Double or Nothing (Daniel Faust Book 7)

  Double or Nothing

  Daniel Faust, Book Seven

  by Craig Schaefer

  Copyright © 2017 by Craig Schaefer.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover Design by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design LLC.

  Author Photo ©2014 by Karen Forsythe Photography

  Craig Schaefer / Double or Nothing

  ISBN 978-1-944806-06-4

  Contents

  The Daniel Faust Series

  Prologue

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  31.

  32.

  33.

  34.

  35.

  36.

  37.

  38.

  39.

  40.

  41.

  42.

  43.

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  The Daniel Faust Series

  1. The Long Way Down

  1.5. The White Gold Score

  2. Redemption Song

  3. The Living End

  4. A Plain-Dealing Villain

  5. The Killing Floor Blues

  6. The Castle Doctrine

  7. Double or Nothing

  Prologue

  To some, he was the man with the Cheshire smile. To others, the Enemy. But the flickering photonegative shape—etched onto the film of the world, faceless save for his pearly, inhumanly wide grin—didn’t care much for names. He flowed through the halls of Northlight Tower like a stop-motion animation come to life. At his side, primly dressed, heels clicking on Italian marble, Ms. Fleiss cradled a clipboard and ran through the day’s agenda.

  To her, he was the universe and everything in it.

  “At two p.m., Ms. Green is having a follow-up discussion with Diehl Innovations to go over the new trade agreement,” she said. “At four—local time—we’ve scheduled a meeting in Bristol with a representative from the Order of the Septic Blossom. Mr. Purple is handling that. Mr. Blue just reported in from Brazil; he’s making considerable inroads with the local—”

  “None of which speaks to the concern at hand. Faust. Where is he?”

  Fleiss swallowed hard. “I’ve been working with a sketch artist. We’re compiling dossiers on the people we believe to be his friends and allies, as potential pressure points to draw him out of hiding.”

  “So you have nothing.”

  “Nothing yet, my lord. The occult underground tends to be extremely insular, and considering Daniel Faust is both a sorcerer and a career criminal, on top of faking his death after the Eisenberg Prison incident—”

  “If you can’t tell me what I want to know,” he said, “perhaps someone else can.”

  The double doors ahead swung open without being touched. His personal reception lounge—the walls done up in pale yellow fabric, chairs and a welcome desk carved to look like driftwood—waited just beyond. His visitor rose to greet him.

  “My lord.” Naavarasi bowed her head. A jade sarong, elegantly wrapped, draped her willowy frame. The color matched her fingernails. Her slender hand curled around a thin, unlabeled folder.

  “Give me good news,” he told her.

  She held the folder out to him. “I’ve compiled a dossier on what we know about the Las Vegas underworld. Notable figures, their active statuses, and their alleged connections to this ‘Faust’ person.”

  “And Faust himself?”

  Naavarasi shook her head. “I’m sorry. He’s very good at covering his tracks.”

  His flickering hand snatched the folder from her grip. He shoved it at Fleiss.

  “I want the two of you to coordinate your research. And I want results. Do you understand the situation here? Really, do you?”

  “One hundred percent,” Fleiss said. She glared at Naavarasi as she set the folder on top of her clipboard.

  “All I need to know,” Naavarasi said, “is your will, my lord. I live to serve you.”

  Fleiss’s eyes narrowed to slits.

  “A slice of my former power,” the Enemy said, “my former glory, is locked behind the fifth act of my play. An act that can only be resolved by Faust’s death. Every day he walks free, every day he draws breath, it’s like a…like a mosquito, buzzing around my face, whining in my ear. A constant, maddening itch I can’t slap away. Find him.”

  “Perhaps, my lord,” Fleiss said, “we should focus on the matter of Eastern Pines?”

  He tilted his blurry head. “Are we ready?”

  “In a matter of days. I’ve overseen the ritual preparations for nearly a year now, without fail, and attended to all the arrangements. Flawlessly.”

  “Well,” he said, mollified, “that is…that is something to be pleased about. Well done, Fleiss.”

  She preened. “Thank you, my lord.”

  His Cheshire grin, obscenely wide, twisted into a grimace. “Now get back to work.”

  He gusted through the doors to his private office, the room beyond black as a moonless night. The doors slammed shut in his wake.

  “That could have gone better,” Naavarasi observed.

  Fleiss got in her face and jabbed at the taller woman’s chest with a manicured fingernail.

  “You aren’t fooling anyone,” she snapped.

  Naavarasi blinked, a picture of wounded innocence. “I’m not?”

  “You’re a mercenary. You aren’t devoted to him like I am. You don’t love him like I do.”

  “Sounds like I struck a nerve. Is it that hard to imagine that I might be drawn to our lord’s cause? Maybe it’s his charisma. Or his aftershave.”

  “I want to know what your game is,” Fleiss said. “Do you really expect me to believe you’d willingly work toward the destruction of your own world?”

  Naavarasi’s eyes went hard. She inched closer to Fleiss, looming over her.

  “This is not my world. My world was a jungle paradise—and it, and my worshipers, and my kin, were taken from me by fire and sword. I care nothing for this Earth. And as long as our patron guarantees me a ticket off this miserable rock when he’s done ravaging it, I’m happy to watch it burn.”

  Fleiss took a step backward, pushed by the heat of the other woman’s glare. Naavarasi’s voice dropped to a graveyard whisper.

  “I am the last rakshasi,” she said, “and my vengeance is this: I will be the last of all living things. I will see the death of the universe. And I will be the last to go. The one who turns out the lights and closes the final door.”

  Fleiss’s upper lip twitched. She clutched the clipboard closer to her chest.

  “From now on, you report to me, not to him. Don’t upstage me like that again.”

  “Careful,” Naavarasi said as she breezed past her, heading for the elevator. “Your insecurities are showing. It’s a bad look for you.”

  * * *

  A silver limousine waite
d for Naavarasi outside the corporate tower. It was early morning and a cool, grassy mist hung in the air. Droplets of dew clung to the limo’s tinted windows. She slipped in back, closed the driver partition, and enjoyed the solitude.

  Her phone chimed. A new message: “Are you all right, Mistress? Just making sure.”

  Naavarasi’s lips curled in a contented smile. It was nice to be cared about. It was even better to be worshiped. Just like old times. Her thumbs rapped against the screen.

  “Fleiss suspects, but that’s her nature,” she replied. “I’ve sold her a believable enough story. Grief, rage, vows of vengeance, very Shakespearean. Are you prepared for your next assignment?”

  “I live to serve you, Mistress,” came the response.

  “I know you do,” she murmured softly.

  “Approach Fleiss’s organization,” she typed, “and offer your services as an assassin for hire. Kill anyone they tell you to. Go above and beyond, win their absolute confidence. I want you firmly embedded when the time is right.”

  “And Daniel?”

  “All in good time,” she answered. “When I command it, and not one moment sooner. Patience.”

  Naavarasi leaned back, snug in the bucket leather seat. She watched the world drift by outside the tinted window, a hammered-copper sun rising over another day. Endless potential.

  “For now, though,” she said to the sunrise, “our dear Daniel is about to render me a most valuable service. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

  1.

  Mayor Seabrook was a battleship in the form of a woman, pure steel under her lavender Chanel dress. For now, she kept the cannons hidden. Sitting across from her, in a low-backed lemon-colored chair by her office window, was Earl Harding. Harding had been the police commissioner of Las Vegas for over twenty years, and he’d worn his medal-studded uniform khakis just to remind us.

  Between the two of them, they didn’t have a single apology to offer. Just cold stares and bad attitudes. I suppose I couldn’t blame them: it’s not every day that a couple of representatives from your friendly local crime syndicate stop by for a chat. I sat on the far side of Seabrook’s desk, casual, one leg folded over the other, feeling the reassuring weight of a nine-millimeter backup plan under my tailored jacket. Jennifer was right beside me. I was used to seeing her in tank tops and cargo pants, but lately she’d been rocking the corporate chic look. Primmed, pressed, and ready for the boardroom, though she still wore her tinted blue Lennon glasses, and a vaguely Celtic pendant dangled from one earlobe.

  “I notice you didn’t offer us coffee,” I said.

  Mayor Seabrook folded her hands on her desk. “Sorry. All out.”

  I pointedly looked to the credenza behind her. A shiny new French press sat beside two bags of imported coffee beans. She held her silence. So did I.

  “You probably know why we’re here,” Jennifer said.

  “That an admission of guilt?” Harding grunted.

  “Everything stated in this meeting is off the record and hypothetical,” she replied in her easy Kentucky drawl. “Like how hypothetically, when the Chicago Outfit came to town lookin’ to bust heads, city hall took their side.”

  “We didn’t—” Seabrook paused, catching herself. Mending the tiny crack in her armor. “No sides were taken. That said, it’s the policy of this administration to act in the best interest of the citizenry and the Vegas economy. The gang war had to be quelled as quickly and quietly as possible.”

  “How’d that work out for you?” I set both feet on the powder-blue carpet, leaning forward in my chair. “Angelo Mancuso was ready and willing to mow down anybody who got in his way. We weren’t the ones who firebombed that taphouse on East Charleston.”

  “No,” Harding said. “You just shot up the Cobalt Lounge and left about twenty gangbangers dead.”

  “Oh. So I did your job for you? You’re very welcome, Commissioner.”

  Harding pushed himself to his feet. “I don’t need to listen to this—”

  “Sit,” Jennifer snapped.

  He didn’t move, frozen in midstep. He looked down at her, eyes slowly narrowing.

  “What’d you say to me?”

  Jennifer fixed him with her stare.

  “Mrs. Mayor,” she said, her voice like velvet wrapped around a switchblade, “tell your doggy to heel, before I have to yank his leash.”

  Seabrook chewed her bottom lip. Then she nodded, resigned. “Earl, sit down. Please.”

  He sat.

  “You fucked up,” I told Seabrook. “Fortunately for you, we’re kind and forgiving people at heart.”

  “Generous to a fault,” Jennifer added.

  “There will be no reprisals, no payback. We’re just going to pretend your lapse of judgment never happened. Of course, if you ever feel compelled to cheer for the rival team again…” I spread my open hands, letting the gesture speak for itself. “I’m hoping that our willingness to let bygones be bygones will pave the way to better relations in the future. We’d like to be friends.”

  “Friends?” Harding said. “You’re nothing but goddamned mobsters.”

  Jennifer arched an eyebrow. “We’re community organizers. See, an organized community is a safe and productive one. I understand you’ve been having a little problem on D Street the past couple of months.”

  He furrowed his brow, uncertain. “Well, it’s a high-crime corridor—”

  “I mean the serial rapist. Five victims, zero evidence. Dan, what time ya got?”

  I eased back my jacket sleeve and checked my watch. It was a Gucci Swiss quartz with an onyx face and silver dials, slim and sleek. Caitlin had bought it for me as a present, to celebrate my first day of my new job.

  My new job didn’t have an official title. “Crime boss” wasn’t something you put on business cards. I was still wrapping my head around the general concept.

  “Just after nine a.m.,” I said.

  “Good, good.” Jennifer turned to the commissioner. “Call the area command. I believe the culprit just turned himself in, asking to make a full confession. Matter of fact, he’ll be begging for it.”

  He stared at her for a moment, like a kid watching the first moves of a magic trick. Then he got up and ambled out of the office, shutting the door behind him.

  “So,” I said to the mayor, “alone at last.”

  Her expression softened. Just a little.

  “Earl’s a hard-liner,” she said. “That’s why I like him. He gets things done. I’ll tell you right now, he won’t be making any deals with you people.”

  “If he won’t,” Jennifer said, “the people under him will. Some already have. We’re not looking for deals, Mrs. Mayor, we’re just here to share the facts of life. The New Commission is here, we’re organized, and we’re not going anywhere. We’re not looking to hurt the tourist trade—we’re invested in it—and we don’t tolerate cowboys or shenanigans. You can choose to coexist with us, or you can choose not to.”

  The office door opened. Harding looked green around the edges as he shuffled back to his chair.

  “Someone hammered roofing nails through his—” he stammered, trailing off as he stared at Jennifer.

  She studied her short-cropped fingernails, perfectly casual.

  “I don’t like rapists,” she said.

  “Some things can be…tolerated,” the mayor said. “Speaking entirely off the record, of course.”

  “Of course,” Jennifer replied.

  “And some things can’t be. I just came back from the United Conference of Mayors in Boston. Let me be blunt, Ms. Juniper. I know you’re heavily invested in narcotics trafficking.”

  “Been falsely arrested once or twice,” Jennifer said. “Don’t even know what the inside of a courtroom looks like. Do carry on, though.”

  “Ink,” Seabrook said. “We’re not having it. Not in my city.”

  I shook my head, thinking back to an article I’d read in the Sun a few days earlier. “That’s the new synthetic, right? I’ve he
ard it’s spreading fast on the East Coast, but I figured that was media hype. You know, like when everyone was talking about bath salts for two months straight.”

  “It’s not hype, Mr.…?”

  “Emerson,” I said. Daniel Faust was legally dead, and I aimed to keep him that way. I was breaking in my new alter ego.

  “And it’s not just the East Coast,” Harding said. “Maybe last month it was, but now that junk’s all over the Midwest too. Somebody’s flooding the market. Ink is part opiate, part hallucinogen. Addictive, cheap, and accessible.”

  Seabrook’s fingers rattled on her keyboard. “In New York, they’re calling it ‘the new crack.’ Except at least crack has a social stigma attached; ink is being sold as a party drug. Some addicts say that when they dose up, they can see the future. Some say they can see God. And for a few…here, I want to show you something.”

  “Mayor, you don’t need to—” Harding said. She silenced him with a sharp glance.

  She swiveled her monitor around to face us. A still from a security camera gave us a bird’s-eye view of a room with padded white walls. A man in a paper gown stood frozen in the frame, his hands clutching his tangled hair.

  “My former administrative assistant,” Seabrook said. “He tried ink at a house party. Once. Had a bad reaction. This is him, two weeks later.”

  She clicked her mouse. The film lurched into motion and the man bounced off the padded wall, turning, pacing across the cell until he hit the opposite wall and started all over again. Tugging at his hair, mumbling an obsessive chant. I leaned closer to the desk.

  “What’s he saying?”

  She turned the volume up. Under the hiss of static, I could make out some of the words.

  “It smells like roses,” he muttered. “Hedy, hold the book. Hedy, hold the…my name is, my name is—I don’t know if that’s your name don’t know how this works, Hedy hold the book. It smells like roses in here, smells like roses. My name is—”

  She paused the video.

  “Total psychotic break. He still hasn’t recovered. The doctors aren’t hopeful.” Seabrook laid her hands on her desk, palms flat. “This man was a friend of mine. This is personal to me, you understand? No ink in Vegas. Period.”