18. The Party Begins

“Dean, what’s wrong with me? My head hurts so much. What time is it now?”

Rust woke from a heavy stupor, clutching his aching head as he dry-heaved, the stench of alcohol pouring from his throat. Overhead, the setting sun painted the sky with vibrant streaks of evening glow.

“Six in the evening. Drink some water… A hangover’s no fun.”

Clinging to the bottle, Rust drank greedily until the nausea eased, then sat up and looked around.

They were sitting against a turtle-shaped rock among the bushes, with an asphalt road winding upward nearby.

“Where are we?” Rust asked, still a bit dazed.

“Halfway up Mount Moncarlo. I nearly died carrying you up here,” Dean replied, wiping the sweat from his forehead, back in his full athletic jacket.

“Uh… Why did we come here?”

“To get revenge on Bob Lowe…”

“He’s been bothering you again?”

“I found out he was the one who took Mona that night. He’s throwing a birthday party tonight. I need to find a way in and track Mona down.” Dean’s voice was calm, but his eyes were icy and sharp.

A roar—an exhaust pipe thundered closer and closer.

An SUV sped along the mountain road, a young man and woman halfway out the windows, arms wide, screaming in exhilaration as the wind whipped past.

“That bastard kidnapped Mona?” Rust snapped to full alert, cold sweat breaking out, then his blood began to boil. “How dare he? That’s a crime!”

“Come on, let’s get closer to his villa.”

…

They moved along through dense shrubs and trees, the buildings below shrinking like ants.

On the way, four or five cars filled with young men and women drove up the mountain. About half an hour later, they reached the summit.

Surrounded by lush greenery stood a massive wrought-iron gate, painted black and wide open, a surveillance camera hanging from the frame.

Cars of all kinds were parked outside on the spacious grounds, including Bob’s red Ferrari.

A doorman in a black vest was checking guests’ identities.

Beyond the gate, halfway down the main drive, a three-tiered fountain sprayed crystal water.

On the green lawns to both sides, young men and women chatted, glasses in hand.

“The blond is Carrie from tenth grade; the tall, freckled one is Natalie—she’s already graduated; and the two-hundred-pound guy is Colin from the department store.”

Rust rubbed his neck, his voice hoarse and parched. “So what now, do we just walk in?”

Dean shook his head silently.

In the disco hall, after getting a lead from Time, the emotions churning inside him made Dean want to scream with rage.

Bullied, his dignity trampled, and now even his hard-won girlfriend taken away!

Old and new grudges seethed within him.

He longed to storm into Bob Lowe’s house, demand Mona’s whereabouts, and tear him limb from limb.

But as they traveled, he calmed.

If he confronted Bob Lowe so foolishly, would Bob admit anything?

The rich kid’s family ruled Las Vegas—they had power and influence. Even if Dean faced him head-on, what could a nobody like him do?

It would only invite humiliation.

And the party guests were another huge obstacle.

So Dean decided to sneak in first, find clues about Mona or some hard evidence, nail Bob’s crime, then figure out how to make him pay.

If justice couldn’t be served, he’d show Bob the fury of the overlooked.

…

“Rust, stay outside and rest.”

“Taking on a bully like Bob is a tough fight—I can’t miss it. I’ll go in and gather intel, find out where Bob is, and create a chance for you to face him alone. I’ll also draw attention away from you, so you can search the villa without worry!” Rust insisted.

“This is Bob’s territory—they could hurt you,” Dean said, touched but worried.

“Relax, I know how to adapt.”

“Just remember—not a word about Mona!”

“I’m going in through the front. What about you?” Rust asked.

“I’ll take another way.”

…

After watching Rust successfully enter, Dean pulled a black mask from his pocket and covered half his face. He slipped into the trees, circled the courtyard several times, and soon found a secluded corner where no one was watching.

After checking for cameras and finding none nearby, Dean took a deep breath, ran five meters, and leapt. His right foot pushed off the wall, his body soared, and his fingers gripped the top of the wall firmly.

Muscles tense, he scaled the wall like a lizard and landed softly in the grass.

Turning, he saw a Black couple in the distance, lost in each other’s embrace, oblivious to the intruder.

Keeping low, Dean crept along flowerbeds and shrubs toward the side wall of the villa.

On the second floor, a sliding glass window was wide open.

Dean climbed up with ease.

He was lucky—the hallway was empty.

He crouched, tiptoeing cautiously to the nearest room. He was about to turn the handle when a strange sound came from within.

“Mmm… baby, come on, come on!”

Through the frosted glass in the door, he glimpsed a tangle of black and white.

“Getting frisky in someone else’s house, so casual?”

Shaking his head, he slipped to another room.

…

“Stop—yeah, you! Rust, the sardine master!”

Rust hurried along a cobblestone path toward the villa, only to be blocked by a wiry Black guy in a yellow-sleeved, gray baseball jacket.

It was Wazel, the baseball team’s lackey who’d once cornered them in the restroom to take blackmail photos.

Rust’s mouth twitched.

Sardine master? What kind of awful nickname was that!

“How dare you show up here? It’s the boss’s birthday—no troublemakers allowed! Get lost!”

Wazel looked nervous, still afraid they’d spread the photos or snitch to the boss, which would end his good days.

“Relax, man, this is Bob’s place. I wouldn’t dare make trouble. Do you think I’m hiding a weapon under my clothes?”

Holding out his gift, Rust let Wazel frisk him.

Finding no sign of the rumored bio-weapon—the sardine can—Wazel relaxed.

“You’re always with Dean, the bio expert. Where’s that bastard?”

“Don’t mention him. He treats me like a lackey, orders me around. I’ve had enough—we’re done!” Rust said with feigned disdain. “Besides, he’s crossed Bob. Sooner or later, he’ll be run out of here. I’m different—I’m smart… so I came to apologize to the boss.”

“At least you know what’s good for you!” Wazel nodded, satisfied. “Come on, the boss is by the backyard pool.”

“I want to look around first,” Rust considered, hoping to cover for his friend upstairs.

“Only with the boss’s permission. Move it!”

Rust sighed and followed.

After a few steps, Wazel hesitated, “Can you give me those photos back?”

“As long as you put in a good word for me and everything goes smoothly… I’ll give you the photos and negatives on Monday!” Rust promised.

…

They walked through the front yard to the villa’s main entrance.

The villa was three stories tall, each level with a luxurious balcony. A dozen young people leaned on the railings, smoking and chatting.

The villa was airy and full of light.

Inside the hall, it was like entering another world.

…

Sunlight poured through the windows, mingling with crystal chandeliers to illuminate a stunningly lavish reception room—leather sofas, a saffron carpet.

Art adorned all four walls.

Five or six young men and women sat watching “The Shining” on the VCR, screaming at the screen.

On the sofa near the TV, a group of people in their twenties played a heated game of truth or dare with dice.

The one with the highest roll could make a demand of the lowest.

An Asian girl with a stunning figure kept rolling the lowest, losing several rounds until she was down to her underwear, showing off her athletic curves, her cheeks blazing.

The boys around her whooped and hollered.

“What a pack of rutting beasts!” Rust muttered, both scornful and a little envious, sneaking several glances before slipping through the glass doors at the other end of the lounge.

A sprawling, ultra-luxurious pool dominated the backyard.

Boys and girls in revealing swimsuits flaunted their youth, splashing and playing.

Five meters away, a three-hundred-pound man, his rolls of fat shaking, lumbered toward the pool.

The ground trembled.

He paused, then leapt.

Splash!

A depth charge detonation!

Waves crashed, and the setting sun lit up a spray of crystal water.

Shouts, curses, laughter.

Rust drew a sharp breath and followed Wazel to the edge of the pool.

Nearby, the same Mexican guy he’d seen before was hawking “herbs” to a blond white guy.

In the center of a row of lounge chairs stood a waist-high round oak barrel, giving off a heady malt aroma.

Two members of the baseball team sucked furiously on clear plastic tubes attached to the barrel, chugging beer to the cheers of the crowd.

Beer gushed into their mouths nonstop.

In seconds, the dark-haired, blue-eyed player on the left let go first, laughing as he spun in place, face flushed, and toppled into the pool behind him.

“Our first beer-chug champion is Big White Bear Crusoe!”

Bob Lowe, wearing sunglasses and swim trunks, raised Crusoe’s hand—still wrapped in a thick black “sweater.”

“Let’s congratulate him!”

“Crusoe! Crusoe! Crusoe!”

A brawny chorus of baseball players roared their approval.

…

Once the excitement died down a bit.

“Boss, Rust wants to see you.”

“Huh? Dean’s lackey? I don’t recall inviting you,” Bob said, lounging on a chair, glancing at him sidelong.

Rust, uneasy, said, “I’ve cut ties with that bastard. I’m here to apologize… I hope you’ll be generous and let me off the hook.”

“Boss… I think he really gets it now. Maybe—” Wazel began.

“Shut up! Who asked for your opinion?” Bob snapped, then turned to Rust. “Who do you think you are? You apologize and I’m just supposed to accept it?”

“So what do you want?” Rust tensed, face drawn.

Bob gave a wicked grin and called out, “Boys, grab him! Let’s teach him a lesson first!”