of the consequences. There would be no preventing the man from acting, and the distance was too great to subdue the man with his bare hands before the guy could reach for his weapon.

  Slater hardened his nerves, twisted at the waist to line up his aim and fired two rounds. One in the chest, one in the head. The man’s neck snapped back and he slumped to the carpet with a surprising lack of noise.

  Stone dead.

  Slater felt nothing. The violence still raged around him, shrouding him in a toxic haze, not allowing him to feel sorry for anyone until the fight had reached its conclusion.

  He sensed the man with the damaged throat getting up from underneath him, sweeping his hands through the air in an attempt to throw Slater off-balance and send him falling to the ground.