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“It’s an exclusive bar under the Strip. Gambling, strippers, a Michelin-starred restaurant, secret rooms, every drug you could ever want, available in any form you could ever want it in. You know, your typical everyday blue-collar watering hole.”

“You said under the Strip?”

“Yes, literally underground. It’s an invite-only place. Has a secret entrance and everything. Very James Bond. Not many people know of it.”

“Only the rich and famous?”

“Precisely.”

“So, that tells us something about our crook—he has money.”

“Or enough notoriety to get inside.”

“You think he could be with the Mafia? Something like that?”

Shrugging, I consider the handful of missions my company has handled that involve Mafia-related crimes. I make a note to pull those files and study them on the flight over.

I begin pacing.

“Get some sleep, buddy.” Cillian pushes out of the chair and makes his way to the door, unbuttoning his shirt. “We’ll take care of this just like we take care of everything else.”

I grunt and turn to the window. Silence settles in the room, yet I feel Cillian’s presence lingering. When he finally speaks, his tone carries an ominous edge that makes me shiver.

“Vegas is where everything started, remember?”

“Yeah. I remember.”

“Let’s be more careful this time.”

The door closes, and a heaviness like a ball of grease settles in the pit of my stomach. A foreboding that something big is about to happen.

Again.

Four

Astor

“I have Astor Stone in the car.” My driver, Mauricio, rolls down the window of our blacked-out SUV as we stop at a gated entrance.

It’s only four in the afternoon, and the Vegas Strip is already shoulder-to-shoulder with tourists. Pitched voices and laughter mingle with a loud thrum of music from a club nearby. Bright, obnoxious light strobes from the rooftops, flashing against the gaudy mirrored buildings. Noise is all around us.

A crowd is gathered around the perimeter of the gate, mostly tourists and paparazzi trying to get a glimpse of who is behind the tinted windows. They think we’re going to an exclusive bar frequented by celebrities, but instead, we’ll drop several floors below street level to the Dungeon.

My backseat window slides down, ushering in a waft of hot, dry air that reeks of motor oil and food vendors. It was seventy-four degrees when we left New York this morning. It is now a face-melting ninety-seven degrees on the Strip.

I despise the heat.

I also despise Las Vegas.

In fact, I despise this entire goddamn trip.

The guard bends at the waist and studies me, his hand resting on the Glock on his belt. He’s a short man but thick, with a cool, confident demeanor. Former military, my guess. Competent, in spite of his size.

Mauricio hands him my identification, along with his own. After scrutinizing both cards, the guard nods and passes them back.

Mauricio gestures to the black SUV behind us, identical to ours. “That vehicle belongs to Mr. Stone’s security. One man; name, Cillian Mallas. He’s with us.”

“I’ll need to check him too. Protocol.”

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