3

  Friends in Vegas

  KILLIAN SHARED A LOVE-HATE RELATIONSHIP with sleep for as long as he could remember. In fact, he was certain it was the longest relationship he’d ever had. Even his first love lasted only four years, ending on a sour note and a half-hearted agreement to remain friends. He wished his relationship with sleep could end the same way.

  But unfortunately, he was in no position to propose a break up, and the demons plaguing the union would sooner kill him than end things.

  Sat upright in his stiff motel bed, Killian rubbed his tired face in an attempt to dispel the nightmarish images lurking behind his eyelids, but to no avail. He heaved a sigh and opened his eyes to the dusk glow enveloping the dirty ceiling above him.

  Damn it. Ignoring the shadowy figures out the corner of his eye, he threw his legs over the side of the bed. The one time I set up an alarm and I sleep through it. To banish the shadows fighting for his attention, he switched on the lamp by his bedside, squinting.

  The digital alarm clock read six p.m.

  Belatedly, Killian realised he hadn’t contacted his dad for the past sixteen or so hours, and his regular phone had been reduced to scrap metal in an alleyway. He snatched the burner phone sitting on the nightstand, finally turning it on, nibbling on his lip, and mumbled, “He better not have filed a missing person’s report.”

  In case of a situation like the one he was currently embroiled in, Killian had given his burner phone’s number to just one person: Mal Diakos. He didn’t want his dad to worry—but more importantly, Killian knew that ghosting him would result in being tracked down and made into a literal ghost.

  When the phone started up and it was immediately bombarded with missed calls and text messages, Killian understood his fate.

  It has begun.

  But he decided to delay the inevitable.

  Carefully, as if he were handling a bomb, Killian set the phone down, then hurried to wash up. Half an hour later, he was dressed and ready to leave, drying his damp hair with a towel.

  “Okay, let’s do this.” He grabbed the phone. “Wonder if he’ll manage to strangle me through the call.”

  It took a single ring.

  “Killian Diakos! Where on Earth are you?!”

  Flinching, Killian distanced the phone from his ear. Same old Dad bursting my eardrums…

  “Hi to you too, old man,” he said, smiling. “Sorry for not calling, some ‘things’ came up, you know how it is.”

  “Don’t avoid the question,” Mal snapped. “Tell me where you are, and I’ll be there. Stop trying to take on the whole world by yourself.”

  Chuckling, Killian tossed the towel on the bed and went over to his duffel bag. “Aren’t you on the rig? How could you possibly race over here?” He held the phone between his ear and shoulder as he rummaged. “Besides, I’m not taking on the world. Maybe a handful of disgruntled gangsters and the feds—but that’s hardly the whole world.”

  Killian began counting the wad of hundred-dollar bills he’d found in the bag, mouthing along.

  Mal sighed. “I’m in Chicago,” he said. “Did you think I’d sit still after an FBI agent called to tell me my only son had gone missing while there’s a hit out on him?”

  “Sounds like a B-grade action movie when you put it that way.”

  “Killian, this isn’t a laughing matter.”

  “Ah, you made me lose count,” Killian muttered, sifting through the cash again. He folded five grand, secured it with a rubber band, and pocketed it. “Dad, it doesn’t matter where either of us are; I’ll be lying low, so don’t worry.”

  After pocketing another roll of five grand, Killian flipped through the remaining cash. He’d counted a little less than twenty grand in total, including the five from Frank. He resolved to keep ten on him, and hide the rest in the room on the off chance that things went awry and he lost the money.

  “How can I not worry when all you do is get into trouble and refuse my help? Now you’ve even been driven away from home, yet you still can’t rely on me.”

  Killian strode for the bathroom with the remaining cash. “Home? I never belonged there. I’ve only got you, Dad; and you’re hardly in the city these days, so how can I consider it ‘home’ anymore?” He exhaled, scanning the dingy bathroom. “In any case, I can take care of myself.”

  His wandering gaze fell upon a vent above the toilet. Bingo. He climbed atop the toilet lid and easily removed the vent cover. The inside was slightly vomit inducing but, scrunching his nose, Killian placed the wad inside nonetheless, then set the cover back in place.

  “I know you can,” Mal said after a pause. “Believe me, son, I know. But that’s no excuse to close yourself off to the world. A sense of belonging can be found anywhere so long as you’re open to the prospect—remember that, will you? And do your old man a favour: promise you’ll call when you truly need help, alright?”

  Killian remained silent as he made his way out to the front door, grabbing whatever else he needed along the way, then paused at the mirror by the exit. His gaze swept over his reflection.

  “Killian? You still there?”

  The young man’s attention drifted to the gold ring dangling from a leather cord, resting against his chest. It glimmered in the entryway’s warm glow. A reminder.

  Breathing a sigh, Killian tucked it under his shirt. “I promise,” he whispered.

  “…Thank you.”

  Killian cleared his throat. “Why’s my hair always such a mess?” Changing the subject, he made a futile attempt to fix it. “Is this your genes, Dad? Did you curse me with messy hair?”

  Mal chuckled. “As much as I’d love to take credit, I’m fairly sure that’s your mother’s doing.”

  Killian gave up. “Mother, why did you curse me so?” Stepping outside, he locked the door before facing the outdoor parking lot.

  Twilight embraced the barren asphalt and the chipped green paint of the single-floor motel in a golden red glow. Though he was in the middle of a desert, the evening brought with it a cool breeze that almost felt like home. Killian smiled.

  As he crossed the parking lot, there was a jangle of another guest leaving their room behind him. The fine hairs on Killian’s nape stood on end. Was he followed from Chicago? No…if that were the case he’d be lying dead in his motel bed. Peeking over his shoulder, Killian breathed a muted sigh of relief. Just a maid. Nothing to be paranoid about.

  “Before I go, I have a question,” Killian said into the phone, continuing to the main road. “My lovely guest from last night—how’s he doing?”

  “Alive for now,” Mal replied darkly. “Astley has him in the FBI’s custody.”

  “Good for him.” On the street curb, Killian lifted a hand to hail a passing cab. “And Agent Astley?”

  “She’s not happy with your disappearing act. She came knocking on my door, convinced I knew where you were.”

  Killian rolled his eyes. “Let her knock all she wants—I’m done being the Bureau’s mutt,” he said as the taxicab came rolling to a halt. “Let’s talk later, there’s a ‘friend’ I must meet.” He slipped in the car. “Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck…and be careful.”

  “I’m always careful.” Killian hung up, then flashed the cabbie a charming smile. “The Orpheus Hotel and Casino, please.”

  Contrasting to the dusk glow of the motel parking lot, the Las Vegas Strip was lined with shining neon lights, bustling with cars, bursting with life, and impressive buildings as far as the eye could see. Chin in his palm, Killian gazed out at the Vegas lights and held back a sigh. No matter how drastically his life changed, it seemed that Vegas never did. It was the same as when he visited to handle Frank Harrison’s first commission.

  The ride passed in blissful silence. Killian was grateful as it gave him time to think through his game plan. By the time he arrived at the classical casino-hotel, the curtains of night had fallen over the city.

  Bright fluorescent lights illuminated the grand fountain, and impressive statues of Grecian heroes decorated the hotel’s entrance. Killian faced the towering columns leading up to the foyer’s glass doors, then tilted his head to stare up at the Parthenon-themed building.

  Here goes nothing. Shaking off a vague sense of déjà vu, he headed inside. Killian ignored both the ornate decor and the intimidating security. He went straight for the front desk.

  “Good evening,” he said to the concierge, smiling politely. “I’m here to see Mr. Joseph Harrison—he lives in the penthouse. Let him know Mr. Daw is waiting in the lobby.”

  Though uncertain, the concierge nodded and dialled a number on the landline. As she relayed his words, Killian’s attention was drawn to the stack of pamphlets on the counter and, taking one, scanned a map of the lobby floor.

  The woman ended the call. “He’ll be down shortly.”

  Killian smiled. “Thank you.” He turned to go sit on one of the many leather sofas in the hall, absently flipping through the pamphlet as he waited.

  Not long after, a forty-something man—younger than Frank Harrison, but much older than Killian—strode into the lobby, squinting, with two armed guards in tow. Tossing the pamphlet on the table, Killian rose just as Joseph’s scrutinising stare found him.

  “Well, if it isn’t Killian Daw in the flesh!” Grinning, Joseph made his way over. “My brother did say you’d be visiting soon but I didn’t realise how soon! Why didn’t you call?” He greeted Killian with a smack on the shoulder.

  Killian suppressed his wince, forcing a smile. His body still ached from that baseball bat yesterday. “You know how it is,” he said. “I go wherever the wind takes me.”

  Joseph either hadn’t noticed his slight flinch or chose to ignore it, for his amiable demeanour showed no reaction. “Shame, we’re all booked now. I would’ve gotten a room ready for you in advance.”

  Killian acted as if it was a real shame. “Ah, next time then.” He smiled. “Good to see business booming.”

  “Yes, well, it’s all thanks to you, of course.” Joseph cleared his throat. “Anyway, you here to play that round of blackjack you promised?”

  “Maybe later,” Killian said, glancing at the hotel guests idling about. “There’s a matter I’d like to discuss in private.”

  “Should we talk over dinner?” Joseph led the way to the elevators. “Our Japanese restaurant is unlike any other.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Following him, Killian lifted a brow. He looked around at the classical architecture, statues, and art surrounding them. “Why not a Greek restaurant?”

  Joseph shrugged. “A collaboration of sorts. That, and I’m weak for a fine bottle of sake.”

  They reached the elevators as a young man exited one, head lowered, and shouldered past Killian. With a sharp breath, Killian tensed, gripping his bruised shoulder, and, for a second, they locked gazes.

  Narrow amber eyes frozen over with a numbness that chilled him to the bone. Emptiness.

  The moment passed, and the stranger went by without uttering a word of apology. There lie a certain hostility in those eyes; a warning to not provoke him.

  Killian released his shoulder. “Who was that?” he muttered.

  “Best not to mess with him,” said Joseph, stepping into an elevator. “That’s Alice Kiritani’s boy.”

  Stunned, Killian turned for a second look, but the man was already gone. “Her boy?” He followed Joseph. “You mean he’s the Enchantress’s son? What’s he doing here?”

  Joseph pressed a floor number, doors sliding shut. “Hell if I know. Staff said he’s looking for something—or someone. As you’ve probably heard, he’s not much of a talker.”

  The remaining walk was filled with empty small talk, which continued until they were seated in one of the restaurant’s private rooms and had finished ordering their sushi. As soon as the waitress slid the door shut, the atmosphere shifted.

  “Seems we’re alone now.” Joseph clasped his hands in front of him. “What was it you wanted to discuss?”

  “It’s a simple matter, so I’ll cut straight to the chase,” Killian said, leaning back; nonchalant, as if there wasn’t a hit out on him. “I offer you my services free of charge, for as long as you may need them, in exchange for protection, for as long as I may need it—what do you say?”

  Joseph wasn’t surprised to hear that Killian needed protection—no, he tried to appear surprised but miserably failed at acting. That alone rang the first alarm in Killian’s head.

  “Your services, hm?”

  Grabbing the tokkuri pitcher, he poured himself a cup of Japanese sake, drawing out his answer. Killian regarded him with a faint smile.

  “A hell of an offer, isn’t it?”

  Joseph raised the cup to his lips. “What’s the catch?” he asked before taking a sip.

  “Catch?” Killian innocently lifted his brows. “Why would there be a catch?”

  “Everyone knows you’re a freelancer who values his solitude and independence, Daw.” Joseph slid the bottle across the table. “Which giant’s toes have you stepped on to require my clan’s protection?”

  Killian ignored the alcohol. He had a headache without its help. “That’s a very good question,” he said, the shadowed face of last night’s intruder returning to his mind. “And the very good answer lies somewhere between ‘all of them’ and ‘just Callagher’.”

  He conveniently left out the part about the FBI being undoubtedly after him as well.

  Joseph chuckled. “Callagher…” He took another sip. “Persistent Irish bastard won’t stop once he’s got a target, so just what did you do to have him place a bounty over your head?”

  I never said anything about a bounty.

  Rather than speak his thoughts aloud, Killian smiled and shrugged. “Does it matter?” he asked. “He’s been looking for any excuse to call a hit on me because I refused to be his lobbyist.”

  “Isn’t that exactly what you are though?” Joseph lowered his cup. “The pacifist lobbyist of the Chicago criminal underworld.”

  Killian toyed with his empty sake cup. “I don’t influence politics,” he said firmly. “Business, industry, even gang feuds and criminal work’s not off the table—but the government and murder is where I draw the line. If that idiot Callagher wants a lobbyist so bad, he should hire a proper one.”

  “Proper ones are pricier than you. Double that when you’ve gotta keep their big mouths shut as well.”

  Killian mocked offence, a hand to his chest. “Are you calling me cheap, Mr. Harrison?”

  Joseph laughed heartily. “Oh, no, no! I’m calling you reliable and discreet, Daw.”

  Just then, there was a knock, but it wasn’t the food they ordered; instead, Joseph’s assistant slunk into the room with a clipboard. She bent down to whisper in her employer’s ear. Killian reached for his glass of water, taking a sip, observing as Joseph failed to conceal the thoughts which flashed across his face.

  Reliable and discreet—so long as you don’t betray me, Killian repeated inwardly. I’ll never regret selling Callagher’s “pharmacies” out to the feds. Not after he tried to dox me and hunt down my dad.

  “Thank you, Miss Parker,” Joseph said lowly. “Tell them to await favourable results.”

  Killian took pride in polishing his internal alarm. People often told him it wasn’t a healthy way to live but he knew there was nothing better to keep him alive than a healthy dose of suspicion. And right then? He saw nothing but red flags wherever his gaze landed.

  He waited for the assistant to leave before speaking.

  “Favourable results? A new hotel branch?”

  “Correct,” Joseph said, eyes twinkling. “The client and I came to a pleasing agreement.”

  “Wonderful. I hope the same for us.” Killian smiled. He needed to confirm his suspicions. A single touch would do. “Do you agree to provide me protection in exchange for my services, then?”

  “Aren’t you impatient?” Joseph smiled, though there was an underlying arrogance. As if he thought he’d already won. “But yes, I’ve no reason not to, Mr. Daw; you are a valuable asset. The giants in Chicago will be jealous to find that you’re off the freelance market.”

  Jealous? Killian felt like laughing. How long would a giant weep over the death of a fly in his house?

  Though he himself knew his ability was priceless for his clients, they did not. In their eyes, he was just another pirate who had a way with words; a master of persuasion with a cheap trick up his sleeve. In their eyes, he was replaceable. And Killian preferred it that way. After all, if they knew his true worth, he’d never know freedom.

  Killian extended his hand. “It’s a deal then?”

  Joseph didn’t hesitate in shaking it. “Is this a tradition of yours, Daw? A handshake to confirm every deal you make.”

  Not fear… He’s nervous. Giddiness? Partially. But mostly…the nerves one feels when they’re deceiving another and anxious about getting caught.

  Letting go, Killian hid his discomfort behind another smile. “Something like that.” Then, shaking off the effects of the contact, he rose to his feet. “Now that’s sorted, I can go take a leak in peace. The restroom is…to the right?” He gestured in the direction.

  “Yes, yes—I’ll tell a couple guards to escort you.” Joseph made for the door.

  “That’s hardly necessary, it’s just down the hall.”

  “You are under my company’s protection now, are you not?”

  Killian’s smile fell from his face the moment Joseph turned. The man opened the door and muttered to his two guards outside. Resisting a sigh, Killian squeezed past and eyed the bodyguards.

  “Lead the way.”

  As Killian followed them, he did nothing but scan the busy restaurant for his escape route.

  “We’ll wait outside, sir,” said a guard.

  Ignoring them, Killian strode into the bathroom, locked himself in the last stall, and flipped out his phone. Didn’t think I’d already be resorting to this, but who’d imagine Joseph Harrison conspiring with Callagher after he tried to kill Frank last year?

  Killian called his dad’s number.

  Come on…please pick up…

  But it kept ringing.

  “You’ve reached the voicemail of Mal Diakos. Leave a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you.”

  Killian sighed. You told me to call when I need help, and now you don’t answer the phone?

  “Dad, I’m in Vegas. The Orpheus Hotel and Casino. Tell Agent Astley. You won’t be able to call this number anymore but don’t worry.” He forced a smile on his face, hoping Mal would hear it in his voice. “I’ll be okay. You didn’t raise a son who’d give up without a fight.”

  Don’t worry. The two words Killian used when there truly was nothing to worry about, and when there was absolutely something to worry about; thus making those words impossible to trust.

  After a pause, Killian continued, “Dad, I’m…I’m sorry for being such a problem child but…I kept my promise, didn’t I?”

  With that, he ended the message.

  After flushing the SIM card down the toilet and tossing the phone in the trash, Killian had his next problem to face. He needed a way past those guards. Leaving the stall, he went over to the exit and carefully took a peek outside. The guards had their backs to him as they waited, chatting. Was this his chance?

  Killian slipped out and, head down, casually strode for the restaurant’s exit, which led out to the elevators. It seemed too easy but, in a crowded restaurant bustling with patrons, it worked. He managed to reach and call the elevator unnoticed. But leaving the restaurant was one thing. Escaping the hotel once they noticed he’d fled? That was the hard part.

  The moment the elevator arrived—with movie-like timing—he was spotted by one of the bodyguards. Killian jumped in, pressed the lobby, then mashed the button to close the doors. It was doubtful his mashing had any effect, but the doors did slide shut right as he heard shouts and thundering footsteps. Killian held his breath until the elevator made its descent.

  I just need to slip past the reception and grab a cab. He watched the decreasing floor number. Surely they haven’t already alerted the security on the first floor? He knew he was being far too optimistic.

  Ding!

  As the doors opened, Killian peeked again, and soon discovered the entrance he’d come from was a lost cause. There was no way he could sneak past an army of security guards— Alright, maybe it wasn’t an army, but it was more than what Killian could handle alone. He ducked back inside.

  Shielding the button panel from the security camera’s view, Killian pressed the basement level, and down he went.

  It’s been a while since I stooped this low, he thought upon leaving the elevator. But I should be able to manage. Despite his efforts to convince himself, Killian’s chest tightened and his heart sank to the pit of his stomach. The one person he could never lie to was himself.

  When he left the safety of the elevator and its brightness, it dawned on him how dark the rest of the underground parking lot was. It wasn’t that bad. Honestly, it could’ve been worse. There were some shadowed spots, broken light fixtures here and there, but it was mostly lit up.

  Mostly.

  But “mostly” wasn’t nearly enough to keep the shadows at bay. The dark made them more persistent than usual. They feasted upon the fear he so desperately tried to suffocate.

  Killian kept his gaze fixed on an old sedan, his brisk pace hastening to a run. He sensed it at his heels—the presence strengthening with his spiking heartbeat. Stopping at the car, his heart pounded in his ears, drowning out all other noise, and he fumbled for the lock-pick set he always kept on him; an old habit in case of emergencies.

  “Killian…” a quiet breathy voice whispered by his ear from behind. “Look at me…turn around…”

  Suffice to say, he didn’t.

  He instead focused on unlocking the car door. If his teen years were good for anything, it was at least his experience in lock-picking and—to a lesser extent—hijacking old cars.

  “Go away,” Killian muttered under his breath, slowly exhaling to calm his trembling hands. “I’m not afraid, so get lost and bother someone who cares.”

  Almost there…

  “Oh but you are afraid, Killian Diakosss!” it continued to hiss, though there was a hint of giddiness this time. “You are finally afraid! Can you sense your impending demise? Is that why you are finally afraid of dying?”

  His next words spilled out of him before he could stop himself from responding. “Not dying. It’s the idea of torture I’m not too fond of.”

  Click.

  Killian slid into the driver’s seat, shutting the door behind him, and bent down to examine the steering column. He retrieved a pocket knife from his jacket, flipping out its screwdriver.

  Now came the main issue of starting up the engine. The last time he hot-wired a car was six years ago when he was eighteen and foolishly naive. He’d since sworn off petty crime—though not many would consider grand theft auto a “petty” crime.

  “Ignoring your problemsss will not make them go away, Killian Diakosss,” whispered his fear as it latched on to his shoulders, phantom claws digging into him.

  They felt like searing hot knives piercing his skin. He knew—from experience—that the sensation was nothing but an illusion. Still, it wasn’t any less painful nor terrifying.

  Wincing, Killian continued to unscrew the steering column’s cover. Wanna bet, you clingy bastard?

  Multiple sets of footfalls on concrete. Killian didn’t have to peek this time. Ducking lower, he cursed under his breath. As if it couldn’t get any worse, Joseph’s goons were scouring the parking lot for him.

  Finally, he removed plastic cover and was met with the wires he needed. His heart sank. He hated this part.

  “Come on,” Killian mumbled, grasping the wiring harness connector. “Which one was it…?”

  As he wracked his brain, he fended off the irrational fear trying to swallow him whole. The claws stabbed deeper, and a chilling breath on his nape made his skin prickle with goosebumps. He tried to ignore it. He couldn’t do anything but ignore it. Then he remembered, and the fear’s hold loosened.

  It’s definitely this one.

  Killian pulled aside the needed wire bundle holding the battery, ignition, and starter wires. Using another tool, he stripped off a bit of insulation from the battery wires, then carefully twisted them together to provide power for the ignition components.

  For a split second, he had hope.

  Before the click of a gun tore him back to reality.

  “Mr. Daw,” said the bodyguard aiming a pistol at his head through the window. “Please step out of the vehicle.”

  With their appearance, the presence over his shoulder vanished. Killian folded his knife, discreetly tucking it away, before straightening, hands raised, to meet the narrowed stares watching him.

  “Can’t we just talk this out, gents?” he asked, smiling, eyeing the armed guards ready to gun him down.

  The guard in front hardened his glare.

  “I’ll take that as a definitive ‘no’.” Keeping his hands up in surrender, Killian slowly exited the car. “It seems you’ve won, gentlemen. You got me.”

  Next thing he knew, the butt of a rifle was coming his way, and he was out like a light.