Page 21 of Hunt

Her reaction concerned me, so I followed them down the stairs while she flapped her arms and yapped incoherently. The only word I could pick up on was ‘rats.’ Indeed, she didn’t mean actual rats, or maybe I heard wrong.

We were greeted by another cleaner with a vacuum pack on her back. She looked worried, mainly as I descended the stairs and pointed to the kitchen. “They’re in there.”

“They?” the other cleaner shrilled, shocked. “There’s more than one?”

“What are we talking about?” I was angered as I strode down the empty hallway to the kitchen to find another cleaner precariously treading the floor, checking corners and cupboards with the end of a mop. “What are you looking for?”

“Rats,” he stated as his pupils dilated at seeing me, the big boss, standing before him. They knew shit was going to hit the fan if I turned up.

“Rats? More than one?” I snarled, combing the floor for signs such as droppings or a tail hanging from a cupboard.

“Three,” the guy said, peering inside a pots and pans cupboard. “One went on there.”

“How the fuck did they get in here?” I growled, bending down to try and find it. “Every corner of this place has traps.” I looked back at Freddie, who was pacing, embarrassed. “Call the pest exterminator.”

“Yes, Mr. Kaiser,” I was glad he used my correct title in front of the staff to show my authority, but this situation was unacceptable.

“And tell them to be discreet,” I seethed, feeling my shoulders tense. “I don’t want media to find out we’ve got a fucking rat problem as they’d plaster on their front page that we’ve got an abominable plague outbreak.”

“Yes, Mr. Kaiser,” Freddie answered as he scrolled through his phone, searching for a number to call.

“Oh, and…” I stepped out of the kitchen, signaling him to follow so we could have a private chat out of earshot of the staff. “Check security cameras.”

“Security cameras? You think it was deliberate?” he asked, unsurprised but curious. He’d worked for felons long enough to know that things are never as they seem, and there was always someone wanting what we’ve got.

“I’m covering all bases,” I told him as I stepped away to return to my office. “Check the traps and watchthem,” lowering my voice while pointing to the kitchen, “like a fucking hawk. Ensure the staff and pest exterminators sign a gag clause contract to keep their mouths shut. Got it?”

“Got it,” he replied, returning to the kitchen to sort this mess out while I took a deep breath as I ascended the stairs.

They better have this sorted before we open because the last thing I needed was a fucking rat running around the feet of our millionaire guests. I paused at Ronan’s office and wondered if he had some weed hidden in his drawer, but it was locked when I tried the handle. Never mind, I’d suck on my cigar and drink some expensive whiskey, even though it was early to ease my stress.

I walked past my office to the viewing room at the end of the hall to watch the staff for a few minutes. Two cleaners were busy vacuuming the carpeted floor and seemed oblivious to the drama in the kitchen. The bar staff hadn’t arrived yet, nor had the chefs and dancers, so I hoped the problem would be fixed by then. The fewer people who knew, the easier it would be to keep a lid on it.

I was about to retreat to my office when I spotted something white running under the table. Fuck. A rat. I can’t imagine there were white gutter rats, as they looked like rodents bred for pet stores and labs for scientific experimentation. Not that I was an expert on rodents. I was pretty familiar with human rats, though.

I swiped for Freddie’s number, and he answered immediately. “Rat in the casino. Get out there ASAP.” Moments later, he appeared with a pot, and I guided him to the table where it was hidden. He dropped to his knees and scrambled about searching for the thing. It'd be laughable if it weren’t for the fact that our reputation could be damaged.

The rat and Freddie battled it out, and Freddie finally won. The rat ran out from the blackjack table, and Freddie placed a pot over it. I didn’t want to see what happened next, so I returned to my office to review some paperwork while my staff made the rat problem disappear.

As I approached, a knock on the wall of my office urged me to stop. The door was open several inches, so I pushed it all the way and glanced around the room. There was a lingering scent of fried chicken, which I hadn’t eaten. It was too early in the morning for the cooking to start in the kitchen, so I knew it wasn’t carried in there by Freddie.

I strode to the desk, poked my head underneath, and found no one there. Then I stepped to the cupboard where I hung my spare suits and flung the door open to see that it was empty, too. I opened the bathroom door precariously when I heard a scraping sound, but it was also empty.

“Sup,” a male voice yelled, and I was startled.

“Jeezus fucking Christ, I just about fucking lost my breakfast,” I snarled at Ronan as he entered, looking confused.

“What’s going on downstairs?” he asked, his eyes flicking about as he searched for whatever I was searching for. “Have you lost something?”

“No,” I exhaled, rubbing my eyes with the base of my hands. “The staff found some rats, and I thought I heard one…can you smell fried chicken?”

“Wait. Are there rats?” he stepped away, cringing. “Where?”

“In the fucking kitchen, and they look like the pet store variety of rats,” I told him. “White and inbred.”

“Fuck. I bet it’s the fucking Russians,” he said out loud what I was thinking. “Wanting their club back at a cheap price.”

It was the old schoolbook of trickery: If you want to buy a property, damage it first, stir up chaotic neighbors, start a rumor, or something similar, so you can force a sale and get it for a steal.

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