April 3, 2008

Naked and shivering, Roger Keegan awoke bound to a chair. He sat in the center of a pool of harsh incandescent light, but the room around him was pitch-dark. His feet were flat on the cold concrete floor. Metal handcuffs bit into his wrists, which were secured behind his back. All he could smell was ammonia.

Looks like a cellar, he thought. Am I still at the casino? He had come to Las Vegas for a few days of well-earned vacation: some cards, some strippers, maybe some surfand-turf. Somewhere between his six Cuervo-and-Cokes at the Mirage and his visit to a nearby gentlemen's club, something had gone very, very wrong.

A door creaked open in the darkness, but there was no light to draw Roger's eye. Footsteps were answered by crisp echoes as they drew closer.

Roger swallowed in a futile effort to expel the sour taste of metabolized booze from his tongue, which was coated in a vile paste. Squinting, the forty-two-year-old middle manager saw three dark figures step into the ring of shadow just outside his circle of light. Two looked like men; the other had the appealing curves of a woman.

The man on the left lit a cigarette, illuminating his brown face with a flicker of orange flame. Then he flipped his lighter shut, and all that remained was the red pinpoint at the end of his cigarette. Roger winced at the pungent aroma of tobacco. Whatever the man was smoking, it was harsh and bitter.

"So," said the man in the center. "This is him?"

"Yes," the woman replied. "He's been prepared."

Throwing fearful looks at each member of the trio, Roger said, "Wait a second, there's gotta be a mistake! I'm just a sales rep! My name's Roger Keegan, I don't -- " The clack of a round being chambered into a