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PROLOGUE
2002
Ilight up a smoke, take a deep drag, and exhale, watching as the thick plume of smoke drifts up into the darkened sky above. I look at the cityscape in the distance then cut my eyes to the vast emptiness that surrounds it. Year by year, that vast emptiness gets a little less empty as people flock to the desert. They say it’s cheaper to live here than most cities, and maybe it is, but I don’t know about all that. All I know is that these morons flocking here are turning my city unrecognizable.
It’s the twenty-first century, and honestly, I figured Vegas would be a sprawling metropolis by now. Back in the day, I kinda thought it would rival LA or New York by the turn of the millennium. But here we are, in the new millennium, and it’s still got a long way to go before it can achieve that lofty status. That’s fine by me though. I kinda like the emptiness. The quiet and solitude of it all lets a man be alone with his thoughts. Plus, all this emptiness makes it a hell of a lot easier to hide the dirty deeds men do. The dirty deeds I do.
The night is cool and the moon is high, casting the world around us in a silvery radiance that glitters off the chrome of my bike. A few cars pass by on the road ahead of me, but not the one I’m looking for. I sigh and glance at my watch. It’s just past eleven. Willard should be off work by now and coming down this road any minute. The road itself is small and isn’t well-traveled. I know Willard uses it to get home. Which makes it perfect for the reason I’m sitting out here in the middle of the night.
I’ve got to deliver a message.
In the distance, I can hear the hiss and buzz of the cars on the highway. Beyond that, the glitz and glamor of the Las Vegas Strip lights up the desert sky. There’s a vibrancy and energy about Vegas that’s always gotten to me. It’s just so alive and it fires me up. Even after all these years out here in the desert it still does. Vegas is a place that caters to every vice. Even your darkest whims and impulses can be satisfied in Sin City. If you know where to look. There’s a little something for everybody here and I like that.
I glance to my left and see the headlights of Willard’s charcoal gray Dodge Ram coming down the dark road. I slam my brain bucket on my head, quickly buckle it, put on my pair of yellow-tinted glasses, then fire up my bike as he approaches. The engine growls underneath me, making me grin. That feeling of steel and chrome underneath my legs always feels like a thunderbolt of power straight through my body. Just like the Strip, it never gets old.
I drive off the side street and fall in behind Willard. I can tell the moment he sees me behind him because his truck swerves left, then right, almost looking like he’s going to lose control before he manages to right himself again. I laugh to myself and shake my head. Willard’s always been jumpy as fuck, but this time he has good reason to be.
I give my bike a little more throttle, relishing the throaty roar it lets out as it shoots forward. I pull up alongside the driver’s side window and look in at him. For a moment, it looks like Willard is trying to pretend he doesn’t see me. His eyes are wide and locked on the road before him and he doesn’t show any sign of slowing down. He’s obviously weighing out the pros and cons of gassing his truck and trying to outrun me. Either that or trying to run me off the road. As if he even could.
I can see his face by the glow of the streetlights along the road. He’s terrified. As he should be. You don’t fuck with the Ruthless Kings and get away with it.
I point to the side of the road and shout over my bike’s engine. “Pull the fuck over, Willard. Pull the fuck over now!”
I have no idea if he can hear me locked away in the cab of his truck but the gesture I’m making should make what I want him to do clear enough. He seems to do the calculations and ultimately decides that not pulling over would be far more detrimental to his health than pulling over. It seems to occur to him that if I were there to kill him, I would have just pulled up alongside his truck and started firing. Willard is a fucking idiot, but he’s not completely stupid.
I fall back as he pulls the big truck to the side of the road and shuts it down. Like a cop, I pull in behind him and dismount. I take my time as I strip off my brain bucket, gloves, and glasses; giving him a minute like the pigs do, to sweat it out. After setting my helmet down, I slide the baseball bat out of the holster I keep on the side of my bike. A thirty-four-inch, thirty-one-ounce Louisville Slugger bat made of ash. She’s a beauty. Not only can she do some real damage, the mere sight of her makes shitheads like Willard piss in their pants.
I casually walk to the driver’s side door and tap on the window with the small end of my bat. Willard flinches and refuses to look at me for a long moment. I tap again and he finally and reluctantly turns to me, instantly growing ten shades paler.
“Get out of the truck, Willard,” I say.
He hesitates and quickly looks away. With a sigh, I lower the bat, and with my other hand, pull my gun and point it at his head.
“Don’t make me shoot you, Willard,” I tell him. “Get out of the truck. Now.”
With a look of horror on his face, Willard fumbles with the handle but finally manages to open the door. He slips out of the truck and closes the door behind him, still refusing to meet my eyes. Willard is an obsequious little man with a nervous, skittish temperament. He’s all of about five-six, with thinning brown hair, dark eyes behind his round, rimless spectacles, and a paunch around his middle. Willard is average in every way. Nondescript. He’s the kind of man you’d probably forget five minutes after meeting him.
“How are you, Willard?” I ask.
He finally raises his gaze to me, and I see his eye twitching like it does when he’s nervous. Willard clears this throat and tries to keep from shifting on his feet.
“I—I’m all right, thanks,” he stammers. “H—how are you, Hawk?”
I frown. “Well, I tell you, I’m not doin’ too good, Willard. See, I was expectin’ to get our shipment last Friday,” I tell him. “And here we are on Wednesday, and I still don’t have it.”
“Th—there are some problems at the airport, Hawk,” he says. “New protocols I have to follow and—”
“That, my friend, is what the kids call a ‘you problem,’ isn’t it?” I ask. “See, you told me you were the big man, the senior Customs agent at McCarran. That’s what you told me, ain’t it?”
“It is. I mean, I am,” he stutters. “I am the senior Customs agent—”
“Good. Then you should be able to make this happen.”
“It’s not that easy, Hawk. They hit us with a new procedure for international shipments, ever since… you know.”
I know what he means. Everyone in the world knows what went down last September. But from where I’m standing, that screams of yet another Willard problem.
“T-t-they have to be quarantined until they can be scanned twice and right now, we’re backed up,” he tries to explain. “Hawk, we have regulations. Everything’s so crazy now. We—I—have rules we have to follow that—”
