Chapter 6 - Midnight at the Bellagio PenthouseThe desert wind through the Valley of Fire was howling like a chorus of dying beasts, whipping red sand across the empty two-lane asphalt.
Dominic, Marco, and I sat inside the secondary command vehicle—an unmarked, blacked-out tactical transport idling on an elevated service ridge three miles north of the planned kill-zone.
Through the high-definition thermal monitors mounted on the console, we watched the decoy convoy wind its way through the narrow sandstone gorges.
The lead black limousine, draped in ceremonial ivory satin ribbons, moved at fifty miles per hour, followed by two armored security Suburbans.
At exactly 2:14 PM, the satellite feed lit up with a blinding flash of white thermal energy.
BOOM.
Even three miles away, the concussive rumble of the detonation shook the floorboards of our transport.
A massive section of the red sandstone bluff collapsed onto the highway directly behind the trailing Suburban, burying the road beneath eighty tons of pulverized rock and black smoke, completely cutting off the convoy's retreat route.
A second later, two heavy commercial dump trucks surged out from behind a dry wash ahead, slamming their reinforced steel bumpers across both lanes, creating an impassable barrier.
From the rocky crevices along the cliffs, twenty armed mercenaries in desert camouflage emerged, their automatic rifles barking in continuous, synchronized volleys, tearing the exterior panels of the decoy limousine into shredded Swiss cheese.
Over the tactical radio frequency, Viktor Stone’s French-accented voice boomed with arrogant triumph:
“Target vehicle immobilized! Breaching the passenger cabin now! Harold Sterling, confirm bonus transfer to Cayman account!”
On the main screen, Harold Sterling’s voice crackled through the satellite relay from his private executive lounge at the Bellagio:
“Confirmed, Viktor! Make sure Dominic Cassel’s body is identified before you burn the wreckage! The Gaming Commission meets in two hours to ratify our emergency conservatorship!”
Dominic leaned forward, picking up the master radio handset.
He keyed the microphone with his thumb.
“Harold,” Dominic spoke, his voice smooth, cold, and utterly devoid of stress.
The static on the radio died instantly.
A suffocating, terrified silence fell over the channel.
“Dominic...?” Harold Sterling’s voice choked through the speaker, trembling with sudden, horrific disbelief. “That’s... that’s impossible! You were in the lead vehicle!”
“I am standing on Ridge Four, Harold,” Dominic said, each word falling like an executioner’s axe. “Looking down at your two-million-dollar mercenaries through the targeting reticle of an Apache gunship.”
May you like
Dominic looked at Marco, nodding once.
“Engage.”
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