Black Scorpion

by Jon Land

Nero took the bedcovers in his mouth and began gnawing at them until Scarlett resumed petting him. “It comes with a curse as well as a blessing. I think the Roman order Caesar dispatched uncovered the fact that it works only for those worthy to possess it.”

  “Worthy? What would a frail, frightened little boy be worthy of?”

  “Fate, Michael. You’ve been chosen for some reason by a higher power, some cosmic force. Call it God, call it whatever you want. I can’t believe I’m actually saying that, but it’s what I believe. What the Romans blamed for a storm, a pestilence, or a famine. Or celebrated for delivering a great victory or a bounty. I’ve been all over the world these past five years searching for a truth that now scares the hell out of me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the price you may have to pay for what comes with it, the price I may have to pay,” Scarlett added, turning away.

  Michael took his hand off Nero long enough to turn her back toward him, meeting his gaze. “Haven’t I saved your life twice already? Wouldn’t you call that fate, too?”

  “Yes, and that’s the point. Because we’re tempting it, I’m tempting it by being close to you. There’s no place for me in this, no place for anything that comes between you and that relic. That’s why it must be worn against the skin, close to the heart. You see the point?”

  “No, I don’t. I can have it both ways. Nothing’s going to come between us,” he said, and kissed her as Nero started tearing at the bedcovers with his teeth.

  They let him, holding each other as best they could with the big cat between them. Michael felt Scarlett trembling and eased her slightly away.

  “What is it?” he asked, still holding her at the shoulders. “What is it you’re not telling me?”

  Scarlett cleared her throat, looked away briefly. “Oh, I have a gift for you,” she said instead of answering.

  She reached under the bed and came up with a beautifully wrapped box, handing it to Michael, who sat up to take it. Nero watched curiously as he tore it open like a boy on Christmas morning, extracting an assemblage of stitched-together, elegant but very strong dark leather that looked like a combination of a harness and a holster. He held it up and noticed a webbed pocket on its left-hand side.

  “I fitted it to the exact specifications of your relic, something to hold it without worry of it being lost or torn free.”

  Michael looped his arm through it, much like a shoulder holster. The slot tailored for the medallion rested directly over his heart and he squeezed his gold relic snugly into place.

  “A perfect fit,” he noted, stretching his arms.

  “So you’ll always think of me when you’re wearing it,” Scarlett said, and Michael kissed her again.

  He broke the embrace only when his phone buzzed with an incoming text. He snatched the Galaxy off his night table and saw the text was from Alexander.

  I FOUND HIM.

  NINETY-FIVE

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  “Members only,” the big thug said, blocking Alexander’s route to an unmarked slab of a steel door.

  “How do I join?” Alexander asked, through the dim light.

  “You can’t, friend.”

  “Wrong answer,” Alexander said and unleashed a quick flurry of blows that dropped the big man to the pavement.

  Alexander dragged the man with him through the steel door, finding himself at the top of a stairway that spiraled downward under dim light shed only by translucent bulbs recessed into the wall at each step. He stripped the man of his gun, bound his hands with plastic cuffs, and used a kerchief as a gag. It would likely take several minutes to find him, by which time Alexander would be gone with the man he’d come for in tow.

  * * *

  Michael sat in front of the camera that had been set up in his home office with him seated before the bookshelves, the door closed so Nero couldn’t wander in as his live interview with CNN was transpiring. He couldn’t see the host who would be posing the questions, could only hear her thanks to an earpiece wedged into his ear and connected to a power pack clipped to his belt.

  “We go live in five,” he heard through the earpiece, “four, three, two, one…”

  * * *

  It had been Naomi who’d ordered Seven Sins security personnel to find the man responsible for Amanda Johansen’s disappearance. They’d employed facial recognition software of Amanda as featured in an Elysium program through all the security cameras placed around the Seven Sins. Ultimately, the best they could do was a single shot of Amanda getting into a Cadillac sedan. The face of the man accompanying her was obscured, but his license plate wasn’t: IPLEASUREU. And a call to a contact at the Las Vegas police had identified the owner as one Victor Argos who, according to police, was known to regularly frequent a certain underground strip club on Industrial Road. Running parallel to the Strip, that road held virtually all of the city’s X-rated nightlife, including a high-end lounge called the Pleasure Dome that catered almost exclusively to a foreign and high-roller clientele.

  It was what transpired in the private club located adjacent to the Pleasure Dome, accessible through a secret entrance that led to an underground level, though, that interested Alexander most. And he descended the stairs into the artificially cool air scented by hidden misters struck by the odd sensation he was entering hell itself.

  A big Asian stepped out when he neared the bottom, unleashing a flurry of martial arts strikes and kicks. Alexander stepped back, working his body from side to side to avoid the blows that whistled past close enough to rustle his hair. Then he darted inside a more desperate blow, wedged a thumb into the man’s eye and used his other arm to force the man backward into a wall padded softly in black.

  “One chance,” he said, free hand lodged strategically against the man’s throat and larynx. “Victor Argos. Where can I find him?”

  The man started to struggle. Alexander pressed just a bit harder.

  “I exert any more pressure, you’ll hear a crack and you’ll never speak again. So one last time, where can I find Victor Argos?”

  The big Asian man’s eyes tilted sideways, a single quivering hand rising to point in the same direction toward a door at the end of the hall.

  “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Alexander said, pressing just hard enough to shut off the man’s air so he’d pass out.

  * * *

  “Mr. Tiranno, what do you have to say about the allegations that led to you being barred from your own casino earlier today?”

  “You mean, besides the fact that they’re baseless?” Michael said, meaning every word of it as he pictured this going live out to millions of homes on television, the Internet and, later, YouTube. “As you know, Barbara, such absurd allegations are nothing new. I’ve had them lodged against me ever since I got started in Vegas. And now that someone never accepted into this exclusive club operated by a select few is prepared to expand here and abroad, they’ve resurfaced.”

  “Are you saying the other casino owners are jealous?”

  “No, I’m saying competition is very real and cutthroat in Las Vegas and that these allegations are completely false.”

  * * *

  Alexander waited for the man to slump down the wall before proceeding through a twisted take on Dante’s nine circles of hell. Literally, because that’s how many doors the hall held, sloped slightly downward. The light mist providing an artificially fragrant scent collected in a thin cloud just below the black drop ceiling. Music of the techno variety blared from unseen speakers, tuned low to provide ambient background noise until the first door Alexander approached was thrust open, allowing louder riffs to emerge with a hulking shape.

  The man, garbed in black as all the others were, was carrying a serving tray he quickly shed to the floor in favor of the pistol wedged in his belt.

  “Hey!” he started.

  And stopped. Hesitating not for a moment, Alexander barreled into him, slamming a knee into his groin and then the same knee into his face when the man doubled
over. Alexander felt his nose mash on impact, his cheekbones seeming to buckle as he let out a wheezing sound like air fleeing a balloon.

  Alerted by the sound of glass breaking from the discarded tray, another pair of lineman-size figures rushed Alexander out of the darkness, seeming to rise out of the floor.

  “Stop!” one of the men said, both freeing their pistols.

  Alexander kept going, spilling their legs out from under them and shattering their knees with vicious kicks before they could fire their own pistols, continuing on without breaking stride as he collected their fallen weapons and left them screaming in his wake.

  * * *

  “Mr. Tiranno,” the voice of the host chimed in his ear, “the matter of this employee of the Seven Sins Elysium show who was found murdered in Turkey has also surfaced.”

  “A true tragedy.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “I know and care about all of my employees, for their loyalty and devotion. I can’t tell you I remember Amanda Johansen personally, but I can tell you I won’t rest until the person who harmed her is brought to justice.”

  “So what do you have to say about an investigation conducted by Interpol into your possible culpability in her death?”

  “Did you ask Interpol about that?” Michael challenged, fighting to retain his composure, imagining Naomi’s voice inside his head.

  “We inquired and never heard back.”

  “That’s because there is no investigation, never was. It was a rogue agent who spurred all this.”

  “And that would be Edward Devereaux, the man who died in your casino during last week’s blackout in Las Vegas, isn’t that right?”

  * * *

  More of the doors along the hall were opening now, customers peeking out from inside whatever fantasies they’d paid exorbitant fees to bring to life. Alexander glimpsed enough to curdle the contents of his stomach, evidence of depravity of the sort everyone hears about but wants to believe could never happen.

  Alexander continued on toward the door at the end of the hall.

  * * *

  “Actually,” Michael corrected, “the unfortunate victim’s real name was Faustin. He had registered in the hotel under an alias.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I can’t even begin to speculate.”

  “So you’re saying this man’s charges have no basis in fact, that you are totally innocent and the victim of harassment.”

  “The only real victim here is Amanda Johansen,” Michael said. “But, yes, I’m totally innocent.”

  * * *

  Alexander kicked in the door, finding Victor Argos pressed against the far wall, holding a pistol against a naked girl’s head.

  “Really, Victor? How badly do you want to die?” Alexander asked him.

  Argos dropped the pistol.

  * * *

  “Mr. Tiranno, what would you like to tell the millions of visitors who patronize your casino every year?”

  “The same thing I’m telling you, Barbara. That I’m cooperating fully with law enforcement and using all means at my disposal to assist them in their efforts. Nobody wants the real guilty parties here found more than I do.”

  “In order to clear your name, right?”

  Michael leaned in toward the camera, cracking the slightest of smiles in a brazen show of confidence and self-assurance. “Tell me, Barbara, do I look like a guilty man to you?”

  NINETY-SIX

  LAKE LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  The man hung from the balcony off which Michael fed his big cats, supported only by rope that was more like clothesline and seemed to be weakening by the moment. The cats gathered beneath him, growling and pacing, occasionally rising up on their haunches in anticipation of a meal.

  A living one potentially tonight, adding to their excitement.

  “Victor Argos,” Michael said, reading from the man’s wallet as Alexander looked on. “I’m going to assume that’s not your real name, but it’ll do for now.”

  “I’ll scream!” he cried out, between desperate heaves of breath.

  “Go ahead. Roma Vetus is too isolated for anyone to hear and then you’d leave me no choice but to ring the dinner bell,” Michael said, holding up an end of the rope that featured a knot that was all holding the man in place.

  “You’ll never get away with this!”

  “Get away with it? I think the city of Las Vegas will name another road after me for getting rid of a man involved with a human trafficking ring in the city.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Argos said, trying for a smirk that never came.

  “And why’s that?”

  “Let’s just say several city officials know all about what’s going on, high-ranking city officials.”

  “And I’ll deal with them in good time. Right now, you’re the one on my menu.”

  “Fuck you! You think I’m nobody? You think I haven’t got the right people in this town behind me? You think I don’t have the kind of powerful friends who won’t eat you for lunch?”

  “Right now, the only person in danger of being eaten is you, Victor. And I’m not worried about these powerful friends of yours. In fact, I’d like to meet them and introduce them to my big cats, too.”

  “Pull me up! Pull me up!”

  A low guttural growl sounded and Michael swung to see Nero standing just behind him, his black hindquarters turned sideways so Argos could see him, too. “Let’s start with the most simple and obvious. You’re the one who kidnapped Amanda Johansen, yes?”

  Argos swallowed hard, tried to still the trembling of his lips.

  “I asked you a question, Victor,” Michael said. “I’m going to assume you know who I am, my reputation.”

  Argos nodded. He had the look of a fake playboy, a caricature more than a man. No part of him looked real, not his skin, his hair, his teeth, not even his eyes. A character created for a specific purpose.

  Michael showed him the rope. “If I let you go now, we’ll dispose of what little remains will be left over. My cats haven’t eaten since yesterday so right now you look like breakfast, lunch, and dinner all rolled into one. They’ll have to subpoena my big cats to find your DNA in their stomachs which will probably be shitted out by dawn. Amanda Johansen worked for me, Victor. That means I was responsible for her well-being. And when you fucked her, you fucked me, too. You can see why I have no patience for your silence. So let’s make this simple: Answer the question or, first, I’ll give my cats a taste of your blood and then I’ll feed you to them.”

  “Yes!” the man yelped suddenly, eyes fixed downward.

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, I arranged the woman’s kidnapping.”

  “Good. Then we’re getting somewhere.”

  “She was taken to the Middle East like all the others.”

  Michael stiffened at that. “How many others?”

  “Two dozen over the past year.”

  “Two per month.”

  “Those were just mine. There are other men like me operating in town.”

  “Because this is the perfect city out of which to operate, isn’t it, Victor? So many beautiful women coming and going, traveling from somewhere else to get here. No one knows them and it takes time for them to be missed.”

  Argos managed a nod. “I made a mistake choosing a resident, someone who lived here, someone who…”

  “Worked for me?” Michael finished when the man’s voice tailed off. “Yes, I believe we can safely say you made a very bad choice there.” He exchanged a quick glance with Alexander. “And you took all these women for Black Scorpion, right?”

  Argos looked genuinely confused. “Who?”

  Michael exchanged a longer look with Alexander. “Who do you work for, Victor?”

  No response.

  Michael let the rope slide down just a bit farther.

  “No, wait! You’re right, I work for an international human trafficking syndicate. It doesn’t have a name. Just phone numbers and e-mail addres
ses that change constantly. When I deliver a girl, money gets deposited into an account. That’s the procedure. It’s all I know.”

  “What about other cities?”

  Argos looked befuddled. “I don’t know what goes on in other cities. I keep to my business. You think I want to fuck with these people?”

  “Right now, you’re fucking with me.”

  Michael loosened the knot, giving more slack to the rope so Argos’s feet jerked down a foot lower, just out of reach of the big cats when they leaped, starting to work themselves into a frenzy. Then Alexander came forward and dumped a tray of raw meat blood juice from their last feeding all over Argos.

  “You want to rethink your last answer, Victor?”

  “I’m telling you the truth!”

  Michael leaned over the railing to better regard Argos, who’d crimped his legs up as high as he could. He noticed a lion tearing one of the man’s shoes apart on the lawn below.

  “I believe you, Victor, and I also believe they’d never trust a lowlife like you with anything important. I should’ve known this would be a waste of time, leaving you in no position to tell me what I need to know to destroy the organization you’re working for. Good thing you mentioned those high-ranking Las Vegas officials, because their names are going to keep you alive. You’re going to tell the authorities everything you know, how the process of selection and kidnapping goes. You’re going to confirm the existence of an international organization that runs it all, an organization you’re beholden to and are probably almost as frightened of as you are of me. Almost.”

  And that’s when Michael’s phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Raven, Brother.”

  NINETY-SEVEN

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  Michael was leaning casually against his Lamborghini directly outside the entrance to the Mandalay Bay valet the next morning, when Special Agent Del Slocumb emerged from inside.

  “Enjoy your stuffed French toast, Agent? I hear Raffles makes the best in the business.”

  Slocumb stiffened, his cocoa-colored skin seeming to pale briefly as his gaze flitted from side to side, as if expecting Michael wouldn’t be alone.