by Jon Land
Saltuk’s eyes flitted to the slumped forms of his guards, both veterans of the Egyptian secret service, who’d managed to keep Mubarak alive for decades in large part by assassinating his potential foes. And this woman had felled them, by all indications, without even raising a sweat.
“Human trafficking, Ismael. You sent me to a slave ship.”
“My intelligence was accurate as always, I’m sure of it,” he insisted to her.
He was a tall man, thin, with long legs that made him appear more than his inch over six feet. His face was gaunt and angular, featuring a protruding jaw and cheekbones that were a fine match for his overly broad shoulders which peaked on both sides. The darkness of his eyes and hair was further exaggerated by olive skin laced with a sickly pallor from lack of sunlight.
“The copper was a cover,” he resumed.
“Obviously.
“That both of us fell for.”
“Also obvious.”
“And if everything is so obvious, what brought you here?”
“I was raised in an orphanage, Ismael, an orphanage where older children disappeared from time to time. Do I need to draw you a picture?”
“I was about to ask you the same question, Raven, in view of the man who rescued you from that squalor: Adnan Talu, a man I hold in as high a regard as you do. A man both of us are indebted to for our very lives.”
Raven remained expressionless, her gaze noncommittal, but she couldn’t deny Saltuk’s assertion. Talu was the closest thing to a parent Raven had, and she still remembered the day he’d plucked her from the orphanage to be raised as his daughter. He sent her off first to a boarding school in England and then a college where she studied fine arts and antiquities. That in preparation for her following in his footsteps as a leader of the modern-day criminal organization that had grown out of the Cilician pirates whose legacy dated back over two thousand years.
After Talu’s death, Raven had expanded the organization’s interests. In her mind, the pirates of today controlled cyberspace the way their forebears once controlled the seas, the Internet rapidly becoming the greatest ocean of all and ripe for the picking. But the organization still shipped more stolen cars to the Middle East than new Mercedes and BMWs combined and continued to supply small propeller planes to the drug lords in South America, equipped with the top technology in radar interdiction. And, of course, cargo ships inevitably made for enticing and normally easy prey.
“Make believe I’m Talu and tell me what you’re hiding, Raven. What is it about that toddler hugging her dead mother that moved that cold heart of yours?”
“Where can I find the man behind that cargo, Ismael?”
“I have no idea.”
“Yes, you do—I saw it in your eyes when I told you what the ship contained. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you set me up. Wanted me to find exactly what I did.”
Saltuk looked away, speaking with his eyes fixed on one of his treasured paintings. “So many of these are fakes. Would you like to know why?” He turned back toward her, expression bent in bitterness. “Because the man responsible for that slave ship learned I had the originals and insisted I turn them over to him. They weren’t even by famous artists, were hardly well known outside of select circles. But they were among my favorites and I did as I was told, Raven, because this is not a man you want to cross under any circumstances. We are his proxy because we have no choice—no one who works for him does.”
“A client of yours, then.”
Saltuk frowned. “One whose wrath and ruthless methods are what defines his power. And, by the way, you worked for him once, too.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The operation in Siberia you were paid handsomely for four years ago.”
“The old man, the professor I rescued from the gulag,” Raven reflected.
“The man behind that freighter’s cargo? You were working for his organization without even realizing it.”
“What organization is that?”
“Black Scorpion.”
* * *
“I never believed they really existed, at least not to the degree rumor would have us believe.”
Saltuk nodded. “The greatest protection for truths desired to be kept secret lies in letting the world believe them to be legends. Black Scorpion is more powerful than most governments. Their reach is immeasurable, way beyond human trafficking alone which they control on a global scale. If there’s money to be made from any crime anywhere, chances are Black Scorpion is either behind it or backing whoever is.”
Raven moved to the dark nightscape adorning the near wall. “This one looks real.”
“One of the few that has escaped Black Scorpion’s attention.”
She drew a lighter from her pocket and flicked the flame to life, easing it close enough to the painting to lose the smoke in its vibrant colors. “Tell me where to find this man, Ismael.”
Saltuk’s eyes bulged. He began to shake. “No, please!”
“Tell me where to find him, or see it burn.”
“Talu gave me that painting,” Saltuk pleaded.
“Then don’t make me burn it.”
“All right, all right! Just move the flame away. I’m begging you, Raven, begging you!”
Raven released her finger, letting the flame die.
Saltuk moved his gaze from Raven to the painting and then back again. “You know what they say about the devil, that if you see him it means you’re already dead? You’ve never met the man who runs Black Scorpion—no one still alive ever has. Trust me on that, Raven, for your own sake.”
“Oh, I trust you, but this man’s never met me either.”
NINETEEN
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
Edward Devereaux watched Michael Tiranno enter the lobby, gaze following his stroll across the floor as he was greeted by all manner of guests and employees. On his left, Devereaux recognized Naomi Burns, Tiranno’s former corporate counsel who now also served as chief executive officer of the corporate entity behind the Seven Sins and all of his gaming holdings. Hanging back, like a shadow, he noticed Alexander Koursaris, Tiranno’s loyal private bodyguard, reputed to be one of the most dangerous men in the world, a warrior of such prowess that he had been compared to a modern-day Achilles who would make even Homer proud.
To the casual follower, both Burns and Koursaris were no more than hired guns, filling roles that would otherwise be taken by others. But Devereaux’s exhaustive and painstaking research had revealed them to be much more than that. Naomi Burns, for example, had been instrumental in helping Tiranno realize his purported dream of building the Seven Sins, while Koursaris’s formidable reputation and mere presence kept Michael Tiranno’s most committed and threatening enemies at bay. It was all part of the mystery, the enigma, that Devereaux now had centered in his cross-hairs.
Given time, though, the kind of criminals and madmen he’d spent his life chasing always made a mistake, and that was what had brought him here to the Seven Sins. Seeing Michael Tiranno crossing the lobby, Devereaux lit out into motion, following the man known as the Tyrant when he veered toward the casino.
TWENTY
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
Michael moved about the Seven Sins’s casino floor, losing himself in the sounds and sights behind which MMA fights and Gaming Control Board hearings vanished, at least for the moment.
No matter what else might be going on in his life, perspective could always be found by trolling the casino. To witness firsthand the vision his original dream had created. A few minutes were often all it took to restore his sense of purpose. Though Michael shunned the limelight, his celebrity often led to him being recognized and approached. He welcomed such encounters for the feedback they provided that was often infinitely more informative and rewarding than hotel surveys and consultants’ reports. For no survey or report could capture what a person felt in the deepest part of their being, the part of them the Seven Sins experience endeavored to reach.
Along
the way, any number of guests approached to meet him, just as he stopped to greet guests randomly to get a sense of their experience. Perhaps, in a strange way, he was living vicariously through them, back to the days where so often he’d gambled everything he had on anything but sure things. Those days were far more pleasant in memory than the actual experiences he’d buried as deep as he could in his consciousness, sometimes wondering himself if it had all really happened. The Seven Sins defined everything Michael was and ever aspired to be. The constant sense of energy and excitement never failed to draw him back to the crowds seeking action as well as the kind of opportunity they could get only here. It helped him remember the struggles that had led to it coming to be, lest he never take anything for granted. He never moved with an entourage, though he knew Alexander lurked nearby, out of sight but never so distant he couldn’t intervene in an instant, on the chance Michael encountered a guest less than hospitable to him.
Occasionally, the spectacle grew greater still, when actual tigers and lions rose out of the casino floor from chambers layered beneath it, built in that respect to resemble the Roman Coliseum, but with tubes made of reinforced space age polymer. Payouts in whatever part of the casino the animals ended up would double for a brief time, while carefully orchestrated circles of fire ringed the area. Michael loved the concept that the whim of fate could change a man’s or woman’s life, at any time, forever. So much of his vision was about changing the very nature of the gaming experience by making it more entertaining and engaging—interactive as well as, in many respects, a lifestyle. That lifestyle was based on a simple but clear motto inspired by the message immortalized on his relic, applying a “Dream, Dare, Win” philosophy to everyday existence as personified by every roll of the dice or flip of the cards.
And, true to that form, the expressions on the faces of those packed in tight were full of hope and expectation, a sense of the unknown that awaited them, the possibility that they could leave in a substantially different standing in life than when they arrived. The risk posed was minimal in the face of the payoff they could gain. They had positioned themselves for great things to happen and, even if that didn’t come to pass, they would depart rejoicing in the notion of the opportunities afforded them.
Michael had just emerged from the casino area when a man appeared before him with a glossy picture-dominated book charting the construction of the Seven Sins titled The Eighth Wonder of the World.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” the man apologized, in a vaguely European accent. French, Michael thought. “But could you sign this for me?”
“Of course,” Michael said, taking the book and readying his pen. “Should I make it out to anyone in particular?”
“Yes, it’s my birthday! How about, ‘Happy Birthday to my friend Paul.’ That would be wonderful!”
Michael scrawled the note and handed the book back to the man.
“Thank you,” the man said humbly, letting his gaze sweep about. “I’ve never seen anything like this place before.”
“Thank you,” Michael said, smiling, and started away, realizing the man had been wearing thin, designer gloves. European, indeed.
* * *
Edward Devereaux held the book extended before him, careful not to come into contact with the part of its glossy cover Michael Tiranno had touched. Then he turned and started toward the elevators that serviced the Daring Sea suites.
TWENTY-ONE
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
“Hello, Edward,” Angel greeted, as he closed the door behind him. “Is there anything I can assist you with?”
Devereaux searched around the wall for a curtain to draw before the screen or a switch to shut Angel off altogether, failing to find either. He was convinced the virtual concierge was watching him, following his every motion and action.
“No, I don’t…” He stopped, having to remind himself he was talking to a machine. “I don’t need anything, Angel.”
“Just let me know if you change your mind. I have some excellent dinner recommendations for you.”
“Maybe later.”
“Of course.”
Unable to escape Angel, Edward Devereaux carried his black case into the sprawling bathroom complete with both marble bath and shower, its back glass wall offering a view out into the Daring Sea but no view in. After closing the door behind him, he removed a large cotton swab from a pocket on the case, tore away the plastic, and carefully swiped it across the cover of the book Michael Tiranno had signed for him to harvest some DNA. Then he opened the black-handled case atop the bathroom’s granite counter to reveal what looked to be a medical kit of some kind on one side and a high-tech machine complete with LED readouts and display screen on the other.
The machine was a portable DNA tester that allowed for the kind of analysis normally performed in a lab to be done in much more expeditious fashion, within minutes actually. The margin for error was understandably higher and the degree of match probability considerably lower. While certainly fallible, the portable testers were still accurate within a range of five hundred to a thousand to one. Significant developments and progress with polymerase chain reaction, the technology used to perform DNA testing, had made this possible, and there was even a handheld PCR amplification device available. But Devereaux still preferred this model, which could provide reasonably reliable results within fifteen minutes.
He popped the cotton swab off from the stem and fitted it into a slot tailored for its precise specifications in the machine. Eased the slot back into place and then touched the button marked RUN. A soft whirring sound, not unlike that of a standard computer hard drive, emanated from the machine’s guts as it began its analysis and comparison with the DNA report already entered into its memory. Nothing, under the circumstances, that would stand up in court. But that was of no concern to Devereaux at this point. All he needed was proof that there was merit to his theory, enough to force those who’d shunned him to listen.
The machine would do its work. And then he would know for sure, Deveraux thought, as he fingered the pendant that was a miniature reproduction of the medallion adorning the Seven Sins everywhere, testament to Michael Tiranno’s power and prestige.
And soon, perhaps, his undoing.
TWENTY-TWO
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
“I thought you could use this,” one of the Tyrant Girls serving guests in the lobby said, handing Michael a tall glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice mixed with a slight jigger of Tyrant brand vodka.
She wore a shapely designer suit that fit her lines elegantly, waves of shaggy auburn hair tumbling past her shoulders. In the lobby light, the auburn looked speckled with black, adding to her radiance.
Michael took the glass and smiled, letting his gaze drift across the lobby past a check-in line set before the eighteen-station marble reception counter that wound through an elaborate maze of stanchions strung together by velvet rope. He fixed his stare on the entrance to the Gold Medallion VIP room, marked by an elegant replica of his medallion featuring the words, “Dream, Dare, Win.”
The Tyrant Girl who had brought him the drink smiled back at him. “The girl you saved last night was my best friend.”
“I didn’t save anyone. It was just an exhibition.”
The Tyrant Girl grinned again. “Is that what you call it? Sure, whatever you say … Mr. Tyrant,” she said playfully, as she started to slide away.
“Wait. Do you like working at the Seven Sins, Catherine?” he asked, after letting his eyes cheat to her nametag.
She flashed the chained pendant worn by all women selected to become Tyrant Girls. Michael saw the miniature reproduction of his medallion emblazoned on the pendant’s center shining in the lobby’s naked light.
“The day you gave me this was the happiest day in my life, Mr. Tiranno.”
“Call me Michael.”
Michael spotted Alexander approaching across the lobby, as Catherine took her leave.
“You’ve been watching me,” Michael sa
id to him.
“I thought Durado Segura might still be on the premises.”
“Believe he’s out looking for a surgeon. And a new career.”
“Thanks to you.”
“Did you see another choice?”
“Yes, not to get in the ring with him in the first place.”
Only Michael knew Alexander’s true heritage and history. That he was Greek by birth, born in the city of Sparta. Poverty had led him to join gangs practicing petty street crime on the streets of Athens, and within just a few years Alexander was running those gangs. His meteoric rise through the underworld ended in the service to the Camorra crime family when he was arrested by French authorities for smuggling. He was sentenced to ten years in prison, until a shadowy intelligence service offered him a way out: His freedom after the same ten years in service to the French Foreign Legion’s elite Rapid Insertion Force, the Force D’Intervention Rapide, if he managed to survive that long.
“I should have listened to you,” Michael admitted.
“Easy to say now.”
“Uh-oh, I feel a lecture coming…”
“Spare me the trouble, Michael, and tell me what I’m going to say.”
“That I knew what might happen when I stepped into the ring with that animal, that part of me wanted it to happen.”
“And am I right?” Alexander asked him.
“The event was about raising money for charity and nothing more. You think any different?”
“I think you wanted to face Segura in the ring.”
“Face, yes; fight, no.”
“You wanted to test yourself. You welcomed the opportunity. You knew Segura couldn’t be trusted or controlled.”