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“I’ll do my best,” he replies.
“No, promise me you won’t kill him.”
“Hunter, I can’t guarantee it, because to expect perfection is to expect to be disappointed. All I can tell you is I’ll do my best.”
“Whatever. Fuck it. Just try not to kill him.”
He gives a curt nod, too focused on his rampage to say anything further. I sprint across the room to where Diesel is sheltering, expecting that his odds of survival are higher if I’m physically standing next to him. Once by his side, I give him a quick hug, then fire several rounds at a team of approaching security, taking out one of them with a center-mass shot.
“Did you find out anything about Moretti and his men?” I say.
“No. All I had time to do was get offered a job and feel good about myself for acing that interview and then you all showed up with your fucking fireworks show. Seriously, who the fuck are you with?”
“The maniac over there is Mayhem,” I say, gesturing toward the tornado of blood and violence that seems to follow him around. “Outside, the one causing all the explosions, is his brother, Havoc.”
“Fucking maniacs. If we make it through this, you think they’ll let me set off some of their bombs?” Diesel says.
I shrug. “There probably won’t be any left. They like bombs, too.” Movement draws my attention, and I fire a hail of bullets at an unlucky security guard who gains a series of holes in his chest. “So you got nothing about Moretti?”
“Nothing. But the man who was to be my boss has his office upstairs and I sure as fuck haven’t seen him here in the middle of this shitstorm. Want to go pay him a visit? He’s probably hiding behind his desk.”
I toss Diesel one of my pistols. “Lead the way.”
Diesel and I make our way across the casino floor, ducking behind overturned tables and dodging stray bullets. The chaos is deafening — a symphony of gunfire, screams, and shattering glass. Mayhem continues his rampage, his laughter echoing off the walls as he mows down anyone foolish enough to cross his path.
We reach the stairs leading to the upper level, and I cover Diesel as he ascends. Just as we're about to reach the top, a security guard appears, his gun trained on us. Diesel fires, and the bullet catches the man in the throat. With eyes wide, he gurgles and falls, tumbling down the stairs past us.
"Nice shot," I mutter, impressed despite myself.
Diesel grins, a manic glint in his eye. "That guy was the first one who interviewed me. He was a dick."
We push forward, moving down a plush carpeted hallway lined with framed photos of celebrities who've visited The Red Room. At the end of the hall is a heavy oak door with a brass nameplate: "Vincent Caruso — General Manager."
I nod to Diesel, who positions himself on one side of the door while I take the other. With a silent count of three, I kick the door open, my rifle at the ready.
The office is lavish, all dark wood and leather, with a view overlooking the city. Behind an enormous desk cowers a middle-aged man in an expensive suit, his hands raised in surrender.
"Diesel? The fuck? We hired you, and this is how you repay us?”
Diesel fires a shot that just whiffs over the man's head. “Hey, Vince. You know, any offer that doesn’t include a fucking dental plan is total fucking bullshit. I mean, how could you, man? Considering the cash this place clears in a single day, and you can’t even help me keep my teeth clean?”
“This is really over our lack of a fucking dental plan? The amount we pay you, you can just do it for cash. Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Pay in cash? Do you know what dental care costs? Fuck, you are so out of touch, you privileged motherfucker.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to fucking kill me over the cost of a teeth cleaning,” Vincent says.
I fire a shot and give Diesel a pointed look. “This isn’t about the fucking cost of dental care — although, fucking really, you need to take care of your people, man, it’s just basic common sense — this is about Victor Moretti and whoever the fuck he sent into town. He’s got men here, I know it, and I want you to tell me everything you know about who they are and where they’re at.”
“Victor Moretti? Who the fuck is Victor Moretti?” He says. “Do you have any fucking clue who I am? Who you’re fucking with?”
There’s a twitch above his left eye and a vein that pulses in his forehead. He’s lying. He has to be.
“Don’t fuck with me, Vince,” I say. “I’m in no fucking mood.”
“Why the fuck would I fuck with you? You stupid motherfuckers have hit my casino. You have no fucking clue. Don’t even realize how fucked you are. It’s going to five, ten minutes before the rest of my men get back and kill you, your friends, and every single fucking one of your family members.”
I press the barrel of my gun against Vincent's forehead, my finger tightening on the trigger. "You've got about five seconds to talk before I paint this fancy office with your brains. Where is Moretti?"
