Page 63 of Vegas Daddies

The supposed bartenders probably kill just as much as they serve.

I eye Lifesaver and Brander.

One…

Two…

We all nod.

Three.

I advance and pick open the lock. Then I click my fingers for Brander to join me.

He kicks down the door.

Easier than anticipated.

Maybe they should invest some of this blood money into better security.

One after the other, we fly in, Brander taking the lead. The hot iron rod, burning red, acts like a medieval torch. Where are the lights? Entering the main room, I spot many above us, hanging from the ceiling, but all of them are off.

I slip a hand into my jacket anyway, releasing the gun. A Takeshi knife rests downward in my pants pocket, but I keep that there for backup.

Brander’s face glows, partly confused in the faint red light.

I look around the room, my vision starting to acclimatize. Set against the back wall is an impressive bar with gold spirit bottles and expensive-looking stem glasses hanging upside down in holders. A glittery floor spreads across the entire place, like we’re standing on a starry sky. Curiosity taking over, I reach over and grab one of the menus, squinting to read the drink selection. The Imperial and Stoli vodka options are a big giveaway. Guests can also order expensive European wines—red and white—from privately owned vineyards, and pure still water that costs ten dollars minimum, depending on the type.

For one kill, these guys charge twenty-five thousand dollars, according to Lifesaver when he relayed his conversation with Peter to us earlier.

The boys are fucking swimming in it.

“I see you found us,” says a voice from somewhere in the room. Footsteps crescendo, and a body pops up from behind the bar. He’s tall, and the suit he’s wearing makes him look like he belongs behind a desk.

Brander launches forward over to the bar.

That’s when they pour out like insects—left, right, and center. Bullets splinter to the floor, and gunfire echoes around the whole room.

I duck. Slip out my gun and fire.

A suited figure approaches me, his weapon of choice a knife, but I spot it quick enough and manage to kick it from his hands. It clinks onto the ground, and I slam my boot over it, inches away from the trigger of my gun when another tackles me.

I land on the floor.

This one is dressed in all black, jeans and a fitted black tee. He snarls at me like a fucking dog, securing the dropped knife into his hand.

He points the sharp end my way.

“Get a new look,” he spits.

Fucking likewise.

My mind pauses in times like these. Shuts down. Intuition kicks in and tells me how to react, and in this instance, it’s to make use of my free hand and slip out the Takeshi.

But Levi Jeans gets there first.

Excruciating pain explodes in my arm.

“FUCK!”

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