Highway To Armageddon (40 page)

           
After a few seconds Lance frowns and says, “The windows are tinted. I’m using
infra-red, but I still can’t see much from this angle. Just a bunch of people
dancing. Lasers are bouncing all over the place, so it must be a rave or---”

           
Lance is interrupted by a monstrous fireball that flies out of the dragon’s
gaping mouth. He yelps and falls flat on his butt. The fireball shoots out
about 20 feet, sending other tourists scattering, before it vanishes into thin
air.

           
I rush over to Lance and struggle not to laugh at his terrified face.

           
“That… that fireball was real?” he stammers.

           
Now I do laugh. “Of course. It’s all part of the spectacle.”

           
“I just figured it would be a hologram! I mean, the damn fireball went out into
the street. Aren’t they afraid it’s going to hit someone?”

           
“These are Russian mobsters we’re talking about,” I remind him. “Also, I’m sure
most people are smart enough not to walk in front of a dragon’s mouth.”

           
Arrow and I chuckle, but Lance glowers.

           
“We’re wasted enough time already. Let’s go,” he says grumpily, marching toward
the casino’s front entrance. Arrow shrugs and follows him. I bring up the rear.

           
The three of us walk through the skyscraper’s revolving door and enter a world
of controlled chaos. The entire bottom floor is a vibrant, brightly-lit casino
with slot machines and crap tables for as far as the eye can see. Several
enormous holographic TV screens hover near the ceiling, showing sport games.
I’m assuming they’re replaying games from earlier since it’s after midnight
(and 5:00am on the East Coast). The entire casino is a smorgasbord of noise,
with the music from lounge singers mixing with the clinking sound of coins
spilling from slots, people cursing and cheering their luck, and sirens blaring
whenever someone hits a jackpot (which seems to occur quite frequently).

           
“I’m surprised no one’s bothered to check our IDs,” Lance says.

           
“Russian clubs typically don’t,” I say. “The gangsters who run them want as
much money as possible. They don’t care how old you are or how many warrants
you have.”

           
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I become a fugitive,” Lance replies.

           
Arrow and I follow Lance as he navigates the densely-packed casino floor. The
place is overflowing with purple-haired, leather jacket-wearing Ruskies. There
are also some regular Americans, too, of course, but the overwhelming majority
of the people we walk past are obviously Purple Dragon sympathizers. Most of
the Ruskies are guzzling booze and throwing down large bills like they’re flush
with cash. I guess contrary to popular belief, crime
does
pay. At least,
it does if you’re a Russian mobster hiding in plain sight in New Las Vegas.

           
Scantily-clad waitresses saunter past with trays full of vodka and other
liquors, which the gambling Ruskies eagerly gulp down. Some of the waitresses
are sporting dark purple Mohawks like Krystal. Others have spiky violet hair.

           
I almost bump into an older woman who looks vaguely familiar. I stare at her
for a moment until it hits me. It’s Chainsaw Judy, one of the country’s
premiere female bounty hunters. The reason I didn’t immediately recognize her
is because, like us, she’s wearing a disguise. Unlike us, however, the disguise
isn’t very well done. She didn’t even bother to dye her hair purple, although
she is dressed in leather. I quickly disappear into the crowd so she doesn’t
see me. I’m pretty sure my new hair cut is enough to keep my cover from being
blown, but you can never be too careful around clever bounty hunters like Judy.

           
I just catch up with Lance and Arrow when I notice yet another poorly disguised
bounty hunter, this one an older guy by the name of Switchblade. He’s wearing a
long, blond wig over his normally bald head, but the distinctive scars running
up and down his cheeks and neck give him away. In fact, several mobsters point
at him and whisper to each other. Poor Switchblade probably won’t last the
night.

           
I almost immediately catch sight of three other bounty hunters. It seems
everyone and their brother has come here looking for Rasputin. I’m sure if any
of them recognize Lance and me, they won’t hesitate to turn us over to Caesar
or Geronimo Blackbird. $25 million is a heckuva lot of money, but $10 million
isn’t chump change.

           
I tap Arrow and Lance on their shoulders. “Let’s head up to Igor’s club. This
place is crawling with trouble.”

           
“I know, I’ve spotted several bounty hunters,” Lance says. I’m relieved he’s
being as observant as I am.

           
Arrow points to the back of the casino. “There’s an elevator.”

           
We quicken our pace. Along the way I notice we’re beginning to draw attention.
Some of the male mobsters leer at me, undressing me with their eyes. I resist
the urge to barf.

           
I’m not the only one being ogled, either. Some of the waitresses are looking
over at Lance and Arrow, smirking and licking their lips. To his credit, Arrow
completely ignores them. Lance, however, acknowledges the ladies with a giant
grin. He and Arrow couldn’t be more different. Despite his deplorable decision
to ditch us in the middle of the forest, I find myself falling for Arrow all
over again. What can I say? I’m a sucker for a man who treats me like the most
gorgeous woman alive, a man who’s impervious to the flirts of other stunning
women.

           
We reach the elevator and step inside. Thankfully no one else comes in with us.

           
Arrow gestures toward the control panel, where all the floor numbers are. It
goes all the way up to 70.

           
“I take it we’re going to the very top?” he says, peering at me over the top of
his shades.

           
“Yep,” I reply. Arrow presses the 70
^th
floor button and the elevator
door slides shut. We immediately shoot skyward. Arrow leaves his thumb on the
button so we go all the way up without stopping at other floors. It’s a trick
cops and firefighters use when they have to respond to emergencies in
multi-story buildings.

           
I watch anxiously as the floor numbers flash by.

           
 21… 22… 23… 24…

           
I get more nervous with each floor we ascend. The tension in the cramped
elevator is palpable. Lance is clutching his fists, eager to get this over
with. Even normally calm Arrow is jiggling his left leg.

           
I glance up at the walls and ceiling and bite my lip. I truly hate tight,
enclosed spaces. I always feel like the walls are going to cave in on me. I
close my eyes and work to clear my mind. I also take deep, calming breaths. It
helps a little, but not by much.

           
The elevator finally dings. I open my eyes just as the door slides open. The
scene that awaits us makes the craziness of the casino down below seem like an
old lady’s tea party. Hundreds of teens and young adults are jumping around and
dancing to blaring, pulsating techno music. The club is dark, but it’s
illuminated by hundreds of green lasers that are shooting all over the place. I
could easily imagine myself suffering a seizure if I allowed one too many
lasers to bounce off my eyeballs.

           
Most of the people in the club have wild purple hair, and they’re all scantily
clad. The boys have their shirts off and are prancing around in skimpy shorts,
while the girls are shaking their ‘moneymakers’ in bikinis. Streaks of
neon-green pain are splattered all over their arms, legs, and bare stomachs,
making them glow in the dark. It’s as bizarre and chaotic a scene as I’ve ever
seen, and I’ve seen quite a few bizarre scenes in my day.

           
“I think most of these people are tripping on ecstasy!” Arrow shouts. I barely
hear him over the deafening noise.

           
I glance around at the crazed clubbers and realize he’s right about the
ecstasy. Everyone appears to be cracked out of their minds, jumping around and
snapping their heads back and forth.

           
Arrow points to the very back of the club. Two tall, muscular guards are
standing in front of a roped-off stairwell that leads to a balcony hanging over
the dance floor.         

           
“I bet they know where Igor’s hiding.”

           
We weave our way through the insane crowd. Several people bump into us. One
scrawny dude grabs my hands and tries to pull me into a mosh pit. I yank my
hands out of his sweaty grasp and punch him in the face, sending him sprawling
to the floor. I spin around and chase after Lance and Arrow before one of his
buddies or jealous girlfriends come after me. The last thing we need is a
roomful of drugged out teens starting a brawl.

           
We somehow make our way through the raucous crowd without any further problems.
Lance cautiously approaches the two burly guards. They’re wearing shades to
hide their searching eyes and ear pieces to stay in touch with their fellow
sentinels. Their dark suits are a stark contrast to the skimpy attire of the
people in the club. A revolver and nightstick hang from each of their belts.
These guys could spell trouble if we don’t approach them correctly.

           
Lance clears his throat. “Er, excuse me. We’re here to see Igor… Igor
Bolshevik.”

           
The guards look down at Lance and scowl.

           
“Scram, kid,” one of the guards barks in a thick Russian accent. “Don’t make us
toss your carcass out of here.”

           
Arrow and I step behind Lance, ready to kick some ass if the need were to
arise. Thankfully it doesn’t. The other guard raises his bushy eyebrows and
says, “Hang on, Ivan, these youngsters are the type of people Mr. Bolshevik is
looking for. Young, strong, attractive, and most importantly of all, fearless.”

           
The guard who barked at Lance looks at us and says, “They are pretty fearless
to barge up to us when we’re obviously armed.” He pats his revolver for
dramatic effect. “I suppose a trip upstairs is in order.”

           
It takes everything I have not to shout,
“Yipee!”
and do a little dance.
Lance and

Arrow both exhale. They must be just as
shocked and relieved as I am that the guards are allowing us to meet Igor so
easily. They must be really hard-up for young recruits.

           
The guard who first proposed we be allowed to pass says, “I’ll take them up,
Comrade. You stay here and enjoy the show.”

           
“Oh goody,” the other guard growls. I take it he’s not a huge fan of techno.

           
The nicer guard (the one who doesn’t snarl all the time) leads us up the
winding staircase. Once we reach the balcony, he leads us down a dark hallway
until we arrive at a steel door guarded by another burly guard. This guard has
a machine gun.

           
The new guard says, “I didn’t know you were babysitting tonight, Winston.”

           
Our guard (I guess his name is Winston) says, “Can it, Bob. These kids want to
see the bossman.”

           
Winston looks us over. “Hmm, they definitely fit the bill of what Mr. Bolshevik
is looking for. We need to frisk em first, though.”

           
Bob waves his machine gun in our faces as a deterrent in case we decide to make
some sudden moves. The boys and I raise our hands and patiently wait as Winston
runs his hands all over our bodies, searching for weapons. The only weapons
they find are our electric swords. Instead of being mad, they say we have good
taste in weaponry. They don’t give us our swords back, though. I guess they’re
going to keep them until after our meeting with Igor. I struggle to suppress a
grin when Winston fails to locate the blades I have strapped to my legs. These
guys aren’t very good friskers.

           
Winston finally steps back and hooks our electric swords onto his utility belt.
“You kids got tats?”

           
“But of course, Comrade,” I say in my most convincing Russian accent. We remove
our jackets and show off our new dragon tattoos. Winston and Bob smile and nod
approvingly.

           
“Excellent,” Bob exclaims, lowering his machine gun. “We love young Russians
who aren’t afraid to express their support for the Purple Dragons. I am sure
Comrade Bolshevik will find you most acceptable. Come! Come!”

           
Bob opens the steel door, and we walk up another flight of stairs. This one
leads to the roof. As soon as we step outside I’m almost immediately bowled
over by the gusting wind. Arrow is behind me so we keeps me steady. I don’t
know why I was caught off guard. Every idiot knows the top of a skyscraper is
especially windy.

           
I glance over the edge of the roof. The lights on the strip look like tiny
yellow dots. And the people look like ants.

           
Across the chasm of open sky is the other crystal tower. Both roofs are
connected by a long walkway. There are a few people on the other roof smoking
cigars and chatting.