Vegas

1
Mason’s trip through time reached its zenith in Vegas. The bounty of
bounties. A city devoted to excess: casinos, showbiz, neon, hookers,
restaurants, pawnshops, limos, and hoards of people all in a hurry to
experience everything before they died.
What had been nothing but desert for millions of years was now a
shiny, noisy, electrified Mecca of Want.

2
He’d been here before. This wasn’t the first time Mason sold his life, not
by a longshot. Things had been desperate for a while. It took money to
build a safehouse and to hold onto the failed motel that served as Char-
lie’s Potemkin existence.
Luckily for Mason, the bounty had made obsolete the very strug-
gles that give one’s life meaning. Everything came too easy in the All at
Once. Men were hardwired to protect and provide for a family through
problem solving. Then modernity solved all those problems. Women
were hardwired to nurture a family. Then society told her to award that
honor to daycare, schools, and electronic screens. Without a purpose,
people began to wander. Some found meaning elsewhere. Too many
went astray and lost themselves in self-worship and nihilism. So, yeah,
there were plenty of buyers for the one thing Mason had left to sell.
Las Vegas was a key part of the deal he worked out with his buyers.
Using black market software, Mason advertised his life on the Dark

33
 JOHN NOLTE

Web with four conditions: 1) the price was $50,000, 2) the meet takes
place in a hotel, 3) the buyer chooses the hotel, but 4) the hotel must be
in Las Vegas.
Mason understood that someone willing to pay $50,000 to commit
a cold-blooded murder was the most dangerous person in the world:
someone with everything to lose and the resources to leave nothing to
chance. Vegas was far enough away to keep Charlie and Doreen safe
from a buyer paranoid about loose ends—but only temporarily. All
Vegas could really do was slow down the hunt. With all the electronic
footprints in the All at Once, there was no question a determined buyer
would eventually find and kill Doreen and Charlie, and in the process,
they might stumble across Mason’s secret.
While Mason knew that not every buyer was a threat, it was a chance
he’d never take. He killed them all.

3
With its two airports, multiple bus terminals, and countless parking
garages, Vegas made it impossible for the buyer to monitor everything.
If no one saw Mason arrive, no one could trace him back to where he’d
started by way of a license plate or talkative cabbie.
And it was in one of those garages ten miles from the Strip where
Mason parked his treasured pickup, Doreen’s wedding gift to him.
At this point, the routine was the same: Mason separated the pickup’s
ignition key from the key ring and carefully emptied his pockets. Except
for that key, the just-purchased burner phone, forty dollars in cash, and
a hotel key card (mailed by the buyer to a post office box Mason would
never use again), everything else was locked in the glove box.
Mason exited the truck, secured it, and hid the key in the parking
garage. Before hailing a cab, he walked two miles so the driver couldn’t
connect him with the garage.
He further covered his tracks by having the cabbie drop him about a
mile from the hotel.
Mason didn’t mind the walk. If he could, he’d walk everywhere.
Once, he had.

34
 B ORROWED TIME

4
He entered the hotel’s elevator, another modern miracle, a thing made
entirely of glass.
You can see everything.
He pressed 12 and the doors closed, but before he could take in the
view, the giant bubble leapt twelve stories in the air and immediately
ordered him out.
He’d wanted to savor that view but was outvoted by a world in
a hurry.

5
In front of Suite 1212’s large double doors, Mason double-checked
the key card. Scrawled on the back in black marker was “FOUR
SEASONS 1212.”
He was in the right place.
From here, he would use the alias “Mike Stark.”
He paused a moment to gather himself, because once again he was
about to pay the price for having never cared about money.
Making money was something he’d never considered. Too much
hassle. Too much risk. Sure, had he opened a simple savings account
a few hundred years back, he’d be a wealthy man today. He knew that
now. He knew that then. But it had always been him alone.
Well, now he wasn’t him alone. He had a wife, Charlie, a mortgage,
responsibilities…. So he slid that card into the slot and the little red light
on the locking mechanism switched to green.
Mason pushed open the door.
“Mike Stark” disappeared on the other side.
The door slammed shut.

6
In that empty hallway, the little green light switched back to red. And in
that luxury room, Mason would unknowingly take the first step into the
events that would bring about the end of the world.

35
 Ernest

1
The morning of “Mike Stark’s” arrival, Ernest showed up at the Las Vegas
Four Seasons a few hours before check-in time.
The hotel accommodated him. When you’re paying $2,700 a night
for a suite, the hotel accommodates you.
Suite 1212 was everything Ernest had hoped for during his noisy,
crowded coach flight from D.C. After tipping both bellboys for hanging
up the suits, Ernest escorted them out, locked the double doors, and
beheld the luxury: mammoth rooms, high ceilings, full bar, hot tub,
fresh flowers, whole wall of windows, and one helluva view of the Strip.
“Fuck yeah,” said Ernest as he kicked off his shoes.

2
The early flight hadn’t been his idea. Ernest wasn’t allowed to have ideas.
Still, he’d been happy to be on it—thrilled, if you must know. Before this
Mike Stark fella arrived, Ernest was determined to enjoy every minute
of his time alone.
“Mike Stark” wouldn’t be his real name. Ernest didn’t care about that.
It was none of his business. Besides, he had bigger things to worry about,
like the grudge the universe held against him. He knew the universe
would soon smite him, so he kept his focus on grabbing hold of life’s
pleasures while he could.
One pleasure he would not be grabbing hold of was the hotel’s
amenities: room service, pay-per-view, or that full bar. Like many

36
 B ORROWED TIME

wealthy and powerful men, Ernest’s employer was petty and greedy
and would personally scrutinize the bill (while smoking a two-hun-
dred-dollar cigar). If so much as a candy bar was missing from the mini
bar, Ernest would go to prison—not for stealing the candy bar, for some-
thing far worse.
That’s why Ernest brought along his own candy bars: eighteen
Almond Joys in a cooler loaded with Orange Gatorade. He also brought
along his favorite movies and a laptop computer to watch them on.
Yes, for one blissful afternoon, and for the first time in months,
Ernest would not be on 24/7 call to the Old Rich Prick—as he called
him, but never out loud, not even when alone. With all the hidden and
not-so-hidden cameras and microphones in the Old Rich Prick’s world,
were he to even whisper, You old rich prick, he’d die in prison.
This luxury suite sure wasn’t for Ernest. Nope, it was for this Stark
fella. You see, the Old Rich Prick believed that wowing his Sacrifices
kept them calm. What’s more, the only reason Ernest was set free
so early today was to ensure a thorough search of the suite for elec-
tronic devices. After finishing that search, he was under strict orders
not to leave the room for any reason. Well, that was fine by him. Ernest
intended to settle into the luxury bed of this luxury suite, gorge himself
on candy bars, and watch his favorite movies: The Goonies, The Sandlot,
and Stand by Me.
Yes, for a few hours, Ernest would forget all about the universe, all
about the horrors that were in store for this Mike Stark fella tonight, and
his own dreaded role in those horrors.
It wasn’t that Ernest was squeamish about body disposal. It was that
he weighed 350 pounds, and body disposal was fucking exhausting.

3
Ernest was fifty-one years old, felt every day of it, and earned his living
as the Old Rich Prick’s “body man.” This meant he drove the limo, ran
the errands, killed people, got rid of bodies, and pulled down the Old
Rich Prick’s pants every morning to give that wrinkled, old pimply ass a
shot of “vitamins” that were really amphetamines.
For his loyalty, Ernest received $100,000 a year plus room and board.
His girth testified to the quality of the board. The room was lovely and
large and located…right next to the Old Rich Prick’s room.

37
 JOHN NOLTE

“Ernest, goddammit, get the car!”

“Ernest, goddammit, where’s my Viagra!”
“Ernest, goddammit, vodka tonic!”
Ernest, goddammit! rang in Ernest’s ears. Sometimes he heard it when
it wasn’t shouted. Mostly it was.
The alternative was prison. No, the alternative was death in prison,
and the Old Rich Prick never let him forget it.
“Murderers in prison murder child rapists in prison,” the Old Rich
Prick was fond of saying.
So Ernest did everything he was told, and every year—on the anni-
versary of the day the Old Rich Prick enslaved him with videos of his
crimes—the Old Rich Prick wired $100,000 into Ernest’s bank account.
Except for small expenditures, like Almond Joys, the money sat
untouched. Ernest was a millionaire. Barely, but still: a millionaire! He
could hardly believe it.

4
After the Old Rich Prick died, Ernest would be free and rich. Except he
wouldn’t be and he knew it. He knew the Old Rich Prick would double-
cross him in death because the Old Rich Prick double-crossed everyone
in life. Ernest knew, just knew, that after the Old Rich Prick croaked
the videos of his crimes would be forwarded to the authorities. Ernest
hadn’t figured out what to do about that. He spent a lot of time thinking
on it. Once, he’d even confronted the Old Rich Prick.
“Why would I betray you?” was the Old Rich Prick’s response. “If
people were to discover I employed a child buggerer, it would sully
my legacy!”
Liar. The Old Rich Prick didn’t care about his legacy or his family—
which was comprised of one daughter: Anne, a woman who so unsettled
Ernest he locked his door at night.
But now was not the time to cloud the mind with stresses and
puzzles. Before the universe struck, before this “Mike Stark” fella showed
up, Ernest would enjoy Almond Joys, Orange Gatorade, and a trilogy of
movies starring young boys.

38
 Stark

1
It was dusk when Mason entered Suite 1212.
In a winged-back chair, dressed impeccably in a dark business suit,
sat an expressionless fat man. The only sign the fat man lived a life
outside of one where he sat around in winged-back chairs waiting for
people was his hair, which was still damp from a shower.
Mason found the presentation—complete with intertwined fingers
settled on a mountainous belly—a little too mannered. Posing for effect,
he thought. Not that it mattered. He had no intention of giving this
cheesy Bond villain any trouble.
“I’m Stark,” Mason said.
The fat man lifted himself from the chair.

2
This wasn’t Ernest’s first go-round with the Old Rich Prick’s Sacrifices, as
Ernest called them. The Old Rich Prick had already purchased five lives,
so Ernest knew what to expect. These sorry bastards always showed up
a real mess. Sometimes high as hell, sometimes bitter and resentful,
always stressed, and always some combination of freaked the fuck out.
That’s why Ernest made sure to always present himself as The Man You
Don’t Fuck With.
The Sacrifices had to be handled, you see, and finding Ernest naked in
bed singing “Stand by Me” made the wrong impression. So in plenty of

39
 JOHN NOLTE

time for “Mike Stark’s” arrival, Ernest had picked up, showered, dressed,
and sat waiting.

3
Mason was surprised by the fat man’s physical grace. Despite his heft,
in a single fluid motion, he’d effortlessly removed himself from the
chair and approached with ease and confidence. He didn’t offer to
shake hands.
“Name’s Ernest. I need to see your key card.”
Mason handed over the card for inspection and Ernest compared
it to his own, which also had “FOUR SEASONS 1212” written on the
back in black marker. The writing matched and the fat man seemed to
relax a little.
“Go ahead and empty your pockets on the desk,” Ernest said. It
wasn’t an order—more matter-of-fact, like the two of them had an
understanding. This surprised Mason. He’d expected more of that Bond
villain shit—If you would be so kind as to empty your pockets, Mr. Bond,
we have had the desk brought in for your convenience—and admonished
himself for underestimating his host.
Mason emptied his pockets of the flip phone and the twelve bucks left
over from the cab ride. Then Ernest impressed him again by conjuring
a handheld metal detector, seemingly from nowhere. Then, like it was a
religious ceremony, the fat man scrupulously passed it over every inch
of Mason’s body—twice. He then passed it over the former contents of
Mason’s pockets.
“You’re good,” the fat man said and returned to the winged-back
chair, where he settled in and opened a laptop. He began typing and
without looking up relayed a message: “You can still back out, pal. My
employer won’t hold it against you. But you have to decide now.”
Mason didn’t believe that, not after he’d seen the fat man’s face. But
even if it were true, his ticket was for the full ride.
“Didn’t come all this way to turn myself around,” said Mason.
Ernest grimaced. Great, more body disposal.
The only sound now was Ernest’s typing.
Ta-tap-tap-ta-ta-ta-tap-tap-tap.
Mason patiently waited.

40
 B ORROWED TIME

Tap-tap-tap-ta-tap-ta-ta-tap.
Tap-tap-tap-ta-tap-ta-ta-tap.
Without taking his eyes from the laptop, Ernest finally spoke:
“Gimme your bank wire info.”
Mason recited the routing and account numbers from memory. After
a few keystrokes, Ernest slammed the laptop closed and announced:
“Transfer’s done. Now I need you to—”
Mason calmly lifted the “not-so-fast” finger on one hand and his
burner phone with the other. “Gotta verify the transfer.”
“Yeah, okay, pal. Just put it on speaker.”
Mason hit the flip-phone’s “on” button, and as it took its time to
power up, the ensuing silence grew more and more awkward.

4
Ernest loathed silence. Silence made him think about things. He didn’t
want to think about things. Like before, when he’d been sitting in all
that terrible quiet waiting for Stark. He hated that—where his thoughts
went. But he still did it because that was the job, because The Man You
Don’t Fuck With doesn’t sit around watching TV. Nope, The Man You
Don’t Fuck With sits in silence.
At home, Ernest kept the TV on. Always. Especially at night. All
night. Even while he slept that TV was on, because the worst thoughts
in the world come when you’re just lying there in the dark.
So while the Sacrifice’s fucking phone took its fucking time to warm
the fuck up, Ernest started to think about his drunk old man and then
killed those thoughts by pointing his chin at that wall of windows and
their garish view of the Strip.
“Some town, huh?” asked Ernest.
“Yeah, some town,” answered Stark.
The phone came to life.
The man Ernest knew as Stark punched in a phone number, acti-
vated the speaker as ordered, and placed the flip-phone on the desktop
where it sat like a miniature deckchair. The bank announced itself after
the first ring.
Ernest listened closely.
“I’m calling to verify my account recently received a fifty-thousand-
dollar deposit,” Stark said. “The account number is 568X-X8NE-9Q21.”

41
 JOHN NOLTE

The bank confirmed the wire.

“Okay, I want that total amount transferred into another account.
Do you see the instructions I left earlier?”
The bank did.
“I’ll hold until you confirm that transfer’s complete.”
It was at this point when Ernest realized Stark was talking to an
offshore bank. He hadn’t expected that and didn’t like it.

5
Mason received his confirmation, said goodbye, and used both hands
to twist and break the phone into two useless pieces of plastic. For an
encore, he snapped the sim card in half with his thumbs.
Mason pointed to a pitcher of water. “Alright?” he asked.
Still seated, Ernest replied by pulling a pistol from somewhere and
leveling its over-sized silencer at Mason’s chest.
Mason scoffed. “Hey, like I said, I didn’t—”
“No, you didn’t,” Ernest told him as he effortlessly rose from the
chair. “Open that middle desk drawer.”
Mason did. The only thing inside was a plastic capsule.
“Get your water and swallow that. Then we’re alright.”
With a shrug that said, You’re the boss, Mason removed the hotel’s
fancy paper cover from a glass, poured two fingers of H2O, and drank it
down with the capsule.
“Open wide,” Ernest demanded with a flick of that big gun. Mason
opened his mouth to prove he had indeed swallowed the capsule.

6
Now it was time for the Point of No Return speech.
“That capsule has a receiver in it,” Ernest said, his voice firm and
tight, “and somewhere on me is the transmitter. If you’re ever more than
twenty feet away, my transmitter blows open your capsule and the acid
inside burns straight through your guts. So stay close, pal.”
Ernest braced himself for the four-alarm freak out that always
followed the Point of No Return speech, but Stark only narrowed his
eyes and asked: “Is that bullshit, Ernest? Because that sounded like
bullshit.”

42
 B ORROWED TIME

Before he could catch himself, Ernest chuckled and holstered the big
gun inside his coat. This guy’s alright.
Stark dropped the cell phone pieces into the pitcher’s icy water and
inquired, “Now what?”
Ernest answered with a stroll across the room, where he opened a
large closet filled with dark suits.
“We have a couple hours before the flight,” Ernest said. “Find one in
your size, also shoes. There’s a shaving kit in the bathroom.”

43