McKinsey Club

From the outside, the McKinsey Club appears to be a private bar, exclusive to its members. However, beneath this facade lies a high-end underground casino, known only to those in the know.

During the day, the place remains quiet and unassuming, but by nightfall, it comes alive with a vibrant energy.

A Lincoln sedan pulled into the parking lot, about two hundred meters from the club's entrance. The lot was filled with dozens of parked cars. A middle-aged man in a black suit emerged from the sedan, a satisfied grin on his face. He had just come from his lover's place and was in high spirits.

"I'm going to win big tonight," he muttered confidently.

As he was closing the car door, two figures suddenly appeared behind him.

"Bang!"

A wooden stick struck the man in the head. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed, unconscious.

"Matthew, you didn't kill him, did you?" Henry asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

Matthew chuckled. "Relax, I'm a professional."

The two moved swiftly. Matthew searched the man's pockets while Henry produced a rope and began tying him up. They stuffed a torn towel into his mouth and covered his head with a black cloth bag. Their actions were quick and precise, the kind that suggested a lot of practice.

They opened the trunk and tossed the unconscious man inside as if he were a sack of potatoes. After straightening their suits, they walked toward the club entrance. Under a nearby streetlight, Henry rifled through the man's wallet.

Inside, they found a pristine membership card for the McKinsey Club, along with a few business cards.

"Kevin Madion, Director of the Credit Department, City Bank of Los Angeles," Henry read aloud. He grinned. "Well, from now on, I'm Kevin Madion's cousin."

"It's a tough break being your cousin," Matthew quipped with a grin.

There was a decent amount of cash in the wallet—more than three hundred dollars. Henry pocketed it with a satisfied nod.

When they reached the club entrance, two imposing doormen stepped forward. "Gentlemen, may I see your membership cards?"

Henry handed over Kevin Madion's card. The doorman scrutinized it, then looked up at Henry. "Sir, this card belongs to Mr. Madion. I know Mr. Madion personally."

"Kevin's my cousin," Henry said smoothly. "He told me there was some fun to be had here and gave me his card. Said I could come in and check it out. Is that a problem?"

The doorman hesitated but then stepped aside. "In that case, gentlemen, please enjoy your evening."

As Henry and Matthew entered, Henry paused and asked, "By the way, how would one go about getting a membership card here? If it's as fun as Kevin says, we might want to join ourselves."

"A deposit of $1,000 and an annual membership fee of $500 will suffice," the doorman replied.

"Not too bad," Henry remarked, pretending to be nonchalant, though he knew he couldn't scrape together a hundred bucks if his life depended on it.

They walked inside, surveying their surroundings. The club was lavishly decorated, and the place was bustling with guests. Some were sipping coffee, while others chatted at the bar. The women were dressed in elegant, eye-catching attire. Henry and Matthew knew exactly what they were there to do.

They took their time, ordering drinks at the bar while carefully observing their surroundings. Most conversations revolved around gambling—celebrations from those who won and forced indifference from those who lost.

An attractive young woman was clinging to an elderly man in his sixties. They discussed their game plans as they walked toward a side passage. The woman suggested betting big, while the old man preferred poker.

Henry and Matthew exchanged a glance, then casually followed the pair at a safe distance. The couple descended a short staircase to the basement, where they approached a door guarded by two bodyguards. Seeing the guests, the guards opened the door.

Instantly, the sound of gambling machines and lively chatter flooded out—the unmistakable ambiance of McKinsey Club's underground casino.

The elderly man and the young woman headed to the cashier to exchange chips. Henry and Matthew kept a close watch, taking in every detail. Through a glass window, they saw piles of chips and a suitcase full of cash. When the cashier opened it, it was brimming with banknotes.

When it was their turn, Henry handed over the $300 from Kevin's wallet and exchanged it for chips. He split them with Matthew.

"Let's split up and observe," Henry whispered. "Play a bit, but keep your eyes open."

"Got it," Matthew nodded.

Three hours later, they regrouped, having lost all their chips. Despite the losses, their mission was a success—they had gathered plenty of useful information.

Back in the parking lot, they climbed into Kevin's Lincoln and drove to a newly rented warehouse in the lower city. The warehouse, located in a rough neighborhood under the control of Austrian gangs, was far from any police patrols—an ideal temporary base for their operations.

"Boss, we've done our reconnaissance," Henry reported to Hardy with a smile. He and Matthew laid out the details of their survey and even sketched a rough layout of the casino.

"The exchange counter is here, and the cash is stored in this room," Matthew pointed to a spot on the sketch.

"How much do you think is in there?" Hardy asked.

Henry considered for a moment. "When we left, there were around a hundred people in the casino. It was peak time. Based on the turnover I observed at the chip exchange, I'd estimate about seventy to eighty thousand dollars in circulation."

Matthew suddenly remembered something. "Oh, and boss, when I was playing cards, I overheard that there's going to be a blackjack tournament the night after tomorrow. The place will be packed, and there should be even more cash around."

Hardy nodded, seeing the opportunity. "Good. We'll make our move then. Rest up for now, and we'll finalize our plans once Richard and Neil return from their scouting."

As Henry stood up to leave, he hesitated, then turned back. "Boss, there's one more thing. To get into the club, we had to, uh, 'borrow' a person's identity. He's the credit director at a bank. We've still got him tied up in the trunk. What should we do with him?"

Hardy's eyes widened in surprise. "You kidnapped someone?"

"We didn't have a choice," Henry explained. "The club's membership is strict, so we needed his card to get in."

Matthew chimed in, "I say we tie him to a rock and toss him in the Los Angeles River."

Hardy shook his head firmly. "We can do bad things, but we can't be bad people."

Henry and Matthew exchanged confused looks. Wasn't that the same thing?

Hardy clarified, "We're gangsters, yes. We rob, run loan sharks, sell illicit goods, and, if necessary, we kill. But we do these things to survive, to thrive in a world where the strong prey on the weak. Even legitimate businesses operate on similar principles. But we don't kill without reason. That's crossing a line into darkness that leaves no room for redemption."

Henry and Matthew nodded, starting to understand.

"So, what do we do with him?" Matthew asked. "Just let him go?"

"Of course not," Hardy replied. "For now, lock him in the cellar. Tell him he's been kidnapped and that he needs to pay a ransom to be released. We'll let him go once our operation is complete."

Henry and Matthew blinked. Did that really make Hardy a good guy?

Hardy wasn't interested in extorting money; his main concern was to keep their operation secure and prevent any loose ends from jeopardizing their plans.