PROLOGUE

June 2019

The croupier gave the wheel a good spin and released the small white ball to run counter to the wheel's rotation. It tracked rapidly around the outside ridge, then perceptibly slowed before taking a random dive into the red and black pockets.

"No more bets." He waved his open hand above the table. With its aristocratic pace and hypnotic silky-smooth click and rattle, the roulette table was a tranquil, almost relaxing oasis in the midst of the otherwise frenetic casino. No strategy was demanded; no skill involved. No complex system to learn in a futile attempt to beat the house. Just place your chips on a number and hope that you picked the 1-in-38 to make you a winner.

The ball settled on red, number 14. After placing the clear, cylindrical marker on the winning number, the croupier cleared the bets from the table. Special Agent Matt Greene's 35-to-1 straight-up bet on 18 was a loser, but his "2nd 12" bet for $5 won him 10 bucks. Time for a breather. His FBI paycheck didn't allow much room for an extended losing streak.

An eager cocktail waitress stepped up and delivered the complimentary Screwdriver he had ordered a few minutes before."Here you go sir, enjoy it. Can I get you anything else?"

"Thanks a lot." He accepted the drink, took a quick sip, fished a red chip from his pocket, and placed it on her tray. "That'll be it for now." Trading in his remaining roulette chips, he grabbed his drink and stepped away from the crowded table.

Well out of his jurisdiction, Agent Greene had taken a long weekend for a combination of a quickie vacation and personal fact-finding trip. He worked out of the Omaha field office, where his superiors unofficially encouraged such observational junkets to the new, controversial resort. The FBI had no influence or impact on what went on here, but it never hurt knowing how the other guy operated.

An even, athletic 6 feet tall, he'd allowed himself the indulgence of letting his hair grow out a full 3 inches from his former Marine Corps buzz-cut. He had the rounded, well-developed chest, flat stomach and clean-cut looks that screamed "law enforcement" to even the casual observer, though no one in his vicinity today seemed the least bit concerned.

He knocked back his drink and decided he'd been on his feet long enough. There was an intimately lit salon not too distant that looked like it would suit his purposes just fine. He threaded his way through the roulette and craps tables toward the beckoning oasis.

The lounge was located at the far end of a horseshoe-shaped alcove jutting out from the casino floor. The emotional temperature of the recess was, by design, noticeably muted. Where the main hall of the Snakebite Casino was done in snappy, summer prairie colors--bright, punchy yellows, turquoises, periwinkles and reds--the alcove was more understated in serene pastels. The mood music had transitioned from energetic pop to a more contemplative New Age style. The carpet was thicker and more comforting underfoot.

An automatic sliding door opened and allowed Agent Greene access. As he stepped into the reception area, he was greeted by a hostess, who, after jotting a note on her seating chart, escorted him down a series of dark, narrow aisles. It took him a moment to notice that there didn't appear to be a freestanding table anywhere in sight--the floor plan had been cleverly designed so that all guest seating was in closed-back booths. He sensed the salon was actually quite crowded, though the noise level was minimal and all the guests hidden away in the confusing maze of private nooks and crannies. Some had translucent, burgundy curtains drawn for increased privacy; as he passed Greene could see slow-motion silhouettes carrying on behind the drapes. The acrid signature of marijuana smoke was scarcely noticeable under a subtle veil of incense. The hostess drew back the curtain on an empty booth and saw that he was settled in the plushly appointed space before taking her leave.

Within minutes a tall, thin tuxedo-clad gentleman stepped up to the table and politely requested to see his resort "PlayPass." Agent Greene produced the digitally encoded identification card he'd received upon check-in. The overly severe, though professionally polite, gatekeeper swiped it through a portable card-reader and handed it back. The card contained, among other things, Greene's medical history and vital statistics, active drug prescriptions, allergies, risk categories, substance-abuse history and other data downloaded (with his approval) when he'd charged his vacation to his credit card. The hand-held computer instantly evaluated a guest's physical status and produced what was, in effect, a grade--a "Play Status," in the resort's official lingo. The gentleman smiled. He informed Greene that a server would be right with him and excused himself.

Almost immediately an attractive young lady, her hair a sharp pixie cut, stopped by and handed him a menu. "I'll be back for your order in a minute," she assured with a spunky Midwestern twang.

"Thanks." Matt studied the menu, one of several available for guests depending on their health profiles. Matt's unblemished medical and substance-abuse file qualified him for the unrestricted, "High Roller" menu. A glance was all it took to convince him that the resort was clearly beyond the reach of U.S. law.

The server returned. Never having been that adventurous, even in his college days, the straight-laced agent stuck with the tried and true. "Let me have a Johnnie Black on the rocks, with a shot of Drambuie on the side."

"A Rusty Nail?"

"I like to mix it myself. Thanks." Experience taught him that many a bartender would substitute cheap, speed-rack Scotch, assuming most drinkers couldn't tell the difference. Separate glasses assured that he would get the good stuff.

Waiting for his drink, Greene put his professional skills to work and unobtrusively scoped out his immediate environment. A waitress appeared at the table across the aisle from him carrying a book-sized black tray and a glass of water. Her customer was sitting in the booth by himself. Middle-aged, he had obviously already patronized a posh store in the shopping arcade, for the feet he ostentatiously parked in the aisle sported shiny ostrich-hide boots, tooled in pink and turquoise. Greene dubbed him Ostrich Boots. The waitress set the tray before him.

To Greene the tray appeared to be of a dense, hard wood--ebony, perhaps, though it could have been black plastic; the somber lighting made it difficult to tell. The tray seemed to have four grooves cut in it, each filled with a heaping line of sparkling white, crystalline cocaine. A gutter on the tray's left side held a wrapped, black plastic straw.

A serious-looking young man, also garbed in the apparently requisite tuxedo, followed right behind the waitress and placed an electric pipe on the table. Rather mystical looking, the device had a clear glass dome, about the size of a softball, to contain the smoke, and, given its overall mission, to keep the smoker entertained. He plugged it in, attached a 24-inch hose with a fresh, clean mouthpiece on the end, and gently removed the dome. Pulling a pouch from his pocket, he used a small measuring spoon to neatly scoop out the requested amount of Payette County sinsemilla, "grown in the foothills of southwest Idaho, just outside of Boise," Greene heard the young man announce. He tapped it carefully into the pipe's burner-tray and re-secured the glass dome. After demonstrating how to press and hold the red button to heat up the product, he excused himself and stepped away.

Agent Greene tried not to stare as Ostrich Boots wet his finger, touched it to the glistening white powder, and tasted. Puckering and smacking his lips, he took a sip of water, reached for the pipe, and fired-up the sinsemilla.

Half an hour later, Greene was waiting for the change from his check and Ostrich Boots was wasted. Toasted. He compulsively alternated between snorting sharply to clear his sinuses, rubbing his nose, and sipping water. He pulled himself together long enough to manage some unconvincing eye contact with the approaching server.

"How are you doing here, sir? All done?"

Ostrich Boots looked up at her with his mouth hanging open.

Even from the opposite table, Greene could tell that Boots' face and tongue must have been numb, completely anesthetized.

The waitress smiled at her hapless charge. It was top quality cocaine and one of the strongest marijuana strains they offered; she would have been surprised if he had been able to muster any coherent response. "Can I get you something else?"

Ostrich Boots took a sip of water and cleared his throat.

"Can I geth a hith of Ethscasy?"

"Excuse me?" The server graciously suppressed a giggle. Greene wasn't so kind.

"Ethscasy."

"I'm sorry, sir, are you trying to say Ecstasy?"

"Yeth. Thorry. One hith of Ethscasy." He pointed to the colorful table tent.

Greene glanced at its twin on his own table. Featuring a soft-focus couple in an amorous embrace, it advertised "CLARITY" pharmaceutical Ecstasy.

"To go," Ostrich Books instructed.

"Sure thing," the server promised. "Will you be charging everything to your room?"

"Yeth."

"Great. Let me take care of that for you and I'll be right back with your CLARITY." She scampered off to fill his order and, on her return, brought the bill. Like the one Greene had received a few minutes earlier, the bill was enclosed in an elegant black leather folder, accompanied by a small tray holding a chocolate mint. Unlike Greene's, Ostrich Boots' tray also held a blister-packed capsule of Ecstasy.

Greene smiled to himself; he'd seen enough. As soon as his change arrived, he left the salon.

Back in the casino he headed to the main exit--impossible to miss from anywhere on the floor, as it was flanked by two life-sized, bronze bull buffalo, posed heads down, as if ready to charge each other across the thick river of casino visitors. The broad portico would take him back into the massive resort's central atrium, where he could get re-oriented before moseying off to his next destination--at the opposite end of the bustling mall, almost a quarter-mile distant.

That proved to be crowded, too, though not in nearly the density of the casino floor, and not as noisy. Acres of overhead skylights bathed the space with cheery sunlight, a physical dynamic requiring aggressive air-conditioning to offset. A moving walkway ran the length of the expanse, available to less athletically inclined guests. Resort employees could be seen scooting about in electric carts.

He paused to admire the scenery to his right. Beyond the huge wall of glass, past the complex's handsomely landscaped fire buffer and walkways, lay seemingly endless miles of rolling prairie, a rich green carpet bountifully speckled with purple and yellow wildflowers, under a vast blue sky. Scattered signs of civilization, farm buildings most likely, were visible in the distance.

Agent Greene's pastoral moment ended rudely with the thunderous, almost demented, rise of screams and catcalls echoing from the hall behind him. Curiosity heightened, he cautiously approached what was the first of four (apart from the casino) adjoined buildings, abutting, and open to, the atrium.

The Homesteader Arcade was ostensibly an entertainment area for the under-21 set. Stocked with the latest generation of holographic immersion games, the sprawling room was more crowded than the casino, teeming with guests as determined to spend money as the gamblers were to lose it. Gamesters crowded into sensory-immersion booths, up to six at a time, to don state-of-the-art 3-D holographic headgear, shoulder their low-amp laser weapons, mount their techno-steeds and challenge each other for game-points and glory. Some jousted and dueled with heavy, realistic swords and maces against each other, or chose life-sized, 3-D digital opponents for superior decapitation effects. Some armed themselves with modern military weapons for 15 minutes of heart stopping, bloody house-to-house combat; others competed in outrageous road-racing games, while the better-coordinated adventurers with strong stomachs jockeyed spacecraft in violent dogfights around the moons of Jupiter. Younger children were offered educational and entertaining interactions with their favorite Saturday morning cartoon characters.

Looks like fun, Greene thought. This place, he decided, warranted further exploration later on. He drifted back into the atrium, circling around a bustling section of small dining tables and past the rampart of fast-food outlets dutifully guarding the wall to his left.

The next building, almost 100 yards beyond the arcade, was far more sedate. It housed a dozen restaurants, ranging from modestly priced, family-style establishments to the finest, world-class haute cuisine. One of the most popular was the Final Frontier Grill, perched atop the building, 400 feet above the open plain that Greene had been admiring minutes before. Semicircular, tri-level seating and wall-to-wall observation windows allowed a spectacular view from every seat in the house. The menu was un-ambitious and, like almost everything here, a tad overpriced, but the atmospherics kept seating in demand and cemented the restaurant's status as one of the highest-grossing and most reliable moneymakers at the resort.

He proceeded along the atrium, past clusters of shops offering jewelry, electronic gadgets, fine clothing and other expensive items (like Ostrich Boot's footwear) that even the wealthiest consumer would never purchase at home but which somehow seemed attractive to the same people after a big casino win. He kept walking.

The next building housed the resort's hotel complex. The lobby featured a 40-foot "wall of water"--a relaxing, soothing contrast to the frenetic activity in the nearby open mall, it featured thousands of gallons of water rushing down a locally quarried, polished red sandstone face. More than 7,500 rooms were available, divided between three major luxury hospitality providers--Hilton, Marriott, and Hyatt--and a Motel 6 for the budget-minded. Bottom floors were occupied by three large theater/nightclubs, each with its own recreational-drug salon. Live music throbbed from one of the nightclubs. Greene continued on.

Another 100 yards down the atrium, past still another flight of stores, was the final building in the complex--Matt Greene's destination, the Playhouse. He hung a hard left into the entry corridor.

Here too, both sides of the ground level were flanked with nightclubs, these of a decidedly more adult nature. A bank of elevators lined the back wall. Agent Greene entered a waiting car, took a moment to check the directory and pressed the appropriate button. The elevator rose quickly and smoothly.

The door opened silently into a deeply comforting, very masculine reception area. It was plush, just short of smothering, with enough Western trappings to keep it from looking like a stuffy, East Coast, Ivy-League private men's club. A drop-dead receptionist rose from behind her desk to greet him. She wore a shamelessly low-cut black dress that revealed a length of legs so perfect he stopped, frozen in his tracks. Perfect teeth, perfect smile, perfect hair, perfect make-up. Perfect breasts (from what he could see, which had to be at least 90 percent of them). She offered her hand in greeting. Perfect hand.

"How are you today? Have you used our services before?"

"Hi. Uh, no...first time here." He wanted to tell her that he was just looking, but was actually a tad intimidated.

She placed her hand gently on his left shoulder blade and gestured ahead with the other. "Let me show you the facilities."

He was ushered into a cozy, private room with subdued lighting, furnished only with an easy chair and computer screen perched at the end of an adjustable swingarm. Soft music played in the background. His hostess sat gracefully on the arm of his chair, adjusted the computer, and, her hand now draped ever-so-softly across his shoulder, leaned in and explained how to use the online search and reservation system. She helped him swipe his resort PlayPass through the card-reader. His lack of any STDs and other microbiological no-goodsies and his spotless criminal record allowed him maximum access to the system. He had no idea how her breasts managed to remain secure inside her dress.

She finally, gracefully, took her leave and silently closed the door behind her. On the computer he was able to do a simple search for height, body type, hair, eye color, ethnicity, sexual proclivities, and other such characteristics that men deem most important to short-term relationships with the opposite sex. He could elect a picture of a woman that caught his eye, review her particular vital statistics, and watch her cavort playfully in a professionally produced video. Most were modestly seductive, non-threatening, girl-next-door presentations, set with the subject talking softly about herself while traipsing through tall prairie grass; brushing a horse; washing an already sparkling red Corvette while wearing a bikini top and impossibly short, frayed denim cut-offs; or perhaps strolling through an idyllic woodland glade before perching herself and her skin-tight jeans on a log. The women seemed uniformly well-spoken, polished and beautiful. Given a better roll of the dice, perhaps a better education or access to a better selection of men, just about any could have found work as a trophy wife for a successful Greenwich, Connecticut, executive. Some still might. He was able to read a short bio and check the price list for the proffered services. Another click gave him a look at the subject's calendar and availability.

He took a good 20 minutes to leisurely browse through the selections before getting up and leaving the small room, giving the hostess a chipper smile, a wave and a thank-you before heading to the elevator.

Special Agent Matt Greene knew, as many liked to say at a moment like this, that he "wasn't in Kansas anymore." Hell, he wasn't even in the United States anymore.

But he was about 30 miles west of Billings, Montana.