Lion

by Matt Rogers

The guy shrugged, as nonchalant as one could be given the circumstances.

  ‘Rough night?’ Slater said.

  ‘Something like that,’ the guy muttered, returning his gaze to the ground.

  They lapsed into silence — Slater didn’t deem it necessary to prod. They were two men in a dangerous world, each carving their own path through it. Slater had no idea what the man did, and he didn’t care. He was focused on his own trajectory.

  Then the man’s gaze wandered to the digital interface displaying the prominent number 44, and his expression changed.

  Recognition spread across his face.

  In some capacity, Slater realised this man knew what was going on behind closed doors in Mountain Lion.

  Was it worth pursuing?

  He wrestled with his thoughts as the elevator powered toward its destination.

  38

  The matte black limousine with dark tinted windows screeched into the underground parking lot in a burst of energy. It braked hard in a soulless concrete space with white walls and grey floors, and its rear door flew open with the kind of urgency that signified the presence of a desperate man.

  Peter Forrest stepped out into home territory, but there was no sigh of relief to be found. In fact his motions came with a certain twisting sensation in his gut, undermining everything he did. He couldn’t shake the feeling that anything he attempted from this point onward would prove entirely useless. The world was falling apart around him — the two missing digits on his right hand barely crossed his mind.

  He clutched the wet crimson cloth tighter over the ragged stumps and stumbled away from the limousine. He’d barely conversed with the driver throughout the journey, but the man knew what to do.

  Shut his goddamn mouth.

  Forrest couldn’t expose any weakness, and if rumours spread about his predicament the end would come faster. That was half the reason he hadn’t received a moment of medical attention since the beating. Both public and private hospitals were out of the question — the triads had infiltrated society in Macau to an unimaginable extent. Anything Forrest wanted would need to be acquired from within these very walls.

  He made a mental note to call the resident medical team up to his suite as soon as possible.

  It sank into the pit of a thousand other churning thoughts and became lost in the madness.

  He made for a bank of disused elevators — these shafts were cordoned away from public view, reserved for Forrest’s high-roller clients with all manner of vices. They led to the VIP rooms and the private brothels and the … darker places.

  Another problem, a voice in the back of his head whispered. If the authorities find the girl you’re ruined, too.

  The girl.

  The goddamn girl.

  Everything came back to the girl.

  As soon as she’d been whisked out from underneath him all hell had broken loose, and Forrest couldn’t imagine order being restored anytime soon.

  If at all.

  He slammed the call button on the dusty panel alongside the elevators as the limousine peeled away and disappeared into the bowels of Mountain Lion’s underground maze. Forrest had issued construction of ten levels underneath each tower. Some for parking. Some for maintenance and storage supplies. And some for…

  Well, he didn’t like to dwell on those choices.

  He’d made them regardless, and now they would cost him his life and his reputation.

  Unless he could pull off a miracle.

  A lavish elevator arrived seconds later and he limped into its comforting interior, surrounded by luxury but overwhelmed with burdens. He thumbed the command to ascend to the highest floor the elevator could reach — which would deposit him at one end of the rooftop emporium — and hoped his journey would go uninterrupted.

  When the cable car slowed to a halt to receive a patron on level 22, Forrest bit back fury and opted to seethe silently in the corner. The doors whisked open, and a powerfully built black man in a wool jumper and designer jeans sauntered into the elevator and tapped a command into the digital display alongside him.

  In his hurry, Forrest had almost forgotten what he looked like.

  It didn’t take long for the man to notice. His eyes wandered over to Forrest and he stared at him for a beat, clearly shocked. Forrest shrugged.

  ‘Rough night?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Forrest was in no mood for conversation — especially not with a random stranger — and it was only when he caught a glimpse of the number 44 displayed on the digital interface that his eyes widened and realisation set in.

  You dirty bastard, he thought.

  Level 44 didn’t accept guests without a rigorous pre-screening method. Junkets from various levels selected the vilest customers from their gaming rooms and sent them on their way if they expressed interest in paying a premium for a different kind of service.

  Forrest had realised long ago that the fastest way to turn a profit was to satiate all needs, no matter how strange the requests.

  The stranger, the more lucrative, he’d found.

  The man seemed to recognise that Forrest was onto him. He froze up, rigid, thoughts no doubt churning through his head.

  The elevator slowed, and the doors slid open to reveal a nondescript corridor, albeit a little darker and moodier than other floors. Of course none of the sensitive business took place up here — the level operated as a central node to figure out what the customer wanted, and to transact payment.

  The real business took place far below Mountain Lion, in sections of the complex that no-one could accidentally stumble across.

  The stranger didn’t give Forrest a second look — clearly ashamed by his actions. He strode straight out into the lowly lit hallway, and the doors immediately closed on him.

  Have fun, Forrest thought.

  He continued to the penthouse level. The elevator beeped a confirmation and deposited him onto the same walkway where he’d handled the baccarat dealer the night before.

  He took one glance at the vast emporium lying dormant, sweeping out in every direction all around him — the upper level of Mountain Lion hadn’t been opened for business ever since shit had hit the fan. Forrest needed the space to breathe, to de-stress and mull over his options without worrying about civilians staring up at him. He paused on the walkway for a moment before crossing it and covering the three flights of stairs up to his penthouse.

  The entire suite had been crammed into the uppermost portion of the glass-domed exterior, wedged into a private alcove like a giant chunk had been gouged out of the wall. Forrest had explicitly requested the design during Mountain Lion’s construction — it afforded him a view over the entire emporium, as well as the elevated jungle he’d constructed to house the two Tsavo lions.

  Sometimes he looked down on his empire, searching for a glimpse of the pair of beasts amidst the lush canopy of leaves. Every now and then he managed to spot them, and they charged him with confidence.

  Now, every ounce of willpower had been sapped from him.

  With heavy limbs, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space, he ducked through to a winding stairwell twisting up through the foundations of the building. They culminated at the entrance to his suite. He stepped through into a world of luxury, a hollow and broken shell of a man.

  He slumped to the floor just inside the entranceway, next to the chunk of plaster he’d kicked out of the wall. The weight of the world rested squarely on his shoulders.

  He thought of level 44.

  He thought of how fast he’d sunk into corruption.

  He realised — if he had even a hope of surviving the coming chaos — he would need to take drastic measures.

  He slid his phone out of his pocket and dialled a number saved simply as “Enforcers.”

  It was answered in moments.

  ‘Yes?’ the gruff voice on the other end of the line said.

  ‘Are you ready to roll?’

  ‘Always. That’s what you pay
us for.’

  ‘I need you.’

  ‘Where? Macau?’

  ‘Definitely Macau. I need you in this very building.’

  A pause. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘How much do you know about level 44?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘You know where that floor leads?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You know how to follow every trail to its conclusion?’

  ‘I’m sure we can work it out.’

  ‘You’re one of the only people who knows the extent of what I do. I need you on your A game.’

  ‘When am I not?’

  ‘Okay. I’m giving the go ahead. Shut it all down.’

  ‘Loose ends?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘That’ll be messy. That’s dozens and dozens of people. Staff, customers. The lot.’

  ‘All of it. Shut it down.’

  ‘If we do… I’ll have to bury my head in the sand for the rest of my life.’

  ‘I can’t let anyone trace those businesses back to me.’

  ‘So end them quietly, boss. Don’t do this.’

  Forrest smashed his good hand against the wooden floor, hard enough to come close to breaking a bone. He winced in pain, but it stifled the rage. ‘I didn’t call you to talk me out of it. I called you to do what I ask.’

  ‘You’re telling me and my men to cause a massacre. I don’t take it lightly.’

  ‘I don’t say it lightly. Know that there’s no other option.’

  The man on the other end of the line paused. ‘You’re fucked, aren’t you, Peter?’

  ‘Yes. Yes I am.’

  ‘Shutting the floor down won’t change a thing, then.’

  ‘It might. It’s the only choice I’ve got.’

  ‘Is this a direct order?’

  Forrest took a deep breath. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I won’t say anymore. It’s what I signed up for.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘We won’t need it.’

  ‘I know. I think I’m talking to myself…’

  The line went dead, and Forrest dropped the phone. He was left alone in his opulent penthouse, considering the gravity of what he’d ordered.

  39

  Slater sensed the deprivation in the air the second he stepped out of the elevator.

  He’d elected to leave the battered man beside him at peace — even if the guy knew what went on within level 44, there was no way to discern his level of involvement.

  He would live to see another day.

  Besides, Slater had issues of greater importance on his mind.

  He stepped into a dark corridor with moody lighting, aware that he was unarmed, wondering what would transpire next. Underneath his steely demeanour he could sense inklings of rage trying to fight their way to the surface.

  Memories from a different time.

  A more vulnerable time.

  He could mentally picture every acute sensation of helplessness — knowing where his mother had been taken, but powerless to stop it.

  He wasn’t powerless anymore.

  He wondered how long it would take to snap.

  The elevators doors sealed, and Slater found himself alone in an unknown corridor. He sensed the building all around him — boxing him in, pressing down on him, surrounding him. He had willingly headed straight into the madness, and he was relying on the actions of a man he’d blackmailed to ensure he made it out the other side alive.

  What would the head of security do?

  Help him — or take a risk and have him arrested?

  The answer would come soon enough.

  Slater stood there, his boots sinking into plush carpet, his breathing shallow, waiting for the slightest sound of movement. Ahead the corridor twisted ever so slightly to the left, so the end was concealed from view. He assumed it had been designed that way deliberately, to leave new arrivals in a state of confusion, stuck in limbo while they waited for someone to greet them.

  Maybe that made them inclined to pay more.

  Set them on edge, right off the bat.

  It sure worked to throw Slater off his game.

  He stood awkwardly, waiting, watching, wishing for the familiar bulge of a firearm on his hip but finding no reprieve.

  Suddenly, footsteps sounded ahead. More than one person. Coming at him fast.

  The blood drained from his face.

  They would appear around the corner at any moment, armed to the teeth. There was nothing to hide behind, no doorways to duck through. Slater began to understand what a devastating predicament he’d got himself into when a man and a woman in formal corporate attire hurried into view, flustered and out of breath. Both were Asian, in their thirties, and both had no visible weapons on their person.

  They weren’t charging at him like enemies.

  They were charging at him as if they’d dropped the ball themselves.

  Slater understood. The head of security must have made the call to inform the staff on level 44 right as Slater got into the elevator. Obviously, customer satisfaction reigned supreme when dealing with such sensitive circumstances. He guessed there was always someone waiting to greet new arrivals, and the only reason for his lack of service was due to the late notice.

  These members of staff had been inhospitable, which put them on the back foot straight away.

  Slater capitalised on their unease.

  ‘Took you long enough,’ he said, his tone curt.

  They pulled to a halt in front of him, still adjusting their behaviour, sliding into the polite and pleasant demeanour atypical of a resort’s front-of-house. Juxtaposed against the sickening stench of despair in the atmosphere, it rubbed Slater the wrong way.

  He wouldn’t have to play the part for much longer.

  ‘We do apologise, sir,’ the man said, his English perfect. ‘We were told you were on your way at the last second, unfortunately.’

  ‘You usually get more notice?’

  The woman nodded hard, her mannerisms exaggerated. ‘Yes, sir. We need time to provide the best service we possibly can.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got a lot of ground to make up then, don’t you?’ Slater said.

  All the scorn and outrage of a pompous prick, he thought.

  Just what he was going for.

  ‘I believe we can do that,’ the man said. ‘If you would, please—’

  He gestured down the corridor with an outstretched hand, ushering Slater along.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Slater said.

  ‘Somewhere more private, where we can discuss what you’re looking for today.’

  ‘We can’t discuss that here?’

  ‘No, sir. We employ discretion here. It’s for your own benefit.’

  ‘Very well.’

  The pair parted to allow Slater through, and they followed him at a brisk walk as he strode deeper into the floor. As he walked along the curvature of the hallway, the lighting seemed to fade, the shadows amplifying in the lowlight. Slater doubted the choice was for aesthetics — if anything, it seemed to hide the true intentions of the staff on this floor. He found the quietness unnerving, but what had he been expecting? Clearly it would be in upper management’s best interests to keep the number of staff aware of these practices at a minimum.

  Which made him wonder who the man in the elevator had been.

  Peter Forrest? he thought.

  Perhaps.

  For now, he would focus on what he could control.

  The pair of Mountain Lion staff led him into a sitting room packed with traditional Victorian decor. A polished oak statue of a snarling lion sat dormant in one corner of the room, awash in flickering shadows as a raging fire crackled in a broad fireplace. In front of the mantel rested two hard leather couches with wooden armrests on either side, facing one another directly to allow for conversation by the fireside.

  Slater grew sick to his stomach as he sat on one of the couches, allowing the pair following him to slide quietly into their respective pla
ces opposite. The silence that unfolded was not a pleasant one — it was laced with the uncertainty and illegality dripping in the air.

  The fire crackled, and the pair studied him.

  He stared straight back at them, considering the act of killing both of them, and finding no remorse anywhere in his mind. He imagined anyone in his shoes with sadistic tendencies would feel comfortable right now — they were isolated from the rest of the world, burrowed into a private refuge to cave into their most twisted desires.

  ‘I hope your screening wasn’t too intrusive,’ the woman said. ‘You must understand why we need a strict interview system.’

  Slater connected the dots in a brief flash of thoughts, assuming the head of security wanted him to possess the upper hand and would therefore have made his arrival seem as unsuspicious as possible. If there were rigorous entry protocols to deem Slater applicable for the services on level 44, the head of security would have told them he’d passed with flying colours.

  The man’s own reputation was on the line also.

  ‘It didn’t bother me. I’ve done this type of thing before.’

  They tried to conceal it, but both their shoulders slumped ever so slightly, some of the tension dissipating as they realised Slater had experience in these kinds of circumstances. He wondered if the difficulty of conversation increased with debuting psychopaths, men and women who gave into their vices for the first time in the comforting lure of Mountain Lion.

  ‘What type of thing?’ the man said. ‘So we’re clear…’

  Slater feigned hesitation.

  ‘You can tell us,’ the woman said. ‘Anything goes on this floor, sir. We are here for your service. You shouldn’t feel shame — it is perfectly normal.’

  ‘Girls,’ Slater said, acting as if he were embarrassed.

  In truth, he was crushing down a rage so dark he didn’t know how he might react three seconds from now. He didn’t let it show, at all costs.

  He needed visual proof.

  Then he would turn destructive.

  ‘What age?’ the man said, with as much weight as if they were discussing what to select from the breakfast menu at the buffet.

  ‘No older than ten,’ Slater said.

  ‘We happen to specialise in that field,’ the woman said. ‘But we charge quite a price. We have to preface all discussion with that disclaimer — I’m sure you understand.’