Chapter 7 - The Father's Forged Casino LicenseThe roar of twin turbine engines tore through the canyon sky with the force of an incoming hurricane.
From behind the red sandstone bluffs, two military-grade attack helicopters swept over the gorge, their forward gatling cannons unleashing a devastating, deafening hail of tungsten rounds directly into the rocks flanking the mercenary firing line.
The desert floor erupted into geysers of pulverized stone, shrapnel, and fire.
Viktor Stone’s mercenaries didn't even have time to shoulder their weapons.
Within forty-five seconds, the heavy dump trucks were disabled, their tires shredded, their engine blocks engulfed in flames, while eighteen surviving mercenaries threw their rifles into the dirt, falling to their knees with their hands clasped behind their heads in unconditional surrender.
Viktor Stone was dragged out from behind a boulder by four of Marco’s tactical operators, his camouflage uniform torn, his face caked in red dust and gunpowder burns.
Dominic’s transport rolled down the winding service trail, coming to a halt twenty yards from the ruined highway.
The armored doors opened, and Dominic stepped down onto the sun-baked asphalt.
He wasn't wearing body armor. He wore a tailored charcoal wool coat over his black suit, his custom Colt .45 resting securely in his shoulder holster.
And walking beside him, holding her splinted left arm steady against her ribs, was me.
Viktor Stone looked up from the asphalt, his bloodshot eyes widening in pure horror as he recognized the sovereign of Nevada standing whole, unharmed, and untouched before him.
“Cassel...” Stone gasped, spitting a mouthful of red grit onto the road. “It was business! Sterling paid us! We had no personal quarrel with your house!”
Dominic walked up to the kneeling commander, stopping two feet away.
“Where is Harold Sterling right now, Viktor?”
“The penthouse at the Mirage!” Stone wept, all the bravado of the elite mercenary evaporating into pathetic begging. “He’s waiting for the encrypted confirmation photo! He has his private jet fueled at Henderson Executive Airport!”
Dominic pulled the Colt .45 from his holster.
He didn't aim at Stone's head. He racked the slide back, ejecting a single live cartridge into his palm.
He showed the round to Stone.
“Tell your men to board the transport vans,” Dominic said, his voice flat as iron. “You are being escorted directly to the federal airfield at Nellis. If you provide a full, unredacted deposition to the United States Marshals regarding Harold Sterling’s cartel ties, you will serve twenty years in a federal penitentiary instead of disappearing into an unmarked hole in this desert.”
Stone nodded frantically, his forehead hitting the asphalt over and over again.
“I’ll talk! I’ll give them every wire transfer, every safe-deposit code, every shipment log! Just don't leave me out here!”
Dominic turned his back on the mercenary, looking at Marco.
“Secure the prisoners. We return to the Strip.”
May you like
He turned to me, his hand reaching out to wrap firmly around my uninjured wrist, guiding me back toward the climate-controlled safety of the transport.
“It is time to collect our debts from the Commissioner, Sylvie.”
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