by Jon Land
Segura yanked Tess toward him, twisting his hand to aim her face upward for the lights. He paid Michael no heed whatsoever, so his attack caught the giant utterly by surprise.
Holding the Tyrant girl by the hair had left Segura’s arm bent awkwardly at the elbow, a weakness Michael exploited by looping in and around him. He clamped his right hand on the giant’s wrist while jamming his left hand directly under Segura’s elbow.
Then pushed down with his right.
And up with his left.
Segura’s arm snapping at the elbow was as loud as a gunshot. His fingers jerked open, and Michael seized the opportunity to shove Tess protectively behind him.
The crowd roared its appreciation, loving the show, the spectacle.
Segura’s eyes had filled with uncertainty, trepidation even, sweat coiling across his upper lip. The sensation of potential defeat, of being hurt the way he had hurt so many others, unsettled him to the point where Michael thought for a moment he might yield, give up the effort, then and there.
But just a moment.
Because the giant’s eyes found Michael in their grasp and bulged with rage. The pain in his shattered elbow joint must’ve struck him in that very moment because he uttered an inhuman wail as he lurched across the ring. Michael left himself positioned to shield the second Tyrant girl, placing him at an odd angle to mount a defense. Still, he was able to deftly duck under a blow from Segura’s good arm, never anticipating the blow from the giant’s injured arm that followed immediately. It smashed Michael in the right shoulder, stunning him as he whirled away.
The crowd uttered a collective gasp, more murmurs rising through the clutter of faces continuing to grasp this wasn’t a show at all.
Michael felt a stinging burst of pain and then a stiff numbness that made his arm drop like a lead weight hanging from his shoulder. The sense of it being detached from his body was no more than an illusion he fought through, aware that Segura was stalking him across the ring. Bouncing up and down on bare feet with both good arm and bad, incredibly, held up in a punching position. Rage filled his eyes and in that instant Michael understood all too well how Segura had managed to remain undefeated through so many bouts. There was something feral in his gaze that unleashed itself in the ring. Segura couldn’t bear not to emerge the clear and dominant victor, even in a charity exhibition, unable to separate that out in the part of his brain that rendered him invincible in a title contest.
Michael moved about the ring in rhythm with the giant, shadowing his motions, dimly aware of the frames of Segura’s entourage crumpling in Alexander’s wake. Alexander now fighting to open the cage door still pinned by Kim’s unconscious form. Beyond that, the dim lighting in the arena beyond turned the sea of faces into an endless mishmash of indiscernible features lost in a swirl of emotions.
Michael twisted away from a high snap kick that managed to clip his ear, stinging him with pain anew. A kick for the knee from the giant’s other leg followed which Michael deflected. Segura followed up with a wild series of roundhouse blows Michael first parried, then countered with a quick flurry of strikes among feigned kicks to lure the giant to defend his lower half, shrinking his size in the process. The next moment found Michael behind the giant, lashing a kick to the back of his right knee, buckling it and then missing with a follow-up blow when Segura leaped into the air, spinning round to face him anew when he landed. He carried his broken arm stiff by his side, flexing the fingers to keep the blood flowing, and ready somehow to use it again if necessary.
Michael was not a mixed martial artist, nor a cage fighter. The self-defense techniques he’d learned in secret, being revealed to the world beyond Alexander for the first time, were bred for outlasting an opponent in the streets. Fights to the death inevitably about survival, not title belts. He knew success was not about thought, but instinct. Think and you’re dead.
Feel, react, respond …
And that’s what Michael did. He felt Segura launch himself into a bull rush a split instant before the giant dropped down. So, as Segura’s huge arms moved to wrap Michael up, Michael had already clamped his hands over the giant’s bald skull, fingers lacing together to bring his face down as Michael’s knee came up.
Impact was stunning. Michael felt Segura’s nose compress, bone shattering and cartilage cracking, behind a burst of blood that sprayed downward. Then, as Segura’s head whiplashed back upward, Michael rode the momentum by taking hold of his already damaged arm and angling himself to cut the giant’s legs out from under him. Michael had never practiced the move before, had never even seen the precise movement to mimic. Instinct had taken over, Michael reacting to a weakness gleaned from some primordial sense of thought normally foreign to civilized man. The world around him had slowed, everything crawling except his own motions. Sight sharpened. Sound vanished. Life unfolded in snippets held in memory as still shots.
One final knee launched upward against the side of the Executioner’s skull.
Segura hitting the mat with enough force to rattle the cage.
The crowd going crazy, erupting in cheers and applause so loud Michael’s ears bubbled.
“Tyrant, Tyrant, Tyrant!”
The chant resumed as Seven Sins security finally got the cage door open enough for Alexander to push himself through over the Tyrant Girl Kim’s unconscious frame. He reached Michael just as he sank to his knees and the cheers hit a new crescendo.
“Tyrant, Tyrant, Tyrant!”
The crowd had leaped to its collective feet, especially the women rooting him on, a hero who’d vanquished a villain intending to do harm to innocents. The simplest of all stories, but also the most complex in his case for the pain that it carried and scars it had left inside him. Scars on the outside, the kind with which Dorado Segura was riddled, were nothing compared to those on the soul. Don Luciano had needed a notebook to remind him of his sins, but Michael needed no such ledger to remind him of his pain.
“Tyrant, Tyrant, Tyrant!”
NINE
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
Melissa escorted Devereaux toward the private bank of glass elevators reserved only for the underwater suites and extending ten levels down into the resort’s Daring Sea.
“No other luggage?” she asked him.
“I travel light,” he said, wheeling his two carry-ons with one attached to the top of the other.
They reached the three elevators serving the Daring Sea suites and Melissa pressed the single button, lighting it up.
“You’re not claustrophobic, are you, sir?”
“Not at all. Is there something I should be concerned about?”
Melissa smiled. “Just a question we’re required to ask. Here at the Seven Sins even an elevator ride is an experience.”
It was indeed, Devereaux thought after the glass elevator began its slow descent into the Daring Sea. He might not have been claustrophobic, but there was something initially disconcerting about descending through water on all sides with tropical fish curving agilely around the glass. Imagine all this, in the middle of a desert yet! What kind of man could not only dream up such a thing, but also have the persistence and resources to make it a reality?
The kind of man I came here to find, Devereaux thought. And he found himself staring up through the compartment’s glass ceiling, noticing a frothy red film descending beyond, that sent the fish fleeing.
“A unique view of Red Water, Mr. Devereaux,” Melissa said, following his gaze.
“Red Water?”
“What we call feeding time for the resort’s great white sharks. The fish scattered because sometimes the refuse of the feeding means Assassino and his friends aren’t far behind.”
Suddenly the giant great white that drew tens of thousands of visitors to the Seven Sins on his own sped toward the elevator. Devereaux’s breath bottlenecked in his throat, as the huge man-eater carved a thick swath through the water, coming straight for him and the glass before veering off at the very moment he was about to crash into it
.
“Some of us actually believe Assassino has a sense of humor,” Melissa told him, smiling, “that he likes playing with people, despite the three sailors who fell overboard during his capture and were killed. Mr. Tiranno spent a fortune on the expedition that took six weeks to catch him and destroyed two boats in the process.”
Devereaux didn’t ask her to elaborate further. He noticed the pendant, featuring the trademark crest of King Midas World and the Seven Sins, dangling from a chain around Melissa’s neck.
“Lovely piece of jewelry,” he raised, when she caught him staring at it.
“And part of the uniform,” she said, forcing a smile that told Devereaux his gaze had lingered a bit too long.
He felt a thunk as the elevator stopped on the fourth underwater level. The elevator’s glass door slid open and Melissa stood aside to allow Devereaux to pass.
“Right this way, sir.”
* * *
Devereaux’s Daring Sea suite was beyond anything he could imagine, and he counted himself fortunate that his original reservation had been lost.
Melissa held the door open for him as he entered the suite toting his carry-on bags. It was like stepping into a submarine, albeit an ultra-luxurious one, behind a heavy bulkhead-like door. The far wall was composed entirely of glass that, according to the Web site, comprised three separate layers joined by a special polymer.
The world beyond in the Daring Sea was rich in all manner of marine life, much of it swimming past for him to view. He’d read about guests lucky enough to win a free stay in one of these suites as part of the casino’s “Spend a weekend with a great white” promotion. The lights in Devereaux’s suite automatically snapped on when he entered. Melissa propped the door open and followed him inside.
“Is this really safe?” Devereaux asked, feeling weak over the need to pose such a question.
“Entirely, sir. And if you ever have a problem…”
Melissa waved a hand before an invisible sensor and, suddenly, one of the side walls brightened to life, much of it filled out by a wide screen television that was more like something from a movie theater.
“Hello, Melissa,” a softly pleasant, female voice greeted.
“Hello, Angel. I’d like you to meet our guest Mr. Devereaux.”
“Hello, Mr. Devereaux. How may I help make your stay an enjoyable one?”
Devereaux came up alongside Melissa, fascinated by the rainbow-like prism swirling around the Seven Sins’s famed logo, the computer-generated voice seeming to emanate from within it.
“Angel serves as the resort’s virtual concierge,” Melissa explained.
“Thank you, Melissa. Mr. Devereaux, may I call you Edward?”
Devereaux found himself nodding at the wall. “Yes, Angel.”
“Would you like a reservation in one of our restaurants or a show perhaps, Edward?”
Melissa looked toward Devereaux, beckoning for him to answer.
“No thank you, Angel.”
“How about a seat at one of the gaming tables? You can even play from your room.”
With that, the screen filled out with a shot of the casino floor, each table having been assigned a superimposed number. The screen rotated from the no-limit blackjack area to craps, roulette, baccarat, and the seemingly endless array of slot machines including those designed by Tyrant Gaming Technologies.
“Edward, just say the number of the table you wish to play at and I can either reserve you a seat or you can play right here from your room. The amount you wish to draw will be charged to your account and I can place all bets for you. Your room also comes with a Tyrant Class Samsung tablet, should you prefer to play that way, located on the desk. You’ll find the casino level visible as your home screen as soon as you switch it on. Meanwhile, here are some chips to get you started.”
The right-hand side of the screen flashed several fresh stacks of chips.
“Merely an example,” Melissa explained. “Move your hand in front of them.”
Devereaux did, curious and amazed at the same time, and watched one of the stacks topple.
“Here at the Seven Sins, a guest need not even leave his room, can actually be anywhere at all to enjoy the best gaming experience money can buy. Is there anything else I can assist you with?” Melissa asked him, but for a moment Devereaux thought it was still the virtual concierge talking.
“No, not right now.”
“Well, if you need anything, you can either ask Angel or call me,” she said, handing him a card. “That’s my private number. Or just say my name and Angel will connect you to me directly. I’m available to assist you twenty-four hours a day.”
“Thank you,” Devereaux said, leading Melissa back to the door, eager for her to be gone.
Once he closed the door behind her, Devereaux found himself alone in the eerie translucence shed by the Daring Sea’s underwater lanterns. He could actually imagine a guest entering such a suite and becoming so entrenched with the crystal clear view of marine life that he might barely leave it through his stay. But in Devereaux’s mind, at least his imagination, it was the fish who were watching him, more curious about his presence than he was about theirs.
Maybe they sensed he hadn’t come to Las Vegas to gamble, or see the shows, or enjoy the restaurants. He was not here for the glamour or the glitzy spectacle that had taken over the city, especially the Strip. He was not here for a giant killer shark or a ridiculously over-the-top resort casino. And the only dreaming and daring he’d done lately had been regarding his career, betting everything he had on a quest that had brought him here to Las Vegas on the trail of a monster.
His associates thought him mad for chasing a specter, a phantom, a ghost. A figure of myth and legend, known everywhere and nowhere at the same time. All-powerful and yet nonexistent, the stretch of his invisible web reaching across the world with no corner spared.
Devereaux unpacked his carry-on first, removing a laptop from a padded insert and then a larger black-handled case, the contents of which were more expensive than any car he’d ever owned. He switched on his laptop, entered his password, and opened the file he’d only recently titled “Tyrant.”
Then he settled back and eased from his pocket a pendant that was identical to the one Melissa wore, the pendant all Tyrant Girls and other featured employees of the Seven Sins were given.
By Michael Tiranno himself, complete with his personal motto: Somnia, Aude, Vince …
Dream, Dare, Win.
If Devereaux’s suspicions were correct, though, Michael Tiranno would not be doing any of those before too much longer.
TEN
RETEZAT MOUNTAINS, TRANSYLVANIA
Scarlett Swan was used to living in the dark, had come to embrace it for the mysteries it tried to hide in its grasp until she dug them out.
“I’m an archaeologist,” she was fond of explaining. “What do you expect?”
Scarlett loved working alone, had always been pretty much a loner, just as her mother, a leftover hippie from the 1960s who’d had her at the age of forty-two, was. Hence, the name Scarlett, chosen because of her mother’s obsession with the film Gone with the Wind. But none of that mattered while on a dig where Scarlett was concerned only with the mysteries she was unearthing. This dig in the Retezat Mountains of Romania’s Transylvania region showed some promise, the region no stranger to discoveries dating back to the Roman Empire, like the one she’d come in search of.
Late that afternoon she’d busied herself with an initial inspection of the ground layered beneath the freshly excavated remains of an ancient Roman temple that was the site’s principal find. Swiping a whisk broom across the flat ground revealed a slight depression, and further clearing revealed a limestone plate laid over what Scarlett assumed was a secret underground passageway, leading to and from the temple. Students rolled the mini-crane apparatus over to hoist the plate from its two-thousand-year-old perch, beneath which lay what she recognized as not a passageway at all, but a secret chamber. Sh
e could also tell that the chamber was positioned purposefully beneath the temple, making her think it had never been meant to be found.
Archaeologists digging here had been systematically uncovering an ancient Roman center that, during its heyday in the second century AD, commanded the countryside as the capital of the conquered Dacian provinces. After the Dacians were defeated in 106 AD by the forces of Trajan’s legions, a city had been built upon the very location where a major battle between the Roman legions and the Dacian troops had taken place. And within that city, this temple and its surrounding monuments had risen, constructed of high quality limestone and marble, no expanse spared as testament to the ever-expanding Roman Empire.
Archaeological teams had been mining this site for finds for nearly a century now, starting in 1924 and continuing through today. Scarlett arrived on the scene with the full backing of her primary benefactor to find the site barely twenty percent exposed even after such a long period. Yet that in itself wasn’t nearly as surprising as the secret chamber she’d uncovered beneath the ruins of the temple floor.
“We need to call in some experts,” the project manager, Henri Bernard, said as they stood side by side looking down into the exposed chamber.
“I am an expert, Henri.”
“I mean with real experience in such matters. Until then, I want nothing disturbed. The find is not to be touched at all. Is that clear?”
“You mean, my find?”
“No, I mean the team’s, the team I’m in charge of,” Bernard reminded her.
Scarlett had never worked with Bernard before, had never even met him until he was assigned to oversee this dig at the last minute as a condition set by Romania’s Ministry of Culture. Having yet to publish a thesis to enable her to join the Register of Professional Archaeologists left Scarlett playing second fiddle to men like Bernard with considerably less experience in the field than she. Bureaucrats who often had their own ulterior motives, interested in claiming the credit more than anything else. Bernard, a professor of Archaeology at the Sorbonne in Paris, was well known to her by reputation, but he’d been dropped here out of nowhere. Enough alone to make her suspicious, even without considering his lack of field experience.