The three of us walk through the skyscraper’s revolving door and enter a world of controlled chaos. The entire bottom floor is a vibrant, brightly-lit casino with slot machines and crap tables for as far as the eye can see. Several enormous holographic TV screens hover near the ceiling, showing sport games. I’m assuming they’re replaying games from earlier since it’s after midnight (and 5:00am on the East Coast). The entire casino is a smorgasbord of noise, with the music from lounge singers mixing with the clinking sound of coins spilling from slots, people cursing and cheering their luck, and sirens blaring whenever someone hits a jackpot (which seems to occur quite frequently).
“I’m surprised no one’s bothered to check our IDs,” Lance says.
“Russian clubs typically don’t,” I say. “The gangsters who run them want as much money as possible. They don’t care how old you are or how many warrants you have.”
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I become a fugitive,” Lance replies.
Arrow and I follow Lance as he navigates the densely-packed casino floor. The place is overflowing with purple-haired, leather jacket-wearing Ruskies. There are also some regular Americans, too, of course, but the overwhelming majority of the people we walk past are obviously Purple Dragon sympathizers. Most of the Ruskies are guzzling booze and throwing down large bills like they’re flush with cash. I guess contrary to popular belief, crime does pay. At least, it does if you’re a Russian mobster hiding in plain sight in New Las Vegas.
Scantily-clad waitresses saunter past with trays full of vodka and other liquors, which the gambling Ruskies eagerly gulp down. Some of the waitresses are sporting dark purple Mohawks like Krystal. Others have spiky violet hair.
I almost bump into an older woman who looks vaguely familiar. I stare at her for a moment until it hits me. It’s Chainsaw Judy, one of the country’s premiere female bounty hunters. The reason I didn’t immediately recognize her is because, like us, she’s wearing a disguise. Unlike us, however, the disguise isn’t very well done. She didn’t even bother to dye her hair purple, although she is dressed in leather. I quickly disappear into the crowd so she doesn’t see me. I’m pretty sure my new hair cut is enough to keep my cover from being blown, but you can never be too careful around clever bounty hunters like Judy.
I just catch up with Lance and Arrow when I notice yet another poorly disguised bounty hunter, this one an older guy by the name of Switchblade. He’s wearing a long, blond wig over his normally bald head, but the distinctive scars running up and down his cheeks and neck give him away. In fact, several mobsters point at him and whisper to each other. Poor Switchblade probably won’t last the night.
I almost immediately catch sight of three other bounty hunters. It seems everyone and their brother has come here looking for Rasputin. I’m sure if any of them recognize Lance and me, they won’t hesitate to turn us over to Caesar or Geronimo Blackbird. $25 million is a heckuva lot of money, but $10 million isn’t chump change.
I tap Arrow and Lance on their shoulders. “Let’s head up to Igor’s club. This place is crawling with trouble.”
“I know, I’ve spotted several bounty hunters,” Lance says. I’m relieved he’s being as observant as I am.
Arrow points to the back of the casino. “There’s an elevator.”
We quicken our pace. Along the way I notice we’re beginning to draw attention. Some of the male mobsters leer at me, undressing me with their eyes. I resist the urge to barf.
I’m not the only one being ogled, either. Some of the waitresses are looking over at Lance and Arrow, smirking and licking their lips. To his credit, Arrow completely ignores them. Lance, however, acknowledges the ladies with a giant grin. He and Arrow couldn’t be more different. Despite his deplorable decision to ditch us in the middle of the forest, I find myself falling for Arrow all over again. What can I say? I’m a sucker for a man who treats me like the most gorgeous woman alive, a man who’s impervious to the flirts of other stunning women.
We reach the elevator and step inside. Thankfully no one else comes in with us.
Arrow gestures toward the control panel, where all the floor numbers are. It goes all the way up to 70.
“I take it we’re going to the very top?” he says, peering at me over the top of his shades.
“Yep,” I reply. Arrow presses the 70th floor button and the elevator door slides shut. We immediately shoot skyward. Arrow leaves his thumb on the button so we go all the way up without stopping at other floors. It’s a trick cops and firefighters use when they have to respond to emergencies in multi-story buildings.
I watch anxiously as the floor numbers flash by.
21… 22… 23… 24…
I get more nervous with each floor we ascend. The tension in the cramped elevator is palpable. Lance is clutching his fists, eager to get this over with. Even normally calm Arrow is jiggling his left leg.
I glance up at the walls and ceiling and bite my lip. I truly hate tight, enclosed spaces. I always feel like the walls are going to cave in on me. I close my eyes and work to clear my mind. I also take deep, calming breaths. It helps a little, but not by much.
The elevator finally dings. I open my eyes just as the door slides open. The scene that awaits us makes the craziness of the casino down below seem like an old lady’s tea party. Hundreds of teens and young adults are jumping around and dancing to blaring, pulsating techno music. The club is dark, but it’s illuminated by hundreds of green lasers that are shooting all over the place. I could easily imagine myself suffering a seizure if I allowed one too many lasers to bounce off my eyeballs.
Most of the people in the club have wild purple hair, and they’re all scantily clad. The boys have their shirts off and are prancing around in skimpy shorts, while the girls are shaking their ‘moneymakers’ in bikinis. Streaks of neon-green pain are splattered all over their arms, legs, and bare stomachs, making them glow in the dark. It’s as bizarre and chaotic a scene as I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen quite a few bizarre scenes in my day.
“I think most of these people are tripping on ecstasy!” Arrow shouts. I barely hear him over the deafening noise.
I glance around at the crazed clubbers and realize he’s right about the ecstasy. Everyone appears to be cracked out of their minds, jumping around and snapping their heads back and forth.
Arrow points to the very back of the club. Two tall, muscular guards are standing in front of a roped-off stairwell that leads to a balcony hanging over the dance floor.
“I bet they know where Igor’s hiding.”
We weave our way through the insane crowd. Several people bump into us. One scrawny dude grabs my hands and tries to pull me into a mosh pit. I yank my hands out of his sweaty grasp and punch him in the face, sending him sprawling to the floor. I spin around and chase after Lance and Arrow before one of his buddies or jealous girlfriends come after me. The last thing we need is a roomful of drugged out teens starting a brawl.
We somehow make our way through the raucous crowd without any further problems. Lance cautiously approaches the two burly guards. They’re wearing shades to hide their searching eyes and ear pieces to stay in touch with their fellow sentinels. Their dark suits are a stark contrast to the skimpy attire of the people in the club. A revolver and nightstick hang from each of their belts. These guys could spell trouble if we don’t approach them correctly.
Lance clears his throat. “Er, excuse me. We’re here to see Igor… Igor Bolshevik.”
The guards look down at Lance and scowl.
“Scram, kid,” one of the guards barks in a thick Russian accent. “Don’t make us toss your carcass out of here.”
Arrow and I step behind Lance, ready to kick some ass if the need were to arise. Thankfully it doesn’t. The other guard raises his bushy eyebrows and says, “Hang on, Ivan, these youngsters are the type of people Mr. Bolshevik is looking for. Young, strong, attractive, and most importantly of all, fearless.”
The guard who barked at Lance looks at
us and says, “They are pretty fearless to barge up to us when we’re obviously armed.” He pats his revolver for dramatic effect. “I suppose a trip upstairs is in order.”
It takes everything I have not to shout, “Yipee!” and do a little dance. Lance and
Arrow both exhale. They must be just as shocked and relieved as I am that the guards are allowing us to meet Igor so easily. They must be really hard-up for young recruits.
The guard who first proposed we be allowed to pass says, “I’ll take them up, Comrade. You stay here and enjoy the show.”
“Oh goody,” the other guard growls. I take it he’s not a huge fan of techno.
The nicer guard (the one who doesn’t snarl all the time) leads us up the winding staircase. Once we reach the balcony, he leads us down a dark hallway until we arrive at a steel door guarded by another burly guard. This guard has a machine gun.
The new guard says, “I didn’t know you were babysitting tonight, Winston.”
Our guard (I guess his name is Winston) says, “Can it, Bob. These kids want to see the bossman.”
Winston looks us over. “Hmm, they definitely fit the bill of what Mr. Bolshevik is looking for. We need to frisk em first, though.”
Bob waves his machine gun in our faces as a deterrent in case we decide to make some sudden moves. The boys and I raise our hands and patiently wait as Winston runs his hands all over our bodies, searching for weapons. The only weapons they find are our electric swords. Instead of being mad, they say we have good taste in weaponry. They don’t give us our swords back, though. I guess they’re going to keep them until after our meeting with Igor. I struggle to suppress a grin when Winston fails to locate the blades I have strapped to my legs. These guys aren’t very good friskers.
Winston finally steps back and hooks our electric swords onto his utility belt. “You kids got tats?”
“But of course, Comrade,” I say in my most convincing Russian accent. We remove our jackets and show off our new dragon tattoos. Winston and Bob smile and nod approvingly.
“Excellent,” Bob exclaims, lowering his machine gun. “We love young Russians who aren’t afraid to express their support for the Purple Dragons. I am sure Comrade Bolshevik will find you most acceptable. Come! Come!”
Bob opens the steel door, and we walk up another flight of stairs. This one leads to the roof. As soon as we step outside I’m almost immediately bowled over by the gusting wind. Arrow is behind me so we keeps me steady. I don’t know why I was caught off guard. Every idiot knows the top of a skyscraper is especially windy.
I glance over the edge of the roof. The lights on the strip look like tiny yellow dots. And the people look like ants.
Across the chasm of open sky is the other crystal tower. Both roofs are connected by a long walkway. There are a few people on the other roof smoking cigars and chatting.
Winston and Bob lead us to the rear of our roof. Eight people are gathered around a table, smoking cigars and watching holographic TV screens floating over their heads.
Igor is plainly visible in the center of the small group. He’s sipping a glass of vodka, gazing up at the security footage of his casino while his minions ramble on about something or other. They’re speaking Russian, so it’s hard for me to decipher what they’re saying. I am somewhat fluent in Russian, but only if it’s spoken slowly.
Igor appears to be in his early 50s. He looks worn and rugged, with stringy black hair, a grey-speckled goatee, and pock-marked skin lined with scars. (It seems every Russian mobster has scars.) The most distinctive thing about him is the gleaming gold chain dangling from his neck. At the end of the chain is a gorgeous purple dragon with rubies for eyes. There must be some sort of light mechanism inside the dragon because every few seconds its mouth glows red, as if it’s about to hurl a fireball. Igor also has gold rings adorned with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires on all of his fingers, and his loose-fitting shirt is made of pure silk. Igor certainly has no qualms about flaunting his incredible wealth.
I glance at Igor’s inner circle, sizing everyone up, trying to determine who may be a threat. Two of Igor’s gangbangers are guards with shades and black suits, like Bob and Winston. They could cause some trouble, but we should easily be able to incapacitate them if it becomes necessary. Two scantily-clad girls are perched on Igor’s lap, running their hands through his chest hair. They won’t be much of a problem, either.
The remaining three gangbangers, however, kind of freak me out. The two guys are big and muscular, with long black hair and beards that go down to their chests. They remind me of grizzly bears. And their partner is a massive woman with curly red hair. She looks like she could break some bones with her rugged, calloused hands.
Bob marches up to Igor and says, “Hey Boss, Winston and I brought you some new wannabe gangsters. They seem pretty promising.”
Igor and his cronies look over at us. Igor grins, revealing several gold teeth.
“Ah, well done, Comrade. You brought me exactly what I asked for. Young, attractive, strong-looking applicants. Well done indeed.”
Bob and Winston smile. They seem pretty proud of themselves.
Igor groggily stands up. He sways back and forth, an indication that he’s had a bit too much to drink. Our plan to come during the witching hour appears to have been a wise one.
Igor staggers over to me and wraps a few strands of my hair around his index finger. The stench of vodka and bratwurst wafts over me.
“Yes, you and your friends look like precisely the type of recruits I urgently require. The question, of course, is whether or not your appearances are deceiving.”
Igor snatches my goggles and hands them to Winston. I instinctively reach for them, but Igor grips my wrist.
“We’ll give your goggles back after the initiation, my dear. We can’t risk you recording our questionable activities and showing them to the feds.”
The muscular, bearded Ruskies and the bulging woman with the red hair wobble over to Lance and Arrow and grab their goggles as well.
Igor and his monstrous, inebriated henchmen proceed to frisk us even more thoroughly than Bob and Winston. They’re also way rougher. Igor pinches and prods almost every inch of my body. At first I don’t know what the hell he’s doing, but I eventually figure out he’s seeing how fit and muscular I am, making sure I’m not soft and pudgy.
Igor also checks for weapons. Unlike Bob and Winston, he finds my blades. Igor’s henchmen check out Lance and Arrow, but they don’t find anything.
Igor and his goons proceed to yank on our hair.
“Ouch!” I shout, slapping Igor’s hand. “What the hell is that for?”
Instead of being angry I hit him, Igor chuckles. “Ah, you are a feisty one. I’m liking you more and more all the time. And I apologize for the hair pulling. We’re just making sure it’s not a wig. You’d be amazed at how many spies try to infiltrate our ranks. Why, just last week we had to mercilessly slaughter a group of teens we determined to be government agents.”
I gulp and ask. “How did you determine they were agents?”
“Their hair came off when we yanked on it,” Igor replies casually.
“And they had fake tattoos,” the curly-haired woman says as she continues tugging on poor Lance’s hair. “Not to mention body armor!”
I’m so glad Machete convinced us to ditch our armor and go with real tats.
“Thanks for reminding me to check the tats, Norma.” Igor grabs my arm and starts rubbing his hand over my dragon tattoo. I try to wrench free, but he’s too strong. He stops chafing my skin a few seconds later.
“Yep, it’s real,” Igor proclaims.
“The boy’s tat is legit as well,” Norma says, releasing Lance’s arm.
“What about the Indian boy?” Igor asks his other two henchmen.
“He’s good,” the slightly-shorter man says.
The slightly taller goon slaps his shorter partner on the back. “Fred’s right, boss. These kids are the real deal.”
> “Don’t touch me, Frank,” Fred snaps.
So the curly-haired woman is Norma, the shorter goon is Fred, and the taller one is Frank. If I’m going to pretend to be a Russian gangster, I might as well learn the names of my ‘comrades’.
Igor steps back and his smile fades away. His face is now deadly serious.
“Now that the physical inspection is complete, it’s time for phase 2: the interrogation.”
Igor narrows his eyes and says, “Почему вы хотите присоединиться к Пурпурные Драконы?”
I blink several times. I know Russian, but it has to be spoken slowly and clearly enunciated in order for me to comprehend it. I glance at Arrow and Lance. They look equally perplexed.
I take a deep breath and say, “Простите, товарищ, но мой слух не так уж и велик. Не могли бы вы повторить вопрос, медленно и четко?”
Basically what I said was, ‘I’m sorry, Comrade, but my hearing is not all that great. Can you please repeat the question, slowly and clearly?’
Igor’s eyes light up when he discovers I speak his native tongue. I may have just saved our hides; Igor’s goons have just removed their hands from their gun holsters.
Igor slowly replies, “Но, конечно же, моя дорогая. Я просто спросил, почему вы хотите быть фиолетовый дракон?”
My frantically beating heart slows down. I actually comprehend the question! He wants to know why I want to be a Purple Dragon. Easy enough.
“Потому что мы ненавидим китайских, товарищ. Мы хотим, чтобы китайский утонуть в море крови.”
What I tried to say was, “Because we hate the Chinese, Comrade. We want them to drown in a sea of blood,” but I’m not entirely certain I got the translation right until Igor bursts out laughing. Norma and the rest of the cronies laugh, too.
Highway To Armageddon Page 27