Dangerous Games: Southern Magic, #2

By Steven F. Warnock

What happens in Vegas doesn't always stay in Vegas.  Mason Campbell is a down on his luck mercenary and professional hunting guide who has ended his weekend in Sin City $100,000 in the hole to a local "Rat."  Enter the mysterious Mr. Zaroff with an offer Mason can't refuse, an opportunity to use his skills as an outdoorsman to pay off those gambling debts. The bored elite of the world are looking for a challenge. Some excitement. Thrills. And they are prepared to pay for their pleasures.   However, instead of serving as the guide on a rich man's safari, Mason is expected to serve as the prey.  Too bad for them there is more to Mason than meets the eye.  The hunt is on, but this time the Dangerous Games Club may have bitten off more than they can chew.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wordsmith Publishing
• Release date: Sep 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393486633

Steven F. Warnock

The author lives in the not-at-all-made-up town of Covington, GA, which is the stand-in for the entirely-made-up-by-somebody-else towns of Mystic Falls, Sparta, Mississippi, and Hazzard County.  He has never seen a vampire, much less the ones that keep diaries, or met Officer Bubba or them Duke Boys.  Instead he prefers to live in worlds of his own creation where his companions include dragons, wizards, alien cyborgs, space battleships, and snarky heroes.  His main hobby is writing third person biographies about himself born of vanity, personal insecurities, and a twisted sense of humor that has led more than one person to remark to him, "Boy, you ain't right."

Book preview

Chapter One

LAS VEGAS, NEVADA, USA

Monte Carlo Resort & Casino

June 30, 2017

The proverb was true.  A fool and his money are soon parted.  Although in Mason Campbell’s particular situation the money he’d been parted from belonged to the very people who’d parted him from it.  He’d been offered a $50,000 line of credit, interest free for thirty days, by a casino host.  It was a good offer, especially if he won, and he’d been doing pretty good at the blackjack tables.  Besides, they were comping his drinks.  What could possibly go wrong, right?  So, he’d signed a marker and went back to the tables.

That was when he lost the entire fifty grand and signed for another.  He lost all of the second fifty grand as well, but it took longer because he had a winning streak half way through the night.  When he finally looked at his watch, he wasn’t entirely sure if it was AM or PM.  Either way, he’d decided he’d had enough and went to the bar.  He was sipping a very fine, very old Speyside Single Malt Scotch when he felt a presence at his elbow. 

Campbell glanced over at the other man standing there and raised his glass in mock salute.  Mr. Ratelli.

Raymond Rat Ratelli was a small man with big ears, a big nose, almost no chin, and an otherwise pinched, narrow face.  He looked like the kind of rat-faced goon who was a throwback to the old days when the Mob ran Vegas.  However, Ratelli wasn’t a mobster at all, much less a goon.  He was a surprisingly friendly and charming casino host, the very man who’d offered Campbell those markers.

Mr. Campbell, Ratelli replied with a rather friendly bob of his head that only emphasized his big, rodent-like nose.

Campbell was not a small man by any measure.  He was a good six feet tall, massing around 230 pounds of thick, solid muscle.  Campbell’s hands were rough, scarred and calloused from hard work.  He set the glass down on the counter and turned his steely eyed gaze on the casino host.

You here to threaten to break my kneecaps if I don’t pay up? Campbell asked with a wan smile as he ran a hand through his short, dark hair.

Ratelli smiled.  Mr. Campbell, we don’t do that any more!  Besides, how’s a man supposed to work to pay off his debt if he can’t walk?  My grandfather, he would have had a couple of big boys hold you down while he pulled a couple of your molars out, but he would never break a client's arms or legs.

That is... somewhat reassuring, Campbell mused as he picked his Scotch up again for another sip.

Nowadays it’s entirely different.  You see, we have legal recourse.  In essence, when you signed the marker you were signing what you might call a ‘post dated check’.  In thirty days, you have to put money into the account or it’s over drafted, which means you’ve passed a bad check.  Now, if you don’t pay the whole sum in thirty days, you’ll accrue interest, not an unseemly rate, mind you, but interest all the same, and we’ll give you another thirty days.  At the end of sixty days, if you haven’t paid the amount plus interest or made arrangements to pay in installments, we turn the markers over to the Las Vegas District Attorney’s Bad Check Unit.  They get a ten percent bounty on collecting outstanding debts, you see, so they’re highly motivated, and passing bad checks is a felony.  You’d be looking at some hard time for non-payment of your debt, Ratelli outlined.

I’d rather deal with your granddaddy and his goons, Campbell drawled.  His accent was normally pretty neutral, but whenever he was tired, or drunk, he tended to slip into that old Southern lilt.  He sighed.  I suppose I’m gonna have to find me a way to pay you.

Do you have a steady source of income, Mr. Campbell? Ratelli asked.

I do not, Mr. Ratelli.  At the current moment I am between professional engagements, Campbell said with a little snort.

Ratelli pursed his lips in thought.  What do you do for work?  If I may be so bold as to ask, that is.

At risk of sounding terribly politically incorrect, Mr. Ratelli, I am a mercenary.  Although, on my tax forms I list my occupation as ‘security contractor’, Campbell said.

You mean a private military contractor, like Blackwater? Ratelli asked.  He hopped up onto the stool next to Campbell and motioned to the bartender for two more Scotches.

Not them, but at first, yeah, at least until I got tired of regular Army guys looking at me like a piece of shit they’d just stepped in, Campbell said.  He accepted the Scotch with a nod of thanks and clinked his glass against Ratelli’s in salute.  No, I got away from them and went to work for a firm that specializes in personal security for folks with... ‘special circumstances’.

Special circumstances? Ratelli repeated, leaning in to hear more clearly.

Well, yeah, uh, it’s...  Campbell frowned in thought.  See, let’s say you got a client, Mr. Ratelli...

Please, call me ‘Raymond’, Ratelli interrupted.

Okay, Raymond.  I’m Mace.

The two men shook hands as if meeting for the first time, and Ratelli chuckled.  He sipped his Scotch and smiled appreciatively at Campbell’s taste in alcohol.

You were saying? he prompted.

Yeah, right, uh, well, Raymond, suppose you’ve got a client, a high roller, what you call a, uh, ‘whale’, right? Campbell said.

Yes, Ratelli confirmed.

"So, you’ve got a whale, and he’s a family man.  The wife, she ain’t into gambling.  She’s... outdoorsy.  Likes to train for triathlons, that sort of thing.  The kids, of course, can’t go with Mom and Dad, but that’s what nannies are for, right?  Now, here’s the kicker: Big Daddy has threats on him and his family.  He didn’t get rich by being a sweet guy.  He worries about his enemies getting at him through his wife and kids.  What to do?

He calls the firm I used to work for.  The kids suddenly get a new nanny like Mary Poppins, practically perfect in every way, only she’s also a former Israeli Mossad agent.  Mom has a new trainer... who happens to be a former SEAL or Delta Force operator.  That’s what the special circumstances are.  You want security that can blend in with your everyday life, but they’re also capable of cutting off a guy’s head with a piece of notebook paper... or some such Jedi bullshit as that, Campbell snorted to himself.

And what was your particular special circumstance? Ratelli asked.

I got my Airborne tabs in the Army.  I’ll jump out of an airplane with a client.  Hell, I’ve BASE jumped off bridges, cliffs, and skyscrapers with clients.  Grew up hunting back in Tennessee.  So, if the client wants to go on safari to Africa, I’d be the guy sent along to watch his back.  In fact, that was my last gig with my old firm.  Took a client up to Alaska to hunt Kodiak.  He got a big brown bear.  I got a little pink slip.  Campbell laughed at his own joke and took a swallow of Scotch.  To be fair, though, that pink slip was attached to a generous severance package.  Not a hundred grand generous, though, he added.

Why did they let you go? Ratelli asked.

Downsizing.  Last in, first out.  I was the cutoff line.  Boss wanted to keep me, but the next guy up the seniority pole had been with the company for five years, and I’d only been there one.  Campbell shrugged.  Fair’s fair, I say.  I mean, you hornswaggled me good.

I didn’t ‘hornswaggle’ you, Ratelli protested.

No, Raymond, you did, but it was fair and square.  I ain’t holding it against you.  You seem to be a fine, sporting fella, if ya ask me, Campbell declared.  He wasn’t slurring drunk, but he was close enough that his accent had become really thick.

So, why did you come to Vegas if you’d just lost your job? Ratelli asked.

Already bought and paid for it before I took my last client out, Campbell sighed.  Non-refundable.  Thought to myself, ‘what the hell?  Go have a fling in Sin City.  What’s the worst that could happen?’  I really need to stop asking myself that.

Ratelli chuckled appreciatively.  I tell you what I’ll do, Mace.  I’ll ask around.  See if there are any security openings in any of the local outfits here in Vegas.  You wouldn’t mind staying here for a job, would you?  You don’t have a family or somebody to go home to, do you?

Raymond, I got... nobody, Campbell said.  Parents had me late in life.  I was an only child.  They both died when I was eighteen.  Joined the Army.  Never got married.  Got no kids that I know of.  Hell, I don’t even have a dog.  Or even an apathetic cat that can take care of itself.

Maybe you should stop drinking after this one, Ratelli suggested.

You’re right, Raymond.  That’s a good idea, Campbell agreed, somewhat drunkenly.  You’re a good little fella, Raymond, but if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m gonna go lick my wounds at the buffet.

Ratelli chuckled and clapped the bigger man on the shoulder.  Good idea.  The chicken wings are excellent.  Here.  He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a couple of tickets.  You like the fights?  Boxing?  MMA?

Yeah, of course, Campbell said.

This one is a pass to the big fight at Caesar’s tomorrow, and this one is for the MMA tournament at the Bellagio day after tomorrow.  If I hear anything about some job openings, I’ll leave a message for you, okay? Ratelli said.

You’re good people, Raymond, Campbell said.  He grinned drunkenly.  I’m glad you don’t want to break my kneecaps.  Right now, you probably could!  Campbell laughed at himself.  Thanks, man.  You’re good people.

Then, Campbell staggered off toward the all-you-care-to-eat buffet.  Ratelli watched him for a moment.  Then, he signaled the bartender for a house phone.  He dialed a number from memory.

It’s Raymond Ratelli, sir.  I may have somebody you’d be interested in.  His name is Mason Campbell...

LAS VEGAS, NEVADA, USA

Bellagio Resort & Casino

July 2, 2017 

The MMA tournament at the Bellagio was being touted as the Battle for Independence by its promoters.  Campbell supposed the event was UFC sanctioned because he had seen some top name contenders listed on the program.  The boxing match at Caesar’s had been... disappointing.  The champ had laid the contender out in the first round.  There had been nothing technical about that knock-out.  Campbell had counted a sum total of two hits: the champ hit his opponent, and his opponent hit the mat.  The champ had hit the other guy so hard that Campbell thought he was seeing cartoon birdies.  He was positive the other guy had.

This tournament, though, was turning out to be much more interesting.  The fights were a mixed bag of weight classes, both men and women fighting, and these were some of the scrappiest, toughest, meanest martial artists that Campbell had ever seen.  He especially liked the lower weight class fighters.  What they lacked in size, they made up for in drive to win.  Best of all, nobody went down in less than a minute.  Except for one female fighter who had the misfortune of facing a Brazilian jujitsu fighter with a passion for arm locks.  That one had been as brutal as it was fast.

Afterwards, Campbell wandered over to the Sports Bar Lounge.  A lot of the post-fights crowd was there along with the usual crowd of sports betting types.  Campbell considered wandering over to one of the luxury resort’s other bars or nightclubs, but he was tired and thirsty.  A beer and a burger would be good right about now, so that’s what he ordered from one of the servers.  He settled down at a table with a view of the entrance and the big screen TVs.

Two things arrived at his table a few moments later.  The first was the pretty little girl who’d taken his order with his beer, burger, and fries.  The second was a pair of men that he didn’t know.  Campbell wanted to dismiss them from his conscious awareness so that he could enjoy his meal, but the two of them made for an odd tableau just standing there.

Campbell sized up the bigger man first, and he was a big boy.  He was seven feet tall if he was an inch, with wide shoulders, thick arms, and a barrel chest.  His ears and nose were so large and prominent that Campbell wondered if this guy was some distant, Neanderthal-like relative of Ratelli’s, but the big guy’s eyes were smaller and harder than the casino host could have ever managed.  Campbell almost instantly dismissed the big man as hired muscle, a very obvious bodyguard, and turned his attention to the other man.

The first thing Campbell noticed about the man was that he wasn’t just bald.  He was entirely hairless, no eyebrows or eyelashes.  He was also pale skinned to the point of almost but not quite being an albino.  The paleness was further highlighted by the white suit and pale pink shirt the man wore.  Even his silk tie was white with pale pink stripes.  Campbell couldn’t begin to guess the pale man’s age.  He figured the guy was anywhere between late twenties and early forties depending on how well he’d aged.

Do you mind if I sit? the pale man asked.

He had an accent.  British, the educated, Received Pronunciation accent taught in the UK’s elite, private, ironically named Public Schools.  It was the kind of polished accent that Campbell thought of as a panty dropper.  The bald man probably did really well with the womenfolk.

Campbell glanced around.  The bar was packed, but he could still see a couple of empty tables.  On the other hand, he was taken with a sudden curiosity.  He shrugged.

Suit yourself.  He picked up his burger and took a big bite out of it.

The pale man sat down, but the bodyguard remained standing.

Alopecia, the pale man said waving a hand at his head.

Nice to meet ya, Al, Campbell said, deliberately misunderstanding the man seated across from him.

The pale man smiled brightly and laughed.  No, my condition.  It’s called alopecia.  I just like to get that out of the way first thing when I meet someone new.

I know what alopecia is, Campbell snorted as he slipped a fry into his mouth.  I’m pretty sure I don’t know you, mister.  Or your gorilla.  Y’all are kinda memorable.

The pale man laughed again.  No, Mr. Campbell, you don’t know me or my associate.  I am called Zaroff.  This is my man, Ivan.

You don’t look or sound Russian, Campbell pointed out, and you obviously know who I am.  What’s this about, Mr. Zaroff.

I heard about your situation from a mutual acquaintance, Raymond Ratelli, Zaroff said.

Does your gorilla know you’re looking to replace him? Campbell asked.

Zaroff laughed, yet again.  My, you are as delightful as I had hoped, Mr. Campbell.  I’ve researched you, don’t you know.  Looked into your CV, as it were.  Checked your references.

Again, you obviously know me, Campbell growled, becoming slightly irritated.

I wish to hire you as... an entertainer, Zaroff said.

I don’t juggle, and I can’t ride a unicycle.  Campbell set his burger down, grabbed his beer and sat back in his chair with his arms crossed.

"I understand that.  You see, I am...  Let’s call me the ‘manager’ of a club of sorts.  My friends, clients really, are extreme sports enthusiasts.  The more the adrenaline flows, the better they like it.  I arrange the entertainments for our gatherings.  We’ve surfed Hawaii during a typhoon, stalked lions armed only with spears and knives, skateboarded roads in