The salt spray still clinging to his hair, Dmitri Volkov slipped unnoticed from the docks onto the neon-drenched streets of Las Vegas. He hailed a cab, the humid night air thick with the scent of exhaust fumes and cheap perfume. "The Bellagio," he told the driver, his voice low and gravelly, "and make it snappy."
The cab zipped through the city, a blur of flashing lights and roaring engines. Dmitri leaned back, the city's energy a stark contrast to the quiet intensity he carried within. He was already thinking ahead, his mind mapping out the intricate details of their plan.
He arrived at the Bellagio, its fountains a mesmerizing spectacle even at this late hour. He slipped inside, navigating the opulent lobby with practiced ease. He approached the maître d', a portly man with a practiced smile. With a subtle nod and the flash of a subtly engraved platinum card, he secured a reservation under the name "Mr. Ricardo" at a secluded table in the restaurant's private dining room.
Entering the private dining room, the air hummed with a low thrum of conversation, the clinking of crystal glasses a delicate counterpoint to the murmur of hushed voices. At a table tucked away in a shadowy corner, Dmitri's crew was waiting.
Dmitri leaned back, his gaze sweeping the room. "Let's make this a clean sweep," he said, the subtle tension in the air palpable. "But first, there's something you should know. The FBI is on my tail. They're not just interested in me; they're interested in the Red Case."
He recounted his recent encounters, the chaos at the Golden Dragon, the betrayal by Kostas, and his narrow escape. He detailed the micro-etched symbols on the document he'd recovered, emphasizing the mystery and the potential danger. He concluded, "This isn't just about money anymore. This is about survival, and about uncovering the truth behind this whole mess. And that truth, I suspect, lies in Iraq. We need weapons, intel, and access to the black market there—things we can't easily get here."
A silence fell over the table, broken only by the clinking of ice in Ricardo's glass. Ricardo finally spoke, his voice calm but firm. "So, the game has changed. We need to adjust our strategy. Before we can deal with whatever this 'Red Case' is, we need to solidify our position here in Vegas. This operation will fund our next move in Iraq."
Isabella leaned forward, her eyes sharp. "We have a few scattered crew members in Vegas, doing their own thing. They're good, but they're not exactly… discreet. We need to gather them, get them on board. Think of it as a pre-game warm-up. We need to make sure everyone's on the same page before we move on to the next phase. We need to acquire specific weapons and tech in Iraq—things that can't be procured here without raising red flags. Our contacts know who to trust."
Javier grunted his agreement. "And then there's the matter of funding. We need equipment, supplies, access to the black market—both here and in Iraq. A little casino heist should solve that—at least for the immediate needs. Think of it as an investment in our future. We'll need serious firepower and tech to handle whatever comes next, and our Iraqi contacts can supply some things we can't get here. They have intel on the Red Case, too."
Ricardo added, "Isabella has been working on a plan. It's risky, but it's our best chance to get the resources we need and avoid detection. Once we have the funds and the team assembled, we can focus on the Red Case. We'll need to tread carefully; the FBI is breathing down our necks, and we can't afford any slip-ups. The information we glean from the Red Case will determine our next move in Iraq, and we need the right tools and intel to make that move effectively."
Dmitri considered their words, the weight of their request settling upon him. He knew they were right. He couldn't tackle the Red Case alone. He needed his crew, and he needed the resources. "Alright," he said, his voice low. "Let's do it.