The Wages of Sin: A Nick Hunter Novel (A Nick Hunter Thriller Book 2) Read online

  Nick shuffled around, like the rest of them, getting warmth back into his limbs after the cold night. He hadn’t found it that hard to sleep out like this. Somewhere in his mind was the idea that he had slept in worse places. He had no idea where they might be, but he’d accepted the idea and simply made the most of his situation.

  He pulled the hood of his dirty sweatshirt down and moved into a sunny spot on the side of the road, his eyes passing over the broken curbs and boarded-up buildings. He nodded to the young man who was already there.

  “Spotter’s back,” the man commented in a harsh whisper.

  Nick followed his sightline, quickly finding the two heavy-set shaven-headed men on the opposite corner. Unlike the men he’d spent the night with, they looked clean and well-fed. Mentally, he ran the faces. He’d seen one the day before, the other was new, or at least Nick had never seen him around here.

  Before Nick could comment, the door to the shelter opened. Many of the men from the alley started moving toward it, anxious for food and a chance to clean up a bit. Those lucky enough to have been able to find a spot the night before started coming out, blinking in the sunlight, before moving off to wherever they planned to spend the day. Nick was about to head in for breakfast when something stopped him. An alarm bell was ringing in his head, though he couldn’t immediately put a finger on why. He stopped and started scanning the area methodically, seeking the cause of his unease.

  The crowd of homeless men and women pressing up to the doors were agitated, but no more than he’d seen yesterday in similar situations. That wasn’t it. Those leaving the shelter showed a slight furtiveness, but that, too, wasn’t uncommon. The stigma that went with the life tended to make people keep their heads down.

  His eyes moved across the street. There. The two men had tensed. Their body language showed anticipation, an alertness that they hadn’t had before. Something was about to happen.

  Nick moved away from the group around the shelter door, taking up a position beside a lamppost, leaning casually on it while he continued scanning the street. He shifted his attention between the two men and the direction they were looking in.

  A white Ford Transit van came around the corner and started slowly down the street. Nick looked back at the men. They were in motion, now, moving across the street with a determined stride. He looked back, spotting the young woman wrapped up in two jackets walking down the street away from the shelter. He started walking swiftly in her direction.

  He was two steps behind when the two men reached her. Each one grabbed an arm and started dragging her to the side of the road. The van was seconds away, its side door sliding open.

  The woman took a moment to respond and then started screaming. One of the men raised a fist, but Nick was already there, grabbing the man’s arm and yanking it hard behind his back. Surprised, the man lost his grip on his victim.

  “Help us!” Nick shouted to those gathered around the shelter door as he kicked the man’s knees out from behind.

  The man fell, his arm twisting awkwardly. He screamed, and Nick let him go. He’d have a seriously injured shoulder and be out of the fight, at least for a while.

  The second man was looking around, seemingly unsure of whether to face Nick or get the girl to the van. Nick could hear running feet behind him and see the surprise on the man’s face.

  Nick made his decision for him, delivering a swift blow to his face. The man staggered back, dazed. His hand lost its grip on the woman’s arm.

  “Run!” Nick told her.

  She vanished, racing back among the other homeless. Several other men had reached Nick, now. At least two were laying into the man whose shoulder Nick had injured.

  The van pulled up. Two more skinheads and a tall man with bronze-colored skin jumped out.

  The darker-skinned man stopped, staring at Nick. “Logan! Logan!”

  Nick had no idea who he was talking to. He had no time to think about it either as the first skinhead was on him. He backed away from the flying fists, dodging the blows and looking for an opening. As his opponent drew back his arm to deliver another blow, Nick ducked down and drove headfirst into his stomach. The man fell to the ground with Nick on top of him. Nick gave him no time to recover, driving his knee between the man’s legs. Confident he had another enemy out of the fight, Nick rolled off him and rose to his feet.

  The other skinhead from the van was managing, barely, to keep three of the homeless men at bay with well-directed blows and kicks. Nick saw no reason to intervene. Instead, he picked up a loose chunk of concrete from the decaying pavement and hurled it at the van. The vehicle’s windshield seemed to turn instantly into a crazy pattern of cracks, like the work of a demented spider. Nick was happy to see several of the other homeless pick up loose rubble and start hurling it at the van.

  A brown arm flashed in front of him. Nick took a rapid step back, avoiding the blow from the bronze-skinned man. The man swung again, and Nick dodged once more. He felt a sting across his upper arm. Dammit, he hadn’t seen the thin blade in the man’s hands. He took two more steps back, reassessing the situation.

  As if Nick’s action had been a signal, the bronze-skinned man grabbed one of the skinheads from the pavement. The others seemed to have recovered enough to stagger back to the van. They piled in the side door and the vehicle accelerated away. It no longer looked clean and white, though. Almost every window was broken, and the side panels were dented from multiple impacts.

  Nick smiled. He’d been right, given the chance, these people would fight to protect their own. Somehow, somewhere in his mind, he’d known they would. He’d seen other groups close in, protecting members of their community, before. He knew he had, he just couldn’t remember where.

  As the others milled around, coming down from the adrenaline buzz, Nick slipped back down an alleyway. Time to get a shower, and get tidied up, not to mention dress his wound.

  Chapter 5

  Nick discovered he didn’t like casinos. Bond movies had made them look sophisticated, the very epitome of high-class life. When he walked into the ‘The Parisian’ any such idea came crashing down. The décor tried hard to look cultured, but to Nick, it just came off as tacky. Glittering plastic lions didn’t make him think of wealth and success, it made him think of cheap budgets.

  He walked past the slot machines and his mood fell even further. The people sitting before the machines didn’t look like they were there to enjoy themselves. They appeared even more desperate and lonely than the people he’d met earlier on the streets.

  He stopped for a moment to gawk around, keeping in character as much as possible. He tried to look impressed, but he’d already made up his mind what The Parisian reminded him off. It was a temple, with all the statuary, and the promises that would go unfulfilled. It was a temple to greed, and all it gave back to its worshipers was more misery. Enough misery, he guessed, to keep them coming back, looking for that elusive promised reward.

  It was almost twelve hours since the fight outside the shelter. Two days earlier, he’d stashed a slightly tidier jacket near the shelter, and with that on, he’d reentered the hotel without causing any excitement among the staff. In his room, he’d checked his knife wound. As he’d suspected, it was little more than a surface cut. Bandaged and disinfected, it would do no permanent harm.

  He’d taken the opportunity to shower and then rest. He’d expected to be up for quite a while in the coming night, so grabbing some sleep had made sense. When evening came around, he’d grabbed a quick dinner from room service and gone for a much more touristy type outfit. The black slacks and the loud Hawaiian shirt would make him quite obvious, but that was the intention.

  Now, in The Parisian, it was time to make a splash. Establishing character, though, came first. That started with the female staff. The hostesses in The Parisian wore a slightly less revealing version of the traditional ‘French Maid’ outfit, though Nick could see no real association with France. As he came past the end of a row of slot machines
an attractive-looking redhead in one of the outfits walked past with a tray of empty glasses. He gave her a very obvious once over and leered. She was professional enough to give him a smile in return, but he could see the cold look in her eyes.

  He moved deeper into the casino, heading for the gaming tables, and leering at any of the female staff when he had the opportunity. Out the corner of his eye, he spotted a pair of them looking in his direction, talking. He couldn’t make out their expressions, but he didn’t need to. He knew well enough what they’d be saying about him.

  He bought a stack of chips from the cashier with his Timothy Dorian credit card. The casino would run a thorough check on that. Like a lot of businesses, they sought as much information as they could on their customers, much of it technically illegal for them to have. Most customers, though, were oblivious as to how much personal information major organizations like the one behind the casinos could actually access. The files that his card would bring up should draw some attention. That, at least, was what Splinter had planted them for.

  Blackjack was Nick’s game for the evening. He settled at an empty seat and bought into the game. For the first few hands, he didn’t do too well, occasionally making money, mostly losing. He’d expected that. As the game progressed, though, his memory, virtually eidetic, was putting together the values of the cards played and the behavior of his fellow players. Card counting, though frowned on in casinos, was not technically illegal. Most casinos used at least two decks in play to reduce the chances that anyone could keep track of what had been played and what remained in the pack. Most casinos had never had someone of Nick’s abilities in the house before. He had no idea what his memory had been like before his coma, before Splinter, if such a time even existed, but he knew his current memory was well beyond normal.

  Slowly, the odds swung in his favor. The pile of chips beside him began to grow. He could see the occasional extra attention from the floorwalkers. This was where timing came in, of course. If he stayed too long, then he might be asked to leave by the staff. If he left too early, he wouldn’t have the high-roller look he needed. He sat in for three more hands, winning each. The attention was becoming too much. He stood and went to cash in his chips, making a clumsy pass at the woman behind the desk as he did so. She frowned, briefly, before handing him his cash with a professionally neutral smile.

  Scowling, he went to the casino bar. The pills he’d taken before would counter the impact of alcohol, to a certain degree. He’d pay for it with a terrible case of heartburn the next morning, but he’d deal with that at the time. Right now, he needed a drink.

  Chapter 6

  The two men, sitting in a tastefully decorated office with multiple monitors, faced the feed from the casino security system. The first kept his eyes on Nick as he moved between cameras. The second, looking out of place with his close-cropped hair and leather jacket, was checking through files on a laptop.

  “He’s Timothy Dorian, alright,” the man with the laptop finally said. “His picture matches the files. Two prior arrests for attempted rape. He got off both on technicalities. There’s an unofficial watch notice floating around on law enforcement databases, saying this guy is a sexual predator.”

  The first man, dressed in a white shirt and dark blue slacks, nodded. “Sounds like our sort of guy. His attitudes toward the floor staff show a decidedly sexist streak. What about money?”

  The skinhead scanned through more files. “Visa limit’s pretty high, and barely touched. Bank accounts are… comfortable. The guy’s not Bill Gates’ wealthy, but he’s got enough to pay his bills. Plus, he made a pretty decent killing on the table here.”

  The first man reached for a sports coat. “Think it’s about time I had a beer with Mr. Dorian.”

  He walked out, passing another man who was just entering the room. “Good evening, Mr. Obregon.”

  Nick ordered a bourbon, wincing at the price, and settled onto a seat at the bar. When the glass arrived, he knocked it back in one and immediately ordered a refill.

  “You don’t seem that happy, given how much you’ve won,” a man’s voice beside him commented.

  He turned, to see a man in his thirties, dressed in a sports jacket and open-necked white shirt.

  “What’s it to you?” Nick asked him in a surly voice.

  The man took the seat next to him and waved at the bartender for a drink.

  “I’m confused,” the man said. “That’s all. You made a killing at the table, but you look like one of the losers around here who lost all their money. What’s up?”

  “What,” Nick asked. “You a cop or a social worker?”

  “Far from either,” the other replied. “Consider me a… representative of the city, interested in why some of our visitors aren’t as happy as we’d like them to be.”

  Nick grunted. “Huh. Not doing the best of jobs then are you?”

  His companion grinned. “Well, in that case, let me make you an offer. I suspect you’re lonely here, looking for a spot of... company for the evening.”

  Nick scowled again. “You’re not my type.”

  The man raised his hands, palm out. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I don’t swing that way either. I believe you’re looking for female companionship. Consider me a middle man, a service provider.”

  “A pimp,” Nick added.

  The man shrugged. “Not the best of terms, but accurate. Before you say anything else, let me describe what we can offer. Imagine being able to do anything you want, anything at all, to a woman’s body.”

  Nick licked his upper lip. “Anything?”

  “Well, obviously we have to charge you more for any permanent damage. That would be a loss of value on our merchandise,” the man explained. “But, yes, anything.”

  “For a price,” Nick said pointedly.

  “Of course,” the man said with a smile. “This is Vegas; everything is available... for a price. You’ve made a reasonable winning on the table tonight. Can you think of a better way to spend it?”

  Nick held the man’s eyes and asked slowly. “Anything? Are you certain?”

  The other man returned his stare. “Anything. With absolutely no consequences, beyond financial. The women we use are... expendable.”

  Nick smiled and nodded. “Where do I sign up?”

  The other man rose from his seat. “We have a courtesy car. If you’d like to come this way?”

  Nick raised a hand. “Not so fast. Your offer doesn’t seem to be exactly… legal. If you don’t mind, I’ll take my car. Just in case I feel like leaving under my own power.”

  The man chuckled. “Fair enough. Mind if I ride shotgun? You’ll need a navigator after all.”

  Nick stood up. “It’s a deal. Sounds like my night might finally be turning out all right.”

  Chapter 7

  Nick’s navigator certainly didn’t guide Nick along the most direct route. Most people would have lost track of the multiple turns and dead ends as they wended their way through the suburbs in the west of the city. Nick, however, had no difficulty keeping his mental map updated. The small tracking device carefully hidden in the Range Rover would serve to back up his recollection if needed.

  Finally, his guide indicated a large two-story house on the hills overlooking the city. The heavy steel gate in the massive stone wall slid back as they approached, and Nick drove up, parking just in front of the ornate entry. He followed his guide to the front door. It appeared to be wood veneer over something heavier, metal Nick suspected. As far as he could tell, security was high, though unobtrusive.

  His guide put a hand on the doorknob, and then looked straight at Nick. “Okay, last chance. While prostitution is legal in Nevada, but not in Vegas, the services we offer are, as you said at the Parisian, somewhat less than legal. I just want to check; you okay with that?”

  Nick grinned. “I came all this way didn’t I?”

  The man smiled back and nodded. “True. Let’s go.”

  The door swung open soundless
ly and Nick followed his guide into an overly ornate foyer filled with marble statuary and potted plants. The perfect place to hide surveillance cameras Nick thought.

  The blow to the back of his head was hard enough to momentarily stun him and bring him to his knees. The foot to his stomach was enough to make him cough and heave. He fell forward, curling on the floor in a fetal position as another blow hit him in the back, sending pain up his spine.

  “Enough!” a voice called through his agony.

  He waited, but no more beatings came. Slowly he opened his tear-filled eyes. Three heavily muscled men with close-cropped hair stood around him, one holding a baseball bat. In front of him, dressed in slacks and a polo shirt, was another man with heavily tattooed arms and longer hair. Nick identified him from the image he’d seen as Scott Slater.

  “Wha…” Nick spluttered.

  Slater knelt on the floor in front of Nick. “Mr. Dorian, I don’t know what silly game you think you’re playing, but you made a hell of a mistake. Your little rescue act this morning cost me a valuable piece of merchandise, not to mention considerable damage to my van. I don’t like being screwed around like that.”

  Nick’s face showed confusion and he shook his head weakly. “What…? Not me.”

  Slater waved his hand, and a tall bronze-skinned man walked into Nick’s vision.

  Slater smiled at Nick. “Mr. Obregon here has a very good memory for faces. He remembers you quite well from this morning. He was able to alert me when you were busy talking to my agent at the casino. There’s no point denying anything. You messed up my day, Mr. Dorian, and now I’m going to mess up your life.”

  One of the men around him asked in a casual voice. “Should I kill him then?”