Page 7 of The Tourist

“We’ll start at one hundred thousand dollars for this virgin” I hear the woman’s voice. The cold, clinical tone of it makes my skin crawl.

They really are going to sell me.

“Two,” a male voice calls out over some kind of speaker system.

“Three,” says another.

The bidding goes up quickly.

“Eight.” A deep voice, commanding and confident, offers.

“Very good,” the woman responds.

“Anyone else?” She pauses, and the room remains silent.

Eight hundred thousand dollars is what I’m worth. What my life is worth. I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.

“Sold.” I hear a hammer bang.

“Have her bagged and ready to travel immediately,” the deep voice orders, his instructions clear and unwavering.

“Of course,” the woman replies as I’m pulled back up to standing.

I’ve just been sold to a stranger for eight hundred thousand dollars. My breaths start to come quickly and haphazardly. I’m hyperventilating, and my head starts to spin.

Everything comes to an abrupt stop when I feel a sharp prick in my arm. The world is already dark behind the blindfold, but it goes completely black as I collapse into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER4

Diego

PRESENT DAY - 6 MONTHS LATER

The evening descends over the vibrant pulse of Las Vegas as I navigate the bustling crowds that populate The Myriad, the largest and most illustrious casino on the Strip. Its sheer scale and the spectacle of its opulence are almost otherworldly, and its grand, curved white brick architecture towers dominantly over the landscape.

The Myriad is the flagship of my family business and an emblem of luxury, providing an escape from the darker realities lurking beneath the shimmering veneer. It hides the seedy side of what really goes on in this city, the side which brings me here to a meeting about my sister and her friend who are both still missing. I need an update on what is being done to find them.

Outside, the air is charged with the excitement of tourists and locals alike. They’ve been drawn to the spectacular water and light show erupting from the massive lake that fronts the casino. Jets of water dance rhythmically, illuminated by a kaleidoscope of lights that paint the night sky with bursts of color.

Inside, the evidence of prosperity is overwhelming. The ceilings are decorated with expansive glass flower installations, each piece delicately crafted to catch and refract the numerous lights below, creating a scene overhead that resembles a vibrant, blossoming garden suspended in an eternal spring.

The air is saturated with a mix of anticipation and laughter, together with the clinking of slot machines, the soft rustle of cards, and the occasional cheer from the craps tables. At least someone is winning, for now at least, but as so often happens in this city, it will probably all be lost before first sunlight.

I make my way across the casino floor, heading toward the VIP bar located in a quieter part of The Myriad. Here, the chaos of the main areas gives way to a more subdued atmosphere where conversations are possible and privacy is respected. The bar is the epitome of understated elegance with its dark wood furnishings and soft lighting.

Eaton Armstrong is there, as arranged, sitting in a corner that affords a good view of the room and the entrance. He was once my enemy, but now he’s an associate after he started to break apart his father’s legacy. His ever-present bodyguard, Max, stands watch. Eaton is always sharply dressed and composed, but today, there’s an edge to his demeanor that speaks of the serious matters we need to discuss.

He acknowledges my approach with a nod, his eyes briefly scanning the area again before settling back on me.

“Diego,” he greets.

We shake hands firmly.

As I take my seat, a server approaches immediately. Her movements are so smooth and practiced that she appears to almost glide. She places two glasses down in front of us containing xtra Añejo tequila, my family’s brand. It’s a sign of the newfound respect between Eaton and me that he now prefers to drink this brand.

The hostess disappears as quietly as she arrived. Her discretion is a reflection of the kind of clientele this bar serves.

Once we’re alone again, Eaton leans in and says, “I have something. It’s not much, but it’s the first solid lead in weeks.”

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