by Sean Patten
At first it appeared that the stage was empty, but as the darkness receded I spotted the shape of something large and round and facing the crowd.
It was a roulette wheel. A massive one at that—it had to be over ten feet tall, the red and black spaces marked with large, white numbers. A little in front of the wheel was a microphone on a skinny black stand.
I took another glance behind me to see guards posted at the doors to the theater, as well as Troika employees moving up and down the aisles and serving drinks to the members of the crowd.
Everyone was calm at the moment, but there was an energy in the air, a tension that was unmistakable.
Finally, a man stepped out onto the stage. The entire room was so quiet that you could hear a feather fall, no sound other than the fall of the man’s gleaming black shoes as he made his way to the center of the stage.
He was dressed in an expensive-looking suit, his blond hair slicked back and his blue eyes alive with theatricality.
Tension built as the man stood at the mic, his eyes moving slowly over the crowd.
Finally, he spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a heavily Russian-accented voice. “Welcome to the Troika!”
He raised his hands, the crowd’s sign to break out into wild applause. The noise was deafening, so loud I could hardly think.
After a minute or so of clapping and hollering, the man raised his hands and slowly lowered them, the noise of the crowd dying down as if he’d just turned the volume knob on a TV.
“I simply can’t put it into words how lovely it is to see you all tonight.”
He paused, letting his words hang over the crowd.
“Yes, it’s true that the world outside our walls is a little crazy at the moment. But never mind all that. Here at the Troika, as far as you’re concerned there is no world outside our walls. And all that you wonderful men and women need to concern yourself with is just how much fun you want to have tonight!”
More wild applause, followed by the man once again gesturing for quiet.
“Now,” he said. “I’m sure those of you who are here for your first night at our humble establishment are wondering just what’s going on.”
No shit, I thought to myself.
“You’re wondering why you’re here,” he said, “when what you really want is to be out there.”
He pointed out towards the casino floor, his gestures fluid and exaggerated, like a mime’s.
“Well, the answer to that is simple. Here at the Troika we love to have a good time. Just watch!”
He gestured towards the sides of the stage, giving some kind of signal. At that moment an entire team of staff rushed out, all of them carrying musical instruments and seats.
After a flurry of activity, the stage was set for a big band, the members of which came out moments later, a dozen or so in total. With one more gesture from the MC, the band went to it, playing a loud, brassy swing number.
As they played women poured in from the sides, all dressed in sparkling red unitards and headbands sprouting massive feathers. Their arms were linked over one another’s shoulders and they kicked their long legs high to the beat of the music.
The crowd went wild, cheering and clapping to the sight before them.
After a few minutes of music and dancing, the MC gave the signal and the girls stopped, big smiles plastered on their faces. The band’s tune mellowed, now playing something more like background music for the MC to speak over.
“Now,” he said. “You see what kind of fun we like to have. But with fun, there are rules.”
Sad noises came from the crowd, and the MC nodded along with them, as if regretting what he’d just said.
“I know, I know,” he said. “But, unfortunately, some people just can’t play nice. And boy if that doesn’t ruin it for everyone!”
More noises from the crowd.
“So,” the man said. “The way we solve this little problem here at the Troika is by killing two birds with one stone—entertaining and teaching all at the same time, like those specials we all watched after school. And how we do it is with a little game we like to call, the Wheel of Fate!”
Wild applause broke out once again as the MC swept his hands towards the roulette wheel, lights beaming down onto it.
“Now, the way it works is just like regular roulette. We ask our contestants to bet on red or black. If their color comes up, then off they go! But if their color doesn’t come up…”
The crowd yelled wildly, making it clear they knew where this was going.
“…Then we find out what the wheel has in store!”
I was confused. But as I looked closer at the wheel, I saw that there weren’t numbers on the colors—they were words. Various body parts were listed, along with words like “makeover” and “permanent banishment.” Most chilling was one that wasn’t words, but a picture of a skull.
I didn’t need it explained to me what that meant.
“So!” said the MC. “Without further ado, let’s bring out our contestants!”
The band went into another lively tune and the girls danced their way over to the other side of the stage, apparently making room.
Then a beaming spotlight shined on stage right, a small squad of guards coming out in anticipation of…something. Or someone.
Before I had a chance to wonder what was going on, one of the guards emerged pulling a large wheeled wooden platform, six men and women tied to posts that stuck out of the top. All of them had their arms tied behind their backs and gags over their mouths, their eyes wide with terror. One of them was the woman I’d seen earlier.
And one of them was Carlos.
I wanted to jump from my seat, to yell at the MC and demand that they tell me what was going on.
But I already knew. I didn’t want to admit it, but I understood what was happening. They were playing some sick game, some kind of spectacle to punish people who had racked up major debts or otherwise broken the rules.
The applause was deafening, a chant of “Spin-the-wheel, spin-the-wheel!” booming all around me. The crowd, previously orderly and well-behaved, was becoming more drunken and debauched by the second. I did my best to keep my cool, to stay seated and not on anyone’s radar.
The MC, encouraging the noise, strode over to the first person tied down—the woman from before.
“All right,” he said as the crowd’s noise went down to a low roar. “You all want to see me spin the wheel, and I’m not one to disappoint. But first, let’s hear from our first contestant on the Wheel of Fate. Miss? Your name?”
The MC shoved the microphone into the woman’s face, her frantic weeping booming out of the PA system.
“Your name?” asked the MC again.
“Mary Beth!” she shouted. “And please, let me go!”
“Not a chance, Mary Beth!” he said cheerily. “Now, the only thing I want to hear out of you next is one of two words—red, or black!”
“Please!” she shouted.
“Ah, ah,” said the MC. “One last chance.”
“Um, black!” she shouted.
“Black it is!” said the MC. “Now, let’s give it a spin!”
He strolled over to the wheel and spun it, the arm of the wheel clacking as the red and black blurred together. It soon slowed down, coming on a top.
On red.
Oohs and ahhs sounded from the crowd. The MC strolled over and read the words.
“Salon visit!” he shouted. “Come on, boys!”
One of the guards appeared from backstage, what looked to be hair clipper in his hands. The band played a booming tune as he flicked the clippers on and went to work, cutting the hair from Mary Beth’s head and eyebrows, leaving her a sobbing, bald mess.
“Thanks for playing, Mary Beth!”
The guard undid her restraints and led her off the stage.
That’s not so bad, I thought hopefully, my eyes flicking to Carlos. Just a haircut?
The next “contestant” pr
oved me wrong. The middle-aged man barked out “red” before the MC gave the wheel a spin, this one landing on a black notch that read “makeover.”
Before I had a chance to wonder what that meant, a pair of the guards sauntered up to the man and, one after the other, took turns slugging him hard in the face, each blow eliciting another roar from the audience. By the time they were done, the man’s face was a bloody mess. They led him off the stage, his face drenched in blood.
Oh, shit.
The next contestant, a twenty-something girl, all tears and screams, got lucky—she picked black and got black. Instead of a punishment, she was given a thousand-dollar chip and sent on her way.
The next contestant picked red, got black, and was rewarded with a permanent banishment. The contestant, a woman who appeared to be sixty or so, was led off in tears.
“Let’s hope she’s got what it takes to make it on the outside, huh?” the MC cackled. “Now, for our next contestant…”
He stepped over to Carlos and my stomach dropped.
“This big guy thought the little situation outside would erase the debts he’d gotten with us over the years. But too bad for him, the Troika never forgets!”
“Black!” Carlos shouted.
The MC shook his head sadly.
“Oh, no-no-no,” he said. “No outs for you, friend. Wherever the wheel lands, that’s what you get.”
“What?” shouted Carlos, clearly shocked.
The MC didn’t pay any attention to his reaction.
“Let’s spin the wheel!”
He did just that, the wheel speeding up then slowing down, landing on the word “hand.”
More wild cheers.
“Hmm,” said the MC. “I think that since he tried to steal from us, we pay him back in kind. What do you say, boys and girls?”
More cheers.
“No, no!” shouted Carlos as the men untied him and brought him to the center of the stage.
One kicked the back of his leg, dropping him to his knees. Another grabbed his hand and placed it flat on the stage. Then, a guard, carrying a large sledgehammer, emerged from backstage. Carlos’s eyes went wild with fear as he laid eyes on the tool.
“On three!” shouted the MC. “One—”
The crowd counted along. I sat there helpless, wishing there was something I could do.
“Two!”
My gut tensed.
“Three!”
The guard raised the sledgehammer, bringing it down onto Carlos’s hand, a boom and a sickening crack filling the air. Carlos let out a howl of pain that chilled me to the bone.
“Now, get his ass out of here!” shouted the MC.
Carlos was led off, his pulverized hand hanging loose and limp from his wrist.
“Now,” the MC said. “We have a special treat for you tonight, one last contestant on the Wheel of Fate. Boys, bring her out!”
My eyes flicked over to the side of the stage as they led someone out on stage, a woman by the sound of it.
But as they brought her out, I realized to my shock and horror that she wasn’t just any woman.
No—she was the one woman I thought I’d never see again in my life.
Squirming and screaming in the guards’ hands was…her.
It was Kelly.
TO BE CONTINUED
KEEP READING FOR A SNEAK PREVIEW OF LIGHTS OUT IN VEGAS BOOK 3: FIGHTING CHANCE
Fighting Chance
Chapter 1
May 9, 2020: 20:00 Pacific Time
It was like something out of a nightmare.
Everything up to that point had seemed like a horrible dream. But this was a pinnacle, a crescendo, a peak of horror and shock that I couldn’t have possibly imagined. Up on stage, an expression of total horror painted on her face, was Kelly, the woman I’d loved, the woman I’d thought I’d lost forever.
And with the turn of the wheel, I might very well be there for her death.
I shot up out of my seat and tried to rush the stage. But before I could even make it to the end of the aisle, one of the massive, suited guards was on top of me, his enormous palm pressed hard against my chest.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked.
Part of me wanted to blurt it all out, to tell him who the woman on the stage was. But I realized just in time that it wouldn’t do either of us a damn bit of good. If the staff of the Troika was willing to play a game like this, a game where lives were on the line for the amusement of the drunken masses, there wasn’t a chance in hell that they’d have any sympathy for my situation.
Another part of me wanted to say “fuck it” and drive a left hook right into this asshole’s face. But I understood, even in my frantic state, that this wouldn’t get me anything other than a round between the eyes. If I was lucky.
“Uh, just had to take a leak,” I said, raising my voice over the roar of the crowd.
“Hold it until after the show,” the guard growled, clearly understanding that something was off about my behavior.
It was a warning, and I took it as such.
“Sure,” I said, stepping back from him and hurrying to my seat.
One I was seated again, my eyes locked back onto the stage.
It was her. It was Kelly.
The women I’d thought was dead was there in front of me, and there was nothing I could do.
“Where did you go?” asked the man next to me, his eager eyes on the stage as he spoke. “You’re about to miss the good shit!”
I said nothing, instead digging my nails into the armrest of the seat.
“Damn,” he said. “She’s hot.”
I wanted to sock him clean across the jaw for a comment like that, but held back.
The MC strolled out to the center of the stage, a big, showy smile on his face.
“One last contestant,” he said, his clear voice spreading out like knife-spread honey over the crowd. “One last chance to see some real excitement!”
The crowd let out a roar, all of them eager for what was next.
He stepped over to Kelly and held the microphone in front of her face.
“You’re certainly a pretty thing,” he said. “Tell the crowd your name—don’t be shy!”
Kelly’s blue eyes narrowed, strands of blond hair hanging over her sweat-sheened forehead.
“Fuck you,” she said. “That’s my name.”
If there was any doubt it was her, those words dispelled it. And despite my fear, the slightest hint of a smile curled the corner of my mouth.
It was Kelly, all right.
Oohs and aahs broke out across the crowd, and it seemed as if more than a few people felt that Kelly’s comment might be grounds for a swift execution.
I glanced over at the guards posted on both sides of the stage, worried that the MC might decide to give the crowd the blood they wanted with no muss, no fuss. But instead, he beamed his showman smile, his arms outstretched as he sauntered in front of the crowd.
“Looks like we’ve got a live wire here, ladies and gentlemen!” he said. “But as much as we love a woman with a backbone, let’s give her a second chance to show some respect.”
He strolled back in front of her.
“Now,” he said. “Miss ‘fuck you,’ why don’t you be a good contestant and tell us your real name?”
Come on, Kelly, I thought. Just say it. Don’t come back into my life just to be taken away again.
The MC held the mic in front of her face, his eyebrows raised in anticipation.
“Kelly,” she said. “Kelly Martinez.”
“Ah!” said the MC. “The fiery Latina blood—who doesn’t love it?”
Kelly was half Hispanic on her father’s side, but inherited her mother’s blond hair and blue eyes. I knew that the MC reducing her to a stereotype was only going to infuriate her—which, of course, was exactly what he wanted.
“Anyway,” said the MC. “I don’t know about you all, but I’m ready to give the wheel a spin and see what fate has in sto
re for Kelly. What do we think?”
More cheers broke out, my heart thudding in my chest. The MC sauntered over to the wheel, placing his hand on the side.
“And here we go!”
With a heave, he gave it a spin. The red and black portions turned into a dark blur before slowing down again a few moments later. My stomach tensed, and it took all the effort I had to keep my eyes open and fixed on the wheel.
“Almost there!” said the MC. “What’ll it be for Kelly? A broken leg? A quick boot out the front door? A night of luxury in one of our amazing VIP suites? Or…maybe she won’t even leave the stage!”
Kelly pulled against her restraints as the wheel slowed down. The blur turned back to spots of red and black, the ticker flicking past all of the various options. It slowed, and slowed, my eyes locked onto the picture of the skull as it neared.
And then it stopped.
Lights Out In Vegas Book 3: Fighting Chance is available for pre-order on Amazon now
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