Roulette:
A Cautionary Tale

It had been about two months since the last Sabbat scouting excursion, which meant that we were due for another one. Every so often, one of the bishops hiding in the SoCal sandbox decides the time is right to send another couple of shovelheads into town on some sort of bad Hunter S. Thompson-style info-gathering jaunt, and it's my job to watch out for that sort of thing. Truth be told, it's not so hard to watch out for. This town is neck-deep in anarchs who think they're hardcases but aren't; a real Sabbat badass sticks out like a sore thumb.

So that's my job. His Majesty (Prince Benedic, not that low-rent Giovanni Rothstein who claims to run the town out of Bally's) tells me to watch for Sabbat infiltrators, which I do. When one (or two, or three – they like to travel in groups, I've found) members of the other side show up, I make my report to the prince, and we bang heads and decide what to do. The decision varies from case to case, but usually we have to be delicate about squashing the bastards as soon as they show their faces. I mean, Sabbat spies aren't necessarily stupid; they go to ground with the best of them. That means that if Tzammy Tzimisce tzchows, err, shows up he's going to do it with a safety pin fleshcrafted through his nose so he can claim to be an anarch, not Sabbat. So if I go out there with my squad and take down the impostor, well, let's just say that any real anarchs he'd managed to fool would be up in arms about "being oppressed by the man." At that point the neonates would start throwing things and blowing the Masquerade to hell sideways, and that would mean more work for me and mine.

His Majesty, in case you were wondering, does not like to pay overtime.

No, it makes a lot more sense to play along, and then either stake the spy en route to his "private audience" with the prince, or feed the mark false information about our defenses, numbers, disposition and so on. Send back three different scouting parties with three different reports, and you can almost hear them tearing into each another from here once someone takes the time to compare notes. It's a joy to ponder.

Vegas is a very volatile town, you see. This burg survives on tourism, which means that if tourists start going missing, the visiting traffic goes down and the place goes to hell. But if we control the take, make sure that it's just the lonely and unloved who get taken, well, then, this place is a paradise for our kind. You think the casinos have all-night buffets, you should see what the streets look like. That's why people like me – and I use the term "people" loosely – have to make sure that all of the rules and regulations get followed. If anyone gets greedy, or takes too much, or does anything stupid in public, the entire game could go in the crapper. I like this place, and so does His Majesty, entirely too much to allow that to happen.

The red phone rings. It only rings when there's something about to go down. I sigh as the damn thing keeps jangling, then walk across the room to pick it up. The prince gives me a nice suite in the Mirage as part of my compensation package (it's a running joke that one of these years we're all going to get dental), and I like that just fine. I never could have afforded a place like this when I was alive, and it's nice that Benedic appreciates what I do enough to give me this as a token of his esteem.

I place the phone to my ear and made a noncommittal noise. Duke, the ghoul who works hotel security, answers, "Mr. Montrose?" As if it would be anyone else on my direct connect phone. Good help has never been easy to find.

"Yes? I take it we've got visitors?"

"Oh, we've got a live one indeed, sir." A live one. That was Duke's idea of a joke. He'd been using it every time he spotted a Kindred for the past 15 years, and he hadn't quite warmed to the notion that none of the rest of Prince Benedic's employees found the gag particularly amusing. Still, he's a good man in a fight, and loyal. Plus, he has a good nose for sniffing out infiltrators. Useful talent, that.

"Just one?"

"Two, actually. A man and a woman. He's currently giving the desk help something of a hard time, claiming his name is Tom Cruise. He's too tall by half for the impersonation to take, but it's one of the more clever attempts I've seen in a while."

"Get his room assignment and make sure no one goes in or out once he and his friend settle in. Have one of the specials handle the valet parking on their car, and check the trunk for ordnance. Also run the floorboards to see if they're trying to smuggle anything in, and have your friend at LVPD run the plates to see if the car is hot."

Duke's annoyance is palpable as he responds, "They self-parked, Mr. Montrose. It was part of what tipped me off to their presence. Otherwise, I'll perform the usual functions, as per our SOP. Do you have any other instructions?"

I find myself frowning. Something about this caper feels wrong. "Nothing else. Just be extra careful on this one, OK? I've got a feeling."

"You always have a feeling, Mr. Montrose," Duke says as he hangs up. He's right, though. I always have the same bad feeling in what used to be my gut, and I always give him the same orders once a suspicious character checks in or otherwise appears on the scene. That's one of the strengths of the team, though: routine. Tradition. The knowledge that we're going to do it right this time, because we've done it right a hundred times before.

***

An hour later, Duke is sitting in the almost-but-not-quite overstuffed beige chair in the corner of my suite, nursing a hideous concoction he calls a Rusty Nail. He claims that the taste of one of those monsters allows him to look forward to the tang of the vitae he receives every month from Prince Benedic, but I think he just has lousy taste.

"Where shall I begin, Mr. Montrose?" he says, as I plant myself in the chair opposite his.

"Start with the basics. As always."

Good old long-suffering Duke. Completely predictable. "The car was our first area of inquiry. It is, much to my surprise, completely legitimate. There's not much else spectacular about it, save that it can probably get up near 200 mph in a pinch, guzzles gas dreadfully and has the sort of solid steel chassis that can serve to knock down telephone poles."

I let out a low whistle. "Impressive. I take it the trunk had equipment for dayproofing?"

Duke coughed embarassedly. "Delgado didn't get a good enough look to see, Mr. Montrose."

"He didn't? Well, why the hell not?" I fling a coaster – why the hell does housekeeping insist on putting coasters in my room? – in disgust.

"Because of the Kindred in the way, Mr. Montrose."

"The what?"

"Apparently there was a recently Embraced Cainite, an African-American youth in his early teens, locked in there. Delgado opened the trunk, and the unregistered passenger started thrashing about. He shut the trunk and reported to me."

"Where is he now?"

"He's at home. I rotated him off shift, so our visitors don't see his face, match it with any description the childe in the trunk might give, and put two and two together."

"Ah. I'll want to talk to him. Have him give me a call here. How about our happy couple?"

Duke shuffled his papers and flipped to another page in his notes. "They're in Room 1413, and we're reasonably certain they've done some crude lightproofing. By the sounds at the door, they're sleeping in the bathroom, most likely in the tub. The arrangement is nothing we haven't seen before, should we wish to extract our visitors quietly. They haven't even made contact with any local Kindred, so it's not as if they'd be missed."

"Hmm. Let me think. Do we have descriptions on them?"

Without a word, Duke hands me an envelope containing enhanced images of the pair from the lobby's security cameras. Two are close-ups, while the third is a wide-angle pan. "All right, I see the woman's quite attractive, and that cowboy hat looks like it's welded on. She probably dug herself out of the ground with it. The other one – I don't see anything interesting here. What's the deal with the third picture? I can barely see their faces!"

"If you please, Mr. Montrose." Duke takes the picture in question back, grinning that smug little grin that means he thinks he's about to show me up. "If you will observe, this picture was taken from camera four, which takes a long sweep of the lobby and silhouettes those who are checking in..."

"...against the mirrors on those columns."

"Exactly, Mr. Montrose." Duke is nodding, and he still has that smirk on his face. "I believe I suggested we install camera four for precisely that purpose, so that we might see if any of our guests might be..."

"Lasombra. They actually sent in a Lasombra this time. Beautiful."

Duke loses the smirk and looks slightly alarmed as I chortle. "Mr. Montrose, shouldn't we inform Prince Benedic? If there's a Lasombra in the city–"

I cut him off again. It's getting to be a habit. "I will inform the prince in due time. In the meanwhile, I think we're going to run a disinformation job on this guy. I want you to get me, let's see, how about Cantor, and get the team in place, and meet me back here in an hour." I'm up out of the chair now, pacing excitedly. This could be a good break. Duke is rising as well, heading for the door as he mumbles some impeccably polite and semantically empty parting.

Once Duke is gone, I head for the other phone, the one that speed-dials Benedic's private line. We know better than to take our conversations onto cell phones – one particularly sensitive conversation got picked up by a kid who had stumbled across Benedic's frequency with some sort of pirating device, and I had to arrange a very tricky accident on short notice to hide the evidence. These nights, it's all as close to solid state as we can make it.

That doesn't mean that I don't eavesdrop on other Kindred's cell phones. I'm just not dumb enough to use the things myself.

Benedic's phone rings precisely thrice before the prince picks up. "Yes?" His greetings always sound tentative, like he's afraid the receiver's going to bite his ear. Then again, considering how old Benedic is, I'm not surprised he still has vague suspicions about technology.

"Your Majesty? It's Montrose. We have two infiltrators at the Mirage, with a third party hidden in the trunk of their car. One of our two guests is a Lasombra, while his friend is anyone's guess. I'd say Toreador antitribu by her looks, but it's only a gut feeling."

"Interesting," Benedic rumbles, and falls silent for a long moment. "What are your plans?"

I launch into my spiel. This plan might take some selling, as it's going to cost Benedic a valuable asset. "Well, the fact that one member of the team's a Keeper changes things. If he disappears, it sets whoever's holding his leash on alert. I'd rather put on a good show for him and send him back with a head full of misinformation than eliminate him. However, this deal's going to require a lot of selling for him to believe it. We had better be prepared to go all the way on this one, or he's going to think that something's up."

Benedic flips through something on the other end of the line, moves some papers and produces some other noises that I can't even begin to identify. "I'm interested in hearing what sort of lies you want to pass off to our visitor, and what you mean by ‘all the way.' You worry me when you say such things, Montrose. I am usually the one who foots the bill for your excesses."

"You say that every time, but have I failed you yet?" It's an old, old argument. Benedic loves the idea that I keep his city safe, but wishes I could do it for a bit less. When the job's this important, though, I prefer not to skimp on the details.

I can hear the prince chuckling on the other end. "Not yet, and I'm hoping you don't start now. What will this one cost me?"

I take an unnecessary, but soothing deep breath. "How do you feel about Duke?"

***

An hour later, I'm in the sub-basement of the Mirage, the hole where they keep the janitorial supplies, the cleaning chemicals and the bodies. Standing with me is a low-level Ventrue flunky by the name of Alexander Cantor, who's dressed in a suit that's entirely inappropriate for this puddled mess. He keeps on stepping back and forth, in hopes of keeping the gunk off his shoes. It's not working.

I've got a headset on, and it's linked to the mike that Duke is wearing. "I'm inside the room and ready to go, Mr. Montrose. Wish me luck," I hear him breathe into his wire, and then the rat-tat-tat of his knuckles on door. "Mr. Cruise? Mr. Cruise?"

Over the wire, I can hear the distant fumbling, and a muted voice complaining. "I'm afraid the matter is of considerable urgency, Mr., err, Cruise." More mumbling, and something about a girl. "No, Mr. Cruise, there's no girl out here."

Duke is playing his part just right. The tone of his voice indicates that he knows the "girl" story is bullshit and that he doesn't care if his target knows that he does. Then there's the sound of the door cracking open, and the curtain comes up on Duke's final performance.

"We have rules in this town, Mr. Cruise... I beg your pardon?" There's more indecipherable attitude that comes over the line, and Cantor does this odd little contortion to get as close to the mike as possible without touching me. Meanwhile, Duke isn't breaking stride. "…appears that you care little for the rules in our town, and that your presence is not one of benefice to us." Now there's some shuffling, and what sounds like someone walking off. "…sure you're familiar with our Traditions, and that you have no intention of flouting them. My employer wishes to speak to you, and I am to escort you to his offices." There's nothing for a second, then a wisecrack and assent. They're coming.

The elevator grinds to a halt at the far end of the storeroom. The doors squeak as Duke and Cruise, or whatever his name is, walk out. "Cruise" is tall and thin and good-looking, and he's flicking his eyes from side to side looking for an ambush. He doesn't seem to be surprised, though, that his meeting with "authority" is happening in a crudhole sub-basement, down among the bottles of floor wax and crates of toilet cakes. I swear, that's one of the biggest weaknesses these Sabbat guys have. They think that since their big bosses like to hang out in shitholes, ours do as well. Benedic wouldn't be caught down here if there were a six-pack of Caine's blood sitting in the middle of the floor. Still, their delusions serve my purposes. A meeting that would seem like a transparent scam to any normal vampire makes perfect sense to a shovelhead.

Duke and the Lasombra are talking, saying lots of nothing. I'm suddenly anxious to get this over with, and so I nudge Cantor. He looks at me with disgust for a second because I dared to touch him, then he remembers his lines. "Duke, this isn't Tom Cruise," he says, with precisely zero enthusiasm. Next time I'll get myself a Toreador.

The ghoul and the vampire stop, right on the mark I'd taped for Duke on the floor. Perfect. "We've already been through this," Cruise says petulantly. "Your clerk spelled my name wrong." He puts his hands on his hips and looks around. It's showtime.

I drop the Obfuscate, and mentally give the guy points for not flinching when he sees me. Even the other Nosferatu think I'm unattractive, but he took it in stride. Beside me, Cantor looks his usual impeccable self, radiating unconcern as he picks some imaginary lint from his Versace. Cantor may be a no-talent yutz, but he at least looks the part of a player. "Welcome to Vegas," I say, "I am Montrose, and this is my associate, Alexander Cantor. Perhaps you'd care to inform us as to your business here?"

The Keeper sizes us up, decides he might be able to take us both. I can see it in his aura that he's about to do something stupid. "Not business. Pleasure. I'm in from California to do a bit of gambling."

And the Kindred in the trunk?" I raised what was left of an eyebrow. His move.

"We were driving in shifts." His tone is defensive. Beside me, Cantor shifts ever so slightly, and I know without looking that he's pumping up his blood for a fight. "He had the night before."

I laugh, a signal to Cantor to back down. What's going to happen has to happen, and heroics will just screw things up. "Quite an odd set of circumstances, don't you think, Adam Stiers from the Anarch Free State?" I emphasize each capital letter to make it seem like I'm proud of myself for digging up those choice tidbits. "Perhaps an object lesson in how Prince Benedic keeps the rabble in line would do you some good." That's Duke's cue, and he slams a meaty hand down on Stiers' shoulder.

I grab Cantor's hand and pull him back into a shadow, where I can hide us again. Duke's eyes get wide as he sees us vanish – that wasn't part of his briefing. Stiers turns and nearly rips the ghoul's arm off, then slams him against a rack of paper towels. Duke staggers, then starts screaming as the Keeper does something to the darkness in the room that makes shadow spill out of Duke's mouth and damn near tear him in half. Beside me, I can feel Cantor tensing up like he's going to jump into the fight, and I have to clamp my hand on his wrist to keep him from going off half-cocked.

Duke is down now, the Keeper tearing at his wrists and fumbling in his pockets for the elevator key. Next to me, Cantor is visibly shaking as he restrains himself from going after… what? The blood? The Lasombra? I don't want to know. There's a squelching sound – blood on boot soles – as the vampire heads for the elevator, then I hear the familiar grinding sound of the doors and we're alone.

Duke's almost gone when Cantor and I get to him. He's lost a lot of blood. That's actually a plus, as it will make what comes next easier. I kneel down next to him and lift his head up with my left hand. "Don't worry, Duke. It's going to be OK. I won't let you down. Everything's going to be OK." He looks at me, eyes dulled with pain, uncomprehending. I just hold his head up and mutter soothing nonsense as the blood runs out of him. Beside me, Cantor has his straight razor out and rolls up his cuff so he doesn't get blood on his shirt sleeves when it's finally time to bring Duke across. Everything's going to plan. Everything's going to be all right for Duke. Everything's going to be just fine.

***

Duke is sitting in his same old chair, riffling the same old papers. It took him a night to get back on his feet after Cantor Embraced him, but considering what he'd been through, it's a remarkably fast recovery. He's looking a trifle pale, even for a Ventrue, but otherwise it's the same old Duke, right down to the same ill-fitting blue suit. He's discussing the fallout from our little misadventure. "We've discovered one body in the garage, and one dead cashier at the parking lot exit."

"Taken care of?"

"Of course. The cashier's family received the normal package, plus some extra flowers. There was also one tourist badly hurt when Stiers apparently clipped him with a tire iron from a moving car, but other than that, I was the only fatality." An untouched Rusty Nail sits in front of Duke on the table, a symbol of the way things were. It's important to him to hang onto that symbol, I think, so I made sure to pour it for him when he walked in. The little things count.

"And is that it?"

"Apart from the traffic violations, yes, Mr. Montrose. We've painted the incident as…," he riffles the papers again until he finds what he wants, "some sort of gang incident with riff-raff from Los Angeles. Fortunately the robbery across town a few months ago makes our story seem credible."

I nod. "Good. Did we get a read on Stiers' lady friend?"

"Yes. She was responsible for the corpse in the garage. Apparently she has some small skill with your favorite parlor trick, as DiFelice says he saw her simply appear next to the car while I was taking Stiers to meet you. Other than that, she did not evince any spectacular abilities. She did, however, seem to have a rather short temper, to the point of near-psychosis. The victim was a passerby headed for his own car, and she simply… snapped when he walked by. DiFelice says it seemed that she was tired of waiting."

"And the kid in the trunk?"

"I believe he is still there."

I wave the detail away as unimportant. "Fine, fine, whatever. So Stiers and his lady friend get away, convinced that we're a bunch of idiots and pushovers, and that Cantor actually has some power in this town. I mean, if we were tough, we never would have let him kill one of our prize ghouls, right?" Duke flinches, but it's part of the hardening process. Once you're dead, you can't allow yourself to shudder at the fact. "In the meantime we learned the caliber of scout they're sending in – and that maneuver he pulled with the shadows tells me that Stiers is some fairly heavy artillery. If the other side is using guys who are that powerful for scouting missions, then an offensive is coming. A major one. But if we can keep feeding them false information about how weak we are – by, say, running away the second the big bad Lasombra takes a swing at a ghoul – we can make them overconfident and have them hit too early. Before they're really ready."

Duke nods, comprehending. He still doesn't like what happened to him, not that I blame him one little bit, but he's a pragmatist. He understands the necessity. Meanwhile it's up to Cantor to get him up to speed on his Disciplines before the assault comes, while I have to train his replacement and maybe pick a few reinforcements out of the crowd.

Across from me, Duke flips to a clean page and starts sketching out plans for improving the defenses on the parking garage. That's the way things should be. Loyal service and a promotion, once you earn it. Now it's up to us to make sure things stay that way. Even if we can goad the Sabbat into striking too early, it's still going to be a bloodbath, and I'm going to have to be going triple-shift to keep the Masquerade in one piece. There are going to be bodies and bullets, blood and death everywhere. It's going to be a royal bitch to clean up.

Still, it beats working.