Karen Vail 01 - Velocity (51 page)

Pipes meant a water supply—and that hopeful y translated into some kind of apparatus that he might be able to use to climb out of the lake.

He was not sure where or how he had summoned the energy to go on, but thinking about seeing Karen again, holding her, caressing her, kept his arms and feet moving through the chil ed waters.

At least the
sicarios
were not shooting at him. The fog that had provided him cover had evaporated from the lake’s surface. Was he out of range? Were they moving to a better perch? He couldn’t worry about any of that—he had to get out of the cold water. Not only was he feeling the effects, but he did not want to stil be in the lake when the immensely powerful fountain jets rumbled to life again.

How long did he have?

Ahead, he saw something reflecting off the rock wal —no, not a reflection, and not off the rock’s surface; off an
opening
in the rock. A way out? He swam toward it—and about twenty yards later, he was able to confirm it was, indeed, something resembling a cavity of some sort in the stone wal . And the water appeared to be flowing in.

As he approached, a rumbling vibration built inside the pipe to his right.

The fountains.

But before they exploded into the air, the slap of water behind him snatched his attention. Movement. A body. He yanked his head around but never saw it. A blow to the face caught him off guard, like a truck broadsiding a car at an intersection.

Dark—

Dizzy—

Music roaring, water raining down around him.

Head shoved underwater—can’t breathe—

Blow to the back—

He reached and grabbed—at anything—something to make it stop—

And found purchase on a shirt—

Yanked, twisted, elbowed his arm up and under the hand holding down his head and—

Leveraged himself free.

Robby forced his face up through the water’s surface and sucked in air—saw a large dark head, body in front of him—

And threw up his left arm in time to block another punch. The blow landed instead just beneath the gunshot wound, causing a stab of ice-pick intense pain.

Enough of this shit.
Robby swung his right hand out of the water and snatched a grip around the man’s ear. He nearly slipped off the appendage, but he closed his hand as tight as he could, with whatever strength he had left, and pul ed.

The ear is a sensitive part of the anatomy, and the innate desire not to have it separated from one’s body provided the survival mechanism Robby needed: his attacker instinctively refocused his attention and bent his neck to reduce the angle of Robby’s pul .

But Robby did not release his grip. The
sicario
switched tactics and grabbed Robby’s arm, but couldn’t pry it free. Robby squeezed harder—the man’s mouth opened—and if the music and fountains hadn’t been so damn loud, his yelp would’ve reached impressive decibels.

Robby yel ed as wel , infusing himself with the wil to win . . .
the will to live
.

But the man extracted a knife from somewhere on his body. Light glinted off the chrome blade, seizing Robby’s attention. He yanked the man’s head toward him, then slammed his forehead into his attacker’s skul . It hurt like hel —but not as much as the pain inflicted on the asshole who’d tried to drown him.

The
sicario’s
eyes rol ed up in submission. His head slumped to the side, and Robby grabbed him by his neck and plunged him down, beneath the surface.

The knife floated from the man’s open hand, then sunk impotently toward the lake’s bottom. An arm burst through the surface, reached up and clawed at Robby’s chest, grabbed for his wrist, his face—anything to make Robby release his grip.

But as the seconds ticked by, the man stopped struggling and went limp. Robby realized he was breathing rapidly—too rapidly—and was in danger of hyperventilating. He calmed himself, told himself this was not over.

He felt around, trying to move the man’s dead weight in the water, rol ed him face up, and found a wal et. Shoved it into his back pocket, then searched for a handgun. Pancake holster—empty.

Robby’s body began quivering. The fight had depleted his adrenaline. He released his grip on the corpse and maneuvered himself toward the wal ’s maw and

—hopeful y—land.

HECTOR DESANTOS had identified the men he was pursuing: Ernesto “Grunge”

Escobar and Alejandro Vil arreal. He had first engaged Vil arreal, who then—

fortunately for DeSantos—had met up with Escobar as they exited CityCenter. He fol owed both fugitives as they fled through the Via Bel agio shops, then spil ed out onto the boulevard.

Dodging traffic and tourists, they headed south past the raucous Margaritavil e bar and restaurant across the street on the right and Caesars Palace directly to his left. They then coursed along the winding sidewalk and plazas of the Forum Shops.

A two-decker bus painted bumper to bumper with Blue Man Group advertising slowed to a stop. DeSantos kept an eye on Vil arreal and Escobar in case one or both hopped onboard. Splitting up—with only DeSantos in pursuit—would ensure one of them a successful escape.

As if they had a direct line to his thoughts, Vil arreal cut left and Escobar right, onto the bus, as the rear doors folded closed. With the vehicle accelerating away, Escobar pressed his face against the window and glared at DeSantos, a slow smile broadening his face.

DeSantos couldn’t stop the bus—the recipe of a confined space packed with tourists and a cornered, armed kil er was not a stew he wanted to stir up. It would’ve been bloody, with unacceptable col ateral damage.

Instead, he pul ed his Desert Eagle and cut a path forward, darting between, around, and over lovers holding hands, drunken fraternity youths on a weekend junket, friends in town for a bachelor party . . . DeSantos wasn’t discriminating. If they were in his way, they went down.

He yanked the two-way from his back pocket and keyed it. “Suspect Escobar headed north on Vegas metro bus, got on in front of Mirage. In foot pursuit same twenty suspect Vil arreal. Over.” Someone else would have to fol ow up.

People were gathered along a railing just past the Mirage main entrance, staring at a darkened outcropping of artificial mountain rock. He picked his way through the crowd, attempting to keep track of Vil arreal, who was stil moving south—when a blast of flame and volcanic fire rose high into the night sky, then exploded to his left. The crowd roared. DeSantos flinched—nearly sending a .44-caliber round into an unwitting vacationer—then realized the pyrotechnics were merely more Vegas-style theater.

He felt the heat from the dancing fire warm his skin as Vil arreal darted right, across the street. The traffic light had changed, and there was a break in the flow of cars.

“Freeze!” DeSantos said. “Federal agent!”

Vil arreal didn’t respond but DeSantos did. He dropped to a knee, squared up low, and brought Vil arreal into his Trijicon night sights. He knew he’d be violating protocol—but it was akin to a white lie. Roughly stated, if you pul your gun, you’re planning to use it, and if you’re planning to use it, you’re planning to kil —that is, aim at center mass to take down the target.

DeSantos was many things, but model soldier was not one of them. He was an exceptional y good shot with a sniper rifle and nearly as good with the less accurate handgun. But he didn’t need pinpoint accuracy. He just needed to bring down the fleeing suspect without hitting innocent bystanders.

And at this very moment, Vil arreal was in the clear—that is, by Vegas standards.

No innocents within twenty feet, no cars in the immediate vicinity. And a low trajectory shot.

One more warning. “Freeze!” Then he fired. Vil arreal grabbed his right thigh, tried hopping forward a couple steps, then crumpled to the pavement, draping himself across the curb.

DeSantos ignored a screaming bystander as he approached his writhing prey, Desert Eagle out in front of him, not taking any chances that Vil arreal could bring his own weapon to bear.

“Where do you think you’re going?” DeSantos said, now standing five feet away, his pistol aimed squarely at Vil arreal’s face. “I mean, real y? Do you want me to put a .44 in your head? Or are you gonna interlock your fingers behind your neck and make nice?”

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Vil arreal said between clenched teeth.

“Since you don’t know what I’m thinking, there’s a good chance you’re wrong.”

“You think I had something to do with kidnapping your agent. But I didn’t. I was trying to help, I was trying to get him back to you.”

DeSantos pursed his lips. “What do you know? You were right about what I was thinking. But I’m in a good goddamn mood right now, so I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt. Thing is, you stil need to get your hands behind your neck.

Otherwise, my gun might go off and you’d never get the chance to prove you’re tel ing the truth.” DeSantos cocked his head toward his right shoulder. “Fair enough?”

Vil arreal did not reply but slowly interlocked his bloody fingers behind his neck.

DeSantos approached and rested his knee in Vil arreal’s back as he cuffed the man’s wrists, then patted him down.

“By the way, I real y like your suit,” DeSantos said. “Sorry about the hole I made.”

He pul ed his two-way and keyed it. “DeSantos to Mann. You there?”

A moment’s hesitation, then, “Affirmative.”

“Suspect Vil arreal in custody. Needs a bus. GSW to the leg.” As he was speaking, a young Vegas Metro PD officer pul ed up on a white motorcycle. The man got off the bike and quickly squared up.

“Let me see your hands!”

“What’s happening?” Mann asked.

“Ah, shit. Nothing. Stand by.” DeSantos lifted his hands and said, “I’m a federal agent. ID’s in my back pocket. I’m gonna take it out, okay?”

“Slowly,” the cop said.

“I wouldn’t think of doing it any other way.” He removed his creds and tossed them at the cop’s feet. The man bent at the knees, keeping his weapon trained on DeSantos, inspected the ID, and then nodded.

DeSantos keyed his mike. “Mann. I’m turning over custody of Alejandro Vil arreal to VPD.” DeSantos retrieved his credentials from the officer. Stole a look at his tag, then said into the two-way, “Suspect now in custody of Officer David Rambo.”

DeSantos shoved the radio back in his pocket. “Serious? Rambo?”

“Was Rambowski. Rambo’s cooler. I shortened it.”

DeSantos nodded thoughtful y. “I probably would’ve done the same thing.” He pointed a finger at Vil arreal. “Look after this scumbag. Very dangerous felon.

Make sure you get a photo with him in cuffs. Never know, it could make your career.” He gave the officer a wink.

DeSantos walked off, back toward the Bel agio. Into the radio, he said, “Mann, you got a status on Vail and Dixon?”

“Vail is headed to the basement of the Bel agio,” Mann replied. “Hernandez may be shot. Last seen in the lake, possibly heading toward the fountain’s maintenance facility. Dixon’s in Caesar’s. Due for a SIT REP. Clar and I are headed to the Bel agio to drop off SWAT.”

“Roger that. On my way to Vail’s twenty. Over.”

DeSantos shoved the radio into his pocket and took off, sprinting back the way he came.

ROBBY SWAM THROUGH the opening in the wal of rock, which led to what appeared to be a launch ramp for boats. Off to the right, a secured dingy bobbed alongside a barge—necessary equipment, he figured, for repair and/or maintenance of the fountain.

As the canted concrete floor rose, the lake’s depth gradual y decreased from four feet to a few inches. Robby fol owed the ramp as it doglegged left, then right.

There he stopped moving and lay facedown, the water lapping against his cheeks.

Two ducks started quacking and flapping their wings. They went airborne and flew past his head. Had he had more energy, he would have flinched.

When he had gathered sufficient strength, he struggled to his knees, but even lifting his soaked pant legs required effort. He crawled forward onto the cement floor and lay down again. He’d lost blood, he was sure of that.

He gathered the wet shirt sleeve in his right hand and yanked. The cotton fibers gave in and tore, slowly, along the shoulder seam. He twisted the cloth into a thin band, then tied it above the wound, tightening it as best he could.

He’d made it this far, through beatings and drug dealers and hired kil ers. He wasn’t about to let a piece of lead kil him.

VAIL FOLLOWED THE GUARD, whose name tag read “Pryor,” through the hotel’s ground floor to the room service elevator.

“Aren’t there stairs?”

Pryor, who sported a bel y that had likely played host to many a six-pack evening, sighed audibly. “You didn’t say you wanted to walk it. What are you, some exercise nut?”

“No, I’m a federal agent in a goddamn hurry.”

“Faster to take the elevator,” Pryor said as he reached out and poked the button again with a stubby finger. “By the time we’d gotten to the staircase over by the retail shops, elevator would’ve been here twice over.”

Vail keyed her radio. “This is Vail. En route to the lower level of the Bel agio.

Waiting for the elevator.”

Mann’s voice boomed over the two-way. “You kidding me? Take the fucking stairs!”

Vail brought the radio to her mouth and faced Pryor as she spoke. “Now there’s a bril iant idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Pryor looked up at the ceiling and rocked back on his heels. Not a worry in the world.