Under any other circumstance, this would have been the world Sonny preferred: survival of the strongest. Fuck the weak. But things were different now. The world had changed in just a few short hours. With killer wolfhounds and Daemons, he was on the side of the weak—a side he’d never experienced.
He turned and surveyed The Strip. Above and to the south, helicopters flew in formation, lighting up the sky with gunfire. Some of the familiar hotel signs—The Mirage, The Venetian, The Wynn—were dark. And then there was the sound. The sickening roar of humanity—screaming, crying, yelling, shouting. It sounded like the fans at a freaking football game echoing through the canyon of casinos.
He raced into the lobby of The Grotto and another sound assaulted his ears: silence. Not a staff member in sight—no security personnel, no cashiers, not even a bell hop. Garbage was strewn everywhere, including half packed bags discarded near the elevators. Food and clothing dirtied the hallways of his hotel. He wanted to throw another punch at someone, at anyone. This was his hotel, his baby. People were fucking pigs.
Sonny kicked through the trash and stopped at his private elevator. He slammed the call button, an elevator normally guarded by one of his rather large security thugs. An unexpected smile appeared. Forty flights up, forty flights down and he’d be gone. Screw Vegas. Screw The Grotto and screw Gorgeous.
Ding.
The doors slid open and Sonny’s eyes widened. The barrel of a pistol pointed at his forehead. He froze in place.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“FBI. C’mon in, Sonny, I’ve been waiting for you. Let’s take a ride up to your place. The view is amazing.”
“Fuck you, you can’t—”
The hammer of the gun cocked. “Shut up and get in. Oh and slip that pistol out of your belt and throw it behind you, nice and slow.”
Sonny complied with the order and entered the elevator.
“Let’s go.” The FBI agent eased around him into the car. “There’s only one button.”
Sonny pressed the button and the doors closed. He faced the front of the car, hands at his side. “Who are you?”
“Agent Miller.”
“What do you want with me?”
“A friend of yours, Detective Ramirez, asked me to drop by and babysit.”
The high speed elevator whisked them up to the fortieth floor. An express trip, the private car made no other stops.
Ding.
The doors slid open to Sonny’s luxury penthouse. He hesitated before stepping out. The thought of Gorgeous waiting for him played in his mind like a horror flick, looping over and over, since he’d planned his escape from Claremont.
He glanced around the suite. No sound, no movement. It was empty.
Both men stepped off the elevator, and the doors shut behind them.
“Over there on the couch,” Miller said, waving to the white settee. “Have a seat. Ramirez should be here soon.”
“What’s this about, anyway? Why the fuck are you here?”
“Ramirez told me some interesting things about what’s going on out there…and your connection to it.”
“Me? That’s ridiculous, I’m legit. I even offered to help the detective find the Werewolf Killer. Just ask him, he’ll tell you. Listen, this whole city is going to hell, and I gotta get outta here before it does. See them choppers over there?” Sonny stood up and pointed out the windows to the south. Helicopters, seven blocks away over The Bellagio, were nearly in line with his finger. “One of them could make a mistake, you know, shoot the wrong way, and we’d be toast. I’m telling you we gotta—”
“Shut up and sit down.” Miller took aim at Sonny’s head. “That’s all you gotta do.”
Sonny complied and eased back into the settee. “Okay, okay, just watch it with that gun, boy.”
Miller cocked his head. “What did you call me?”
“Nothing, sir. I’m from the south, that’s just the way we talk. Don’t mean nothing.”
“You’re from the south all right. South Chicago. I know everything about you, tough guy. What I don’t know is how the gaming control board ever let you set one foot in Las Vegas. Why don’t you tell me who you paid to make that little miracle happen?”
Sonny grinned. “I got myself a guardian angel. I’ve always been lucky that way.”
“Just a lucky guy, huh?”
He had to think of a way to get rid of this G-man. He peered past the agent and out the window again. The helicopters were slowly moving north toward The Grotto. A bright flash appeared from one of the gunships. The nose of the chopper see-sawed up and down. A smile spread across Sonny’s face.
“What are you smiling for?” Miller lowered the gun. “Is there something funny about this situation? If there is, please tell me, ’cause I just don’t get it.”
A helicopter started spinning in the sky, guns blazing. Sonny followed the line of tracers arcing through the air.
“Oh, you’re about to.” He slid off the couch, covered his head, and landed prone on the marble tile.
“What the hell are you—” Miller hit the floor at the first sound.
Glass sprayed everywhere as bullets buried themselves in the walls of the penthouse. A blast of hot air flew into the suite through the gaping remains of the shattered window. The wind knocked over statues and dislodged paintings from the walls. Sonny felt as though he’d been trapped inside a wind tunnel.
The FBI agent lay still on the ground. He no longer held his gun—that was the good news. The bad news: the gun was nowhere in sight. Sonny stood up and kicked the agent’s head. A quiet moan and Sonny knew the man was out. Kicking the agent felt good. So good, in fact, he kicked him again, harder this time.
“You come into my fucking house and hold a gun on me?” He kicked at the agent’s head again, then again. A pool of dark blood oozed across the white marble tile. Sonny brushed glass from his coat sleeves and spit on the agent’s back. Wind churned through his hair and ruffled his suit. He shouted, “Not in my house, boy. I’m Sonny Russo, you fuck, the luckiest man in Vegas.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rules of the road no longer applied. Whatever the color of the stoplight, the order of the day called for full speed ahead. Dixie kept her foot pressed hard on the accelerator ever since leaving Aunt Rose’s house. Major Ransom rode shotgun and Aunt Rose sat in the backseat, leaning over with every high speed turn.
For the most part, Dixie applied the brakes only when necessary: to avoid pedestrians, abandoned vehicles, and oncoming traffic using her side of the road. Many streetlights, and some rather large neon signs, had gone dark.
“Someone’s following us,” Dixie said as she stepped on the brakes, swerved to the right, then punched the gas.
“How can you possibly tell?” Aunt Rose turned her head and peered through the rear window. “There’re at least a hundred cars behind us. As far as I can tell, they’re all following us.”
“Well, one of those cars has been with us since we left your house.”
“How do you know that?”
“The brights are on and one is way brighter than the other. It’s so annoying.” She made a hard left. “See, it made the turn right behind us.”
Aunt Rose straightened up. “Give me a little warning next time, dear.”
“It’s Jon,” Major Ransom said. “I guess he’s decided to join us after all.”
Dixie shrugged her shoulders. “Why would he do that? Honestly, I have no idea why he bolted in the first place. Do you?”
“No, he wouldn’t say.”
“No, not in so many words,” Aunt Rose said. “But we both know why he’s here now, don’t we, Major?”
“Hold on, we’re here.” Dixie hit the brakes and slid to a stop just outside The Grotto. “This is where Russo lives. He has a penthouse on the top floor. If he’s here at all, that’s where he’ll be.”
Major Ransom waited for a group of people to stagger past the car before she hopped out. Dixie joined her, then turned and cra
ned her neck, making eye contact with Aunt Rose who sat still in the backseat.
“Let’s go, Aunt Rose. We’re here. I’m going to need your help—we both are.”
“You two go on ahead. I’ll park the car.”
“What are you talking about? We won’t get a ticket for parking in the street if that’s what you’re worried about. Tonight is self-park anywhere you want.”
“Dixie,” Aunt Rose gave her niece “the look.” “I love my car and I will not leave it in the middle of the street. I’m going to park it properly in the parking garage. Now run along, I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
“But Aunt Rose, we’ve got to hurry.”
“Hurry on then.”
“We’ve got to stick together, you said so yourself.”
Aunt Rose’s eyes sparkled for just a moment, a bright green twinkle. “I insist. You go along. I’ll catch up.”
“Be careful.” Dixie turned and waved to Major Ransom. “C’mon, let’s go.”
They ran into the eerie silence of the lobby, the only illumination provided by emergency lighting. It was apparent the hotel had been evacuated long ago, but one employee still manned the front desk.
“Excuse me,” Dixie approached the counter. “Can you tell me—”
“Shit. Let’s get outta here.”
Another man popped up from behind the desk. Both men jumped over the marble counter and ran into the depths of the darkened casino.
“Looters,” said Major Ransom. “What are you looking for?”
“Russo’s private elevator. It’s gotta be here somewhere.”
“Over there.” Major Ransom pointed to a small alcove just to the right of the main bank of elevators. The emergency lights flickered for a few seconds then came back on.
They rushed into the alcove and Dixie slammed on the call button. “Do you have a weapon?”
Ransom shook her head. “No. Do you have a plan—in case he’s here, I mean?”
“No.”
The doors slid open. Dixie entered followed by Ransom. The doors closed and the whirring of motors, cables, and gears sounded, lifting them up forty floors. They were both out of breath and leaned against the walls of the car. Dixie closed her eyes and used her focus technique to regain a semblance of calm. Her heartbeat evened out.
“What happened to your aunt?”
“She had to park the car.”
“What? You left her down there to park the car?”
“I didn’t mean to…I didn’t want to, but she insisted. It made sense at the time.”
“She insisted? What the hell does that mean?”
Ding.
The doors slid open. A warm gust of air hit their faces. A loud whistling rang out as the breeze rushed through the broken windows. The penthouse appeared empty. They scampered into the suite as the doors slid closed behind them.
“Agent Miller.” Ransom darted across the marble tile and crouched down beside him. She felt for a pulse. “He’s lost a lot of blood, but he’s alive.”
“My mistake.” The voice came from down the hallway. Sonny Russo stepped into the living room holding a duffel bag in one hand and a butcher knife in the other. “I guess I’m a little rusty at the physical stuff. Back in the day, I woulda killed him with one punch.”
“Sonny Russo,” the name slid from Dixie’s lips.
“Well, if it isn’t Dixie Mulholland. I watch you every night.”
“Thank you—er, I mean, tell me about your connection to the attack. Do you realize I saw you yesterday at—”
“Sorry, but you know how I hate interviews. I’m a little busy right now. If you’ll excuse me, ladies.” He marched to the elevator and hit the call button, waving Dixie to the middle of the room with the knife. “Must be a big night for you, darling; lots of things to report on. I hear reputations are made on nights like this. Too bad you won’t have the chance.”
Ding.
The business end of a gun pressed against the back of Russo’s head. “Drop the knife, Sonny.”
Russo let the knife clatter onto the tile and set the duffel bag down as his hands went up. “Detective Ramirez.”
“Get going, slowly, to the middle of the room.”
“Marco.” Dixie rushed back to the elevator. “Adam.”
“The mutt’s here, too? What a surprise.” Russo ambled to the settee.
Adam moved out of the elevator and into Dixie’s arms. The elevator doors slid shut.
“What the hell happened?” Ramirez said. “Is Agent Miller okay?”
“He’s alive.” Ransom stood up. “But he needs medical attention.”
“You son of a bitch.” Ramirez marched toward Russo.
“Marco, wait,” Dixie pleaded. “We need to get information from him.”
Ransom raced for the phone. “I’ll call the paramedics.”
“It won’t do any good,” Ramirez said, “they won’t respond. We’ll have to drive him to UMC and hope they let us in.”
“What do you mean?”
“If protocol is being followed, the city’s in disaster mode: hospitals are locked-down, no response from emergency units—Vegas is under Martial Law.”
Ding.
The elevator doors opened.
****
I don’t know what Ramirez wants with Russo. He doesn’t talk much on the way. I keep pretty quiet as well. I’d just seen my brother, Ivan, murdered right after he saved my life. My mind is on auto-pilot as I put my clothes on. I’ve never been through anything like that before.
I stare at my hands. They’re shaking. Then I realize I’m shaking all over. Every time I close my eyes, all I see is Ivan being dragged away from the car. He stared at me—straight into my eyes as if he wanted to say something. But, of course, he couldn’t speak. Still, I felt some sort of a connection to him before the battle and during, but especially after. As he realized his next breath might be his last, I swear he said something to me, I know he did. Even if it was less than a whisper—more of a thought—I heard it. I caught it in my mind.
One word: accept.
I don’t know what he meant by it. Accept what? All the possibilities race through my mind: accept the fact he would die? Accept the world and what it’s become? Accept myself as I am? Or, accept all of it?
I may never understand what he meant by it, but I’ll always know one thing for sure: I know he died at peace with himself, knowing he did everything he could to stop the madness.
And that’s what it is: madness. More than half my pack is dead. Lucy, Ivan, Flynn, and Bane. And Mikael. And for what? A plan devised by something called Daemons to rule the world? How is that even possible?
“We’re almost there,” Ramirez says, bringing me out of my thoughts.
I struggle to put my clothes on in the car. “Where?”
“The Grotto. A member of the task force is there, and hopefully he’s got Sonny Russo under arrest.”
“Russo? What do you want with him?”
“Dixie told me he was your Alpha. I’ll start there. I’ve got to find out what he knows about their plans.”
“Aunt Rose said they plan to destroy humanity.”
“Yup.”
“Then what do you need him for?”
“It’s a start.”
He drives on the sidewalk when the road is blocked. He drives on the road when the sidewalks are blocked. The drive north is so slow. Too many people, too many cars in our path. Accidents clog The Strip—fender benders, T-bones, and roll overs. Crowds of wandering tourists, searching for a way out of the hell they found themselves in, whirl around us like plastic bags caught in the wind. Ramirez hits the brakes whenever someone darts out in front of us. When he mashes the accelerator down, my head jerks back. After an hour of this stop and go nonsense, I have a good idea what “car sick” means.
He skids to a stop in front of The Grotto and tells me to stay put. That isn’t going to happen. Despite the heavy winds and light drops of rain, I still catch her scent. It’s str
onger in the lobby of the deserted hotel. Stronger still in the elevator. Dixie is here.
“Keep alert and stay behind me,” Ramirez says, as he draws his weapon and flicks off the safety. We enter the elevator together. “Agent Miller is good, but that son of a bitch Russo is tricky.”
The first thing I see when the doors open is Dixie. She looks helpless; she looks frightened. I want to run to her and put my arms around her, but someone blocks my way: The Alpha.
“Drop the knife, Sonny.” Ramirez has his gun trained on the back of The Alpha’s head.
The Alpha drops the knife on the floor. He sets down a black bag and raises his hands. “Detective Ramirez.”
“Get going, slowly, to the middle of the room.”
My eyes are still on Dixie. She runs toward the elevator. “Marco.” Then her gaze falls on me. “Adam.”
“The mutt’s here, too?” Russo says. “What a surprise.”
When I get out of the elevator car, Dixie hugs me. Even though I’m covered in blood, I wrap my arms around her and squeeze her with all the strength I have left. I’ve lost so much tonight—I’m not about to lose her as well.
Chapter Twenty Eight
The sound of helicopter blades and gunfire is deafening. The packs have fought their way up The Strip to The Grotto and the battle rages on forty floors below. Choppers circle the building in a tight formation. The wolfhounds and their Alphas kill as many people as they can. This war is far from over. Spotlights shine through the windows of the penthouse, panning back and forth along the walls and floor. The gunfire sounds like cannons in the sky. It makes all of us shake when heavy rounds are fired toward the ground.
“What’s the plan, Sonny?” Ramirez says, aiming his gun at The Alpha. “What’s next on the agenda? We’ve got to end this now, and you’re going to help us.”
“Do you think she’d tell me what the fucking plan is? I did whatever stuff she told me to do, but now I’m out. That bitch is crazy—wacko—and I’m done.”
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