115. CASINO

The sun dipped below the horizon, and the veil of night descended. The barren, arid earth was swallowed by darkness.

However, the city that never sleeps, nestled on the edge of the desert, had just shaken off its sleepy haze. It began to shimmer with brilliant light, radiating boundless vitality and passion.

A white Bronco pulled into the free parking lot on Casino Avenue in the old town district. Dean looked out through the car window. The surrounding high-rises were magnificent, in no way inferior to the Strip. The "CASINO" signs, flashing with colorful neon lights, looked like monsters with gaping, bloody maws, greedily sucking up the world’s wealth every second, devouring the wallets and credit cards of the weak-willed.

Yet, there were plenty of such people now. With expressions ranging from curiosity and trepidation to smug ambition, they walked toward the entrances, eager and impatient, following enthusiastic and friendly security checks.

Dean sighed and looked at Paqui, who was squinting in the passenger seat.

"Seriously, don't you think it's dangerous for us to come to a place like this?"

Dean had originally considered acting alone; relying on his shape-shifting ability to kidnap someone from a casino would have been a trivial matter—safe and covert. But the two of them had insisted on sticking to him like glue.

"You’re a grown man. You took out that group of killers with AK-47s at Lake Mead, you pinned me down all night in wrestling, and you helped the LVPD crack several cases that had them stumped. What exactly am I supposed to be worried about?"

Paqui shook his head, looking calm, though his tone was slightly sour. This unwavering trust made Dean reflect deeply for two seconds; over the past few days, he shouldn't have been crushing his uncle in every possible way. He should have let him win a few wrestling matches.

"But what we're doing is a crime!" Last, in the backseat, leaned forward, his face troubled. His gaze swept over the armed guards at the casino entrance, and he trembled with nerves, his resolve beginning to waver.

"Are you playing dumb or are you just naive? As long as there are no witnesses and no security cameras caught it, what crime has been committed?" Paqui gave his eager student a lesson. "The most crucial point is, what is the purpose of our operation? We are here to save your poor mother, Grace, from the hands of a con artist casino broker. This is for love and family!"

Dean couldn't help but nod. This burly man had a way of making his crooked logic sound quite reasonable.

Last shook his light-brown short hair, his hands gripping the front seat tightly. "Right! For Grace, I’d even kill!"

"Keep your voice down. You want to attract the police? It’s eight o'clock now; Scarface should be working inside. Dean, come in with me. As for you, stay in the car and keep watch."

"I'm already eighteen!" Last protested, though he felt a sense of relief.

In Las Vegas, those under twenty-one generally cannot enter casinos, but those between eighteen and twenty-one are allowed to "visit" if accompanied by an adult.

"I can only take one person. You have to stay and keep watch outside." Paqui gave Dean a look.

Dean straightened his suit collar and opened the door. His sturdy, muscular frame stretched the suit tight, making him look more mature. The two headed straight for the gambling floor.

The guard checked their IDs, asked about their relationship, and then gave Dean, who was in the gray area of age, a special "bling" wristband. He was verbally warned that he could not drink alcohol inside, was not allowed to participate in any games, could only "observe," and could not stay longer than two hours—he had to be out by ten o'clock.

They were then let through.

After walking a few steps inside, Dean remarked, "Even a second-rate gambling joint in Las Vegas has such strict screening?"

"There are third-party surveillance cameras everywhere, so on the surface, all such venues must follow the law," Paqui pointed to the ceiling—good heavens, at least five or six cameras were pointed right at them. "But it’s just for show. They have plenty of ways to bypass the rules."

Dean stepped onto the ornate carpet and felt his spirits lift. Entering from the outside, the air didn't feel stuffy; instead, it felt fresher. The lighting also transitioned from the harsh, neon-intertwined darkness of the outdoors to a moderate brightness—not so bright that it tired the eyes, nor so dim that it made one drowsy.

The interior was more spacious than he had imagined, comparable to a medium-sized shopping mall. The lobby was filled with rows of crisscrossing slot machines—at least four or five hundred of them—and there were plenty of customers. They inserted coins and waited. The dull hum of the machines and the clinking of falling coins never ceased. It was like a grand symphony, encouraging onlookers to join in and try their luck.

Dean frowned. "Do you feel a bit overly excited?"

Paqui crossed his arms and smiled at him. "Some places use 'artificial oxygen generators' that run continuously to keep guests in a state of excitement, so they keep playing hand after hand, never wanting to leave."

Dean was startled, raising an eyebrow. "You're not joking? Isn't that illegal?"

"What law? The rules of Sin City naturally serve the casinos. By the way, the lighting is specially adjusted, too. It’s comfortable, right? You could stay up all night and your eyes wouldn't get tired."

Dean went silent.

The two walked past the slot machines and headed deeper inside, where a conspicuous giant spinning wheel caught their eyes. A crowd of fanatical guests surrounded it, while a beautiful woman in a low-cut camisole and fishnet stockings displayed her figure from every angle, spinning the wheel.

Paqui explained the rules to Dean.

"This thing doesn't require much skill; it relies on luck and the beauty to attract attention." Paqui looked toward the other side of the wheel, where a dancer in a bikini was performing on a low stage. A crowd of guests holding beer and drinks watched with great interest.

Paqui explained that when customers get tired and want to leave, they are lured back by the beauties, rest, and then continue.

"Dean, why don't you stay here and look at the beauties? I'll go inside and find our man."

"Don't talk nonsense. Keep moving."

...

Beyond the wheel were various other games, such as more professional Blackjack and Poker rooms. The staff in these areas no longer wore skimpy outfits, having switched to professional-looking striped shirts.

Furthermore, the customers participating in these games were noticeably more professional than those at the slots and the wheel. Most were furrowing their brows, sipping coffee or drinks, and pondering—looking like intellectual workers.

"In the poker rooms, the house doesn't participate directly; they just take a cut. The customers play against each other."

These professional games had a chip minimum, but they also offered nearly free drinks. The drinks were alcoholic and much cheaper than what was sold in outside stores.

As they walked, Paqui continued his steady, informative commentary. "Vegas law doesn't allow venues to provide free alcohol, so they drive the price down to the absolute minimum. They let customers drink the cheapest booze until they’re tipsy, which makes them lose their reason and control. That's when the specially hired 'anglers' move in."

Paqui suddenly looked toward a corner, where several men with glinting eyes were scanning the room like predators. "The anglers pick out drunk guests or naive rookies who have their guard down and invite them to join games with higher stakes, turning them into fish in a carefully built pond."

Paqui glanced toward the rows of more private VIP rooms further inside and laid out his theory. "At first, the anglers might let the fish take a little bait to get a taste of the sweetness. But when the fish can't resist and wants to eat more, opening its mouth wide, it gets snagged by the hook the anglers have prepared."

"The fish struggles, placing bet after bet, only to be hooked tighter and tighter, constantly shedding its 'flesh' and scales."

"When the fish has nothing left to shed and has lost all its money, the anglers start reeling it in, pulling the fish out of the water, capturing it completely, and making it sign a humiliating contract of indentured servitude to redeem itself."

Dean nodded. It was a well-developed system of entrapment.

"One night of drunkenness can lead these poor saps to lose everything, even their own freedom." Paqui sighed as he warned him. "Life is like a gamble; not betting a hand is a slight loss, but you can't lose everything. Dean, if you lose, just take the hit. Stay away from this stuff if you can."

Dean nodded solemnly. This stuff was ruinous. During his university years in his previous life, he had classmates who played online, eventually losing their family's savings and homes, ending up dropping out in misery.

Moreover, he feared it was an addiction that couldn't be broken; once you had money, you'd be tempted. This kind of addiction was no less destructive than drugs; once you fell in, fewer than one in ten ever returned to a normal life.

...

Having finished educating his nephew, Paqui, for the sake of the investigation and to avoid drawing attention, specifically exchanged some chips and grabbed a juice. He drank as he circled the tables, observing and occasionally placing a few bets.

Dean, following closely behind, unexpectedly discovered another use for his "God's Eye" ability. He had previously only used it for combat and reconnaissance. But in this setting, a new application awakened.

The "God's Eye" could observe the opponent's information, even the information in the dealer's hand. If the opponent wasn't careful about pressing their cards flat against the table, everything was laid bare to him.

Five minutes later, Paqui took Dean to another table.

"What's the matter with you, kid? Did God possess you tonight?" Paqui pointed at the chips, his eyelids twitching in surprise. "You turned my ten into a hundred this quickly? Do you want to get us kicked out?"

The house never loses. Customers who only win get placed on a permanent blacklist.

"Keep a low profile, understand?"

Dean touched his nose and nodded.

...

The two circled the main hall, trying out all sorts of different games. When they reached the corner on the left side of the hall, Dean's eyes lit up. He tapped Paqui, signaling him to look over there.

The scar-faced man, Tegan Frank, was there. He was no longer dressed in his white vest and trucker hat, having changed into a casual tourist look with a light yellow shirt and jeans, but the scar on his nose was still prominent.

He was pestering a female guest in her thirties. The woman had black hair, delicate features, and was wearing an elegant, form-fitting black dress. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were slightly unfocused; she had clearly had quite a bit to drink.

"We team up... fifty-fifty split..."

"I won't say too much... making three to five thousand dollars a night is no problem..."

"Don't worry... I've tried it in Atlantic City... high-end venues, much stricter management than this place, and no one ever found out..."

The woman was hesitant at first, her attitude resistant, but Scarface had a silver tongue and spun a dazzling tale of lies.

The alcohol-fueled woman followed him unconsciously through the crowded tables, past servers and the main hall, heading toward the VIP rooms deep within.

But just as they reached a table stocked with free drinks, Dean, who was not far behind, suddenly tilted his head.

An invisible gust of wind surged from his body, passing through the noisy lobby and flying toward the feet of the grinning Scarface, whose eyes flashed with glints of greed.

With a strange cry, the man inexplicably slipped. His entire body lost balance, and he fell heavily toward the drink table. Instinctively, he reached out his hands to push off the table.

Clatter!

Rows of neatly stacked glasses were knocked to the floor.

Crash!

Glass shards and liquor splattered everywhere. The alcohol flooded the smooth floor like a burst dam, gathering into a glistening pool.

The massive noise instantly drew the attention of most customers nearby. They turned their heads to see the culprit, Scarface, standing there stupidly, staring blankly at his soaked shirt and hands. The lecherous face was a mix of blue and white, appearing quite comical.

Several servers ran over to apologize while arranging for staff to clean up the trash and debris.

"You go change your clothes first." The woman, who had previously been dizzy with persuasion, covered her mouth and smiled, but her eyes had regained their clarity. "I'll wander around a bit more."

"Carol, wait ten minutes for me. I'll go to the car to change and be right back! It's a rare opportunity, don't miss out." Scarface shot a look at a server, signaling him to help soothe the "big fish," while he apologized with a forced smile and turned to walk quickly out of the CASINO.

He had to hurry, or the cooked duck would fly away!

Paqui spun the chips in his hand and followed slowly, muttering to himself, "It must be the ancestors looking out for us, saving us a lot of trouble."

"This is 'he who sows evil reaps it,'" Dean said, a cold light appearing in his eyes. "Even heaven wants to punish him."

...

Tegan Frank left the bright, warm interior and rushed into the dim parking lot. But as the outdoor night breeze hit him, the bone-chilling cold made him shiver uncontrollably.

The hair on his back stood on end. It felt as if several needle-like eyes were peeping at him from all directions.

He spun around, but the massive parking lot was empty; there were only a bunch of quiet cars.

"Shit! Scaring myself!" He spat on the ground. That ridiculous fall had made him paranoid. After all, in the last dozen years, he had never encountered such a comical and shameful accident!

No, he had to play a few big hands tonight to calm his nerves!

He thought of the woman's mockery earlier, and his eyes shot out a sinister, fierce light, like a jackal. He pulled out his keys and opened the door to his DeLorean.

But the next second, a tremendous force struck him from behind, pinning him down. At the same time, a handkerchief with a pungent odor was pressed over his nose and mouth.

He struggled desperately like a drowning man, but the difference in strength was too great for him to resist. As the gas surged from his nasal cavity into his brain, his vision became blurred.

He lost consciousness.

...

The six-foot-three giant tied the unconscious man up, taped his mouth shut, tossed him into the backseat, pulled out his keys, and sat in the driver's seat.

"Nice baby, a DeLorean DMC-12. I've never driven one; might as well have some fun."

Paqui gripped the steering wheel and started the engine.

Dean returned to his own Bronco and followed the DeLorean driven by Paqui at a safe distance.

"Won't we be discovered doing this?" Last, in the backseat, was still shaken; he had witnessed the entire process of the attack. It was clean and efficient, without making a sound—one hundred percent the work of an old hand. He even started to wonder if Dean's uncle had once been a kidnapper.

"Don't worry, it's all been taken care of. Today's business is known to you, me, and Paqui. There is no fourth person."

Outside the window, which had been rolled up, the parking lot gates and the surveillance cameras along the way had long since had their cables snapped by an invisible force.

Under the cover of night, the two cars drove silently away from the brilliantly lit street, heading toward the dead-silent Lake Mead.