TONY NICHOLSON RECALLED a particular short story that had been popular when he was a schoolboy. He thought it was called “The Most Dangerous Game.” Well, he was playing such a game now, only in real life, and it was much more dangerous than some story in an anthology.
Nicholson stared at the monitors on his desk—watching and waiting, forcing himself to go slowly on the scotch. Zeus was due any minute, at least he was scheduled to appear, and Nicholson had a decision to make.
For months now, it had been the same game with this madman. Nicholson kept the carriage barn apartment vacant at all times, booked escorts whenever Zeus demanded it, and then tortured himself wondering if it would be suicide to record one of these little parties of his.
Nicholson had seen plenty in the few sessions he’d watched, but he had no idea exactly what Zeus was capable of, or even who he was. The man definitely played rough, though. In fact, some of the escorts he’d had sessions with had completely disappeared; at least they’d never come back to work after seeing Zeus.
Just after 12:30, a black Mercedes with tinted windows pulled up to the front gate. No one buzzed; Nicholson admitted the car remotely, then sat back, waiting for it to show up at the top of the drive.
His fingers played compulsively back and forth over the keyboard’s touchpad. Record, don’t record, record, don’t record.
Soon enough, the Mercedes passed in front of the house, then continued around toward the carriage barn in back—its destination. As always, the car’s plates were covered.
Before Zeus, the apartment had been a private VIP suite for any preapproved client who could afford it. The fees started at twenty thousand a night, and that was just for room and board. The suite was outfitted with the finest liquors and wines, a fully stocked gourmet kitchen, a marble steam room and Swiss shower, two fireplaces, and a full complement of electronics, including separately wired phone lines with routing software and multifrequency voice scramblers to make outgoing calls untraceable.
Nicholson pulled up the living room view—where two girls were waiting, as ordered. All they knew was that it would be a “party of one” and they’d been promised time and a half for the evening, a minimum of four thousand each.
When the door from the parking bay below opened, both of them stood up at once and started to primp.
Nicholson’s body tensed as he watched Zeus stride into the room, looking like any other client with his crisp blue suit, briefcase in hand, and a tan overcoat on his arm.
Except for one thing—Zeus wore a mask. Always. Black. Like an executioner.
“Hello, ladies. Very pretty. Very nice. Are you ready for me?” he asked.
That was what he always said too.
And in the voice he always used—too deep to be his real speaking voice.
Another element of disguise.
So who was this creepy, powerful, rich bastard?