Black Scorpion (43 page)

“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

L
AKE
L
AS
V
EGAS,
N
EVADA

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 addresses 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

L
AS
V
EGAS,
N
EVADA

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.

“It's just you and me,” Michael told him. “I would've invited you out to breakfast, but since I've been barred from my place of business, I don't know when my next paycheck's coming.”

“What do you want, Tiranno?”

Michael dangled the Lamgorghini's keys. “Let's go for a ride.”

“Excuse me?”

“It's time we had a talk, you and me.”

Slocumb stiffened again. “I'm afraid I can't—”

“It's in your best interests. And…” Michael tossed him the keys, Slocumb snatching them cleanly out of the air. “… you can drive.”

*   *   *

Slocumb drove slowly and clumsily at first, having trouble getting used to having the paddle shifters on the steering wheel.

“That's why you want to have your hands in the ten and two positions, instead of the nine and three,” Michael instructed. “Remember, there's no clutch. You only need one foot to drive, just like an automatic transmission. But keep your left foot on the rest to maintain your balance at high speeds. Welcome aboard the Tyrant Class model, the only one currently in existence. Isn't that right, Angel?” he said, words aimed at the touch screen that controlled virtually everything in the car.

“Yes, Michael, it is,”
a sultry female voice returned.

“Say hello to Agent Slocumb, Angel.”

“Hello, asshole.”

“Angel,” Michael scoffed playfully, “you should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I couldn't help it, Michael.”

“Very funny,” Slocumb snickered, still trying to familiarize himself with the controls. He adjusted his hands and Michael watched his fingers tighten, looking uncomfortable. “How fast can this thing actually go?”

“Two hundred miles per hour, give or take. I've driven the track at those speeds but the same principles with this baby apply when it comes to braking for a corner on regular roads. What you want to do, Agent, is brake hard initially and then pull off gradually, rather then depressing the pedal slowly. If the strength of the brake was on a scale from one to ten, with ten being the strongest, you want to start at ten and get to three before you even start to turn the steering wheel.”

“Wow,” Slocumb said, trying just that at the next street.

“See, we both love a great ride. We both appreciate what true power can yield.”

Slocumb seemed too focused on the road to respond.

“I think you're as ambitious as I am, Agent, in your own way. I think you latched on to me to further your career and now you can't let go even though the weight of this is bringing you down. What if I could give you something bigger, something that would make you famous in the annals of law enforcement? I'm talking book deals, talk shows. Naomi told me you and she met at the Mob Museum. Well, you listen to what I have to say and you'll end up with your own exhibit, bigger than Estes Kefauver or Elliot Ness ever dreamed of being. I'll really miss our friendly little chats once you get promoted to Special Agent in Charge of a big office, maybe even an assistant director in Washington.”

Slocumb continued to keep his gaze fixed forward out the windshield, never even turning Michael's way. “I need to advise you that anything you say to me can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Save the speech for true criminals, Agent. We're just having a friendly conversation.” He pointed ahead of them. “Take that ramp up there for the freeway and open her up a bit. Speed limit's seventy-five, Agent, but I don't suppose I need to remind you of that.”

*   *   *

Slocumb eased onto the ramp accessing the freeway. The Lamborghini rumbled on, straining a bit like a thoroughbred being held back down the stretch. Welcoming the burst of acceleration that followed Slocumb's entry into the climbing lane as he merged with traffic by flying past all of it in an effortless burst.

“Two words,” Michael said, once Slocumb was neatly settled in the right lane doing sixty, the Lamborghini bucking as if begging for more. “Black Scorpion.”