CHAPTER ONE Checking In

Wednesday, July 15, 2008, 9:25 p.m.

Blackjack Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas, Nevada

Will Young slowly wound his way through the roulette tables and slot machines, gambling addicts and drunken tourists. He hated casinos. No windows, no space, no room to breathe. Will suffered from a mild case of claustrophobia caused by an episode during his childhood, so this wasn't exactly heaven. Other than that, though, he was perfect at his job. And his job was to kill.

Will pushed his way through another group of tipsy holidaymakers and took a deep breath, glad to be out of the crowd. There was the check-in desk, situated at the back of the main lobby. How convenient, Will thought. He wondered how many of the slot machine players had been going to check into a room but had decided to try their luck first. There was one man who looked as though he hadn't shaved in about three days. A rolling suitcase was at his feet. Will shook his head and stepped up to the desk.

"What can I do for you today, sir?" The woman at the desk said cheerily, smiling up at him. She was mildly attractive, probably new to the job. Lila was her name, according to the tag on her shirt.

Will smiled back at her. "Yes, I'd like a room for the night, please. Cost isn't an issue."

Lila looked taken aback for a moment, but Will was dressed in an Armani suit, D&G slacks, and wore a Rolex around his wrist. A young, successful businessman, loose with money because he had so much. Or at least, it appeared that way. "Of course, sir. I'll find one for you." She typed in a few things on the keyboard. "Hm. Well, you have your choice of Room 8821 or 7110. I could've sworn the first one was occupied. I guess he checked out while I was on break. But no matter. Which room would you like? I personally recommend 8821. It has a wonderful view of the city."

"8821 it is, then," said Will, pulling his license out of the wallet. He handed it over. "I suppose you'll need to check this."

"Yeah, well, we want to know who you are!" She laughed and verified the license. "I'll have to ask you a few questions, Mr. Jordan."

She did, and he lied on all counts. He still marveled at the stuff HL and her team at Covert Ops could pull off in that little lab of theirs. A fake license was one thing, but a fake license that connected to a fake phone number, a fake credit card, a fake life? That was quite another.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Jordan. Enjoy your stay." She handed over the room key. GAIN ACCESS TO TARGET'S HOTEL ROOM. In his head, Will checked off Phase One of Operation: Gamble. Now for Phase Two.

* * * * Room 8821 was occupied, contrary to the information that Lila the Happy Hotel Clerk had pulled up on her computer. The tech genius at CIA Covert Ops, HL (short for Henrietta Lawrence, which explained why HL didn't appreciate being called by her first name), had hacked the computer system at the Blackjack and changed the word in front of 8821 to 'unoccupied.' Why had they gone through all this trouble? The man staying in the room, only known as Markov, was the leader of the terrorist organization Omega. Omega was everywhere, corrupting politicians, dropping bombs, spying on one country for another. As far as the CIA was concerned, Markov's existence was vital to Omega. He was the keystone. Without him, the whole organization would collapse.

The CIA had just received Intel that Markov was spending time in Las Vegas, at the Blackjack. They had checked it out, gotten the president's OK, and made the necessary arrangements. After all the preparation was complete they sent in one of their top assassins. That was Will. So here he was, walking purposefully through the warmly lit hallway, holding the keycard.

Will put a hand underneath his suit jacket. The cool steel of his pistol, a tiny, lightweight Khar P9, was comforting. Before it was over, one less bullet would be in the cartridge and Markov would be dead. That was if everything went perfectly, of course. But he doubted it. Markov would surely have a few bodyguards. Though CIA surveillance showed no sign of anyone but that man, it was hard to believe. How does a known terrorist leader sleep at night without anyone at the foot of his bed, ready to give their life?

Still, Will wasn't unduly worried. Plus, he had packed a few items of his own into his suitcase, in the event that things got hairy.

He stopped and stared at the gold lettering on the door. Room 8821. He was here, and he hadn't encountered a single terrorist! But now it was show time. Now the operation could go one way and be a success, or it could go the other way. To Hell. Will took out the pistol, slipped the keycard into the opening, and burst through the door.

"Hello, Mr. Young. How was your trip?" There was Markov, sitting serenely at a large dining table, which was set for two. Will took it all in. The view through the window, the luxurious accommodations, the man before him. For a moment he stood there, stunned, but then he remembered his mission. Markov was his target, and he was trying to buy himself time. Will wasn't selling any. He raised his weapon and pulled the trigger.

Click. Click. Clickclickclickclick. Shit. The cartridge was empty. Will dropped the useless weapon, sweat pouring off his brow.

"Yes," said Markov, "I thought it might be better if that little James Bond gun of yours couldn't, well, hurt me. I don't want to get killed. I'm sure you understand. I have a business to run!"

The questions were racing through Will's head. How had Markov known? Where had he left his gun so that it could be emptied? He had checked the ammo countless times. It was impossible that someone could have- STOP. Will silenced the questions. He may have been unarmed, but having a fifth dan black belt in karate meant that one was never helpless. He would finish this, even if it meant getting his hands dirty.

Will lunged forward. Markov made no attempt to move, and Will soon found out why. His chest was on fire! Will twisted in midair, cried out, and hit the carpeted ground in a heap. Markov stood from his chair.

"Remember the champagne you had on the flight?" asked Markov. "Well, it was poisoned. I see now that our examination of your immune system was well worth it. We did some complicated math, found the approximate time it would take the poison to work, and administered it accordingly. Of course, your president didn't want you killed, at least not now. Pity.." Markov smirked. "President Hawthorne and his friends at the White House were very helpful, might I add. Yes, very helpful."

Will opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly he felt tired. So tired.

"Stupid boy," Markov muttered as Will drifted into unconsciousness.