No Shelter (5 page)

I run.
 

8

Believe it or not, sprinting through the lobby of the Bellagio in a schoolgirl outfit at three o’clock in the morning isn’t as conspicuous as you’d think. Not while gunfire continues by the elevators. Not while someone has apparently pulled the fire alarm and strobes are blinking and a siren is blaring. Not while almost everyone else is hurrying away, running for their lives, so yeah, me running through the lobby, the gold flash drive swinging from my hand, isn’t that strange at all.
 

I come outside and see cop cars everywhere, their lights flashing red and white. The people closest to the entrance when the gunfire started have already made it out, many crowded around like the violence inside has no chance of escaping. A few police stand around, their weapons drawn, looking back and forth frantically.
 

The Strip is still heavy with traffic, people at Bally’s and Paris across the street having no idea the amount of chaos ensuing inside the Bellagio right now. They’re drinking, gambling, not having a care in the world, while right behind me people are screaming and crying and dying.
 

Coming up the drive is a group riding motorcycles. The cycles are crotch rockets, what look like Hondas, and I start in the group’s direction.
 

The guy in front has stopped his bike, straddling it as he takes off his helmet. I glance behind me, the entrance now fifty yards away, the pair of Roland’s men having just made it outside. I turn my attention back to the guy on the lead bike, say with a seductive smile, “Hey, that’s a sweet ride.”
 

He’s overly tan and has long dark hair with highlights and probably drinks Red Bull. He smiles and says, “Thanks. Maybe you’d want to go for a ride sometime?”
 

I’m standing less than five feet away, really putting on the charm, giving him a sexy look as I grab his helmet and say, “Actually, I’d love to go for a ride right now.”
 

Looking surprised, he says, “Really?”
 

I glance behind me. Roland’s men are running now, their guns out and held at their sides.
 

“Only thing is,” I tell the guy, stepping close, “I don’t ride bitch.”
 

The smile fades abruptly. He gives me a confused look but by then I’ve put on the helmet—it’s sweaty and smells of cigarettes, which just makes me crave a menthol—by then I’ve grabbed the one handle of the Honda and with my other hand I shove the guy off the bike. He shouts and falls back, loses his balance, hits the ground. I’m already on the bike, applying the throttle, letting go of the clutch, before the guy even has a chance to sit back up.
 

The Honda’s rear tire burns rubber as I incorporate a one-eighty, and then I’m speeding away, hearing a distant pop behind me as one of Roland’s men fires.
 

At the end of the drive I brake and stop and glance back. Roland’s men have taken a much less subtler approach in acquiring their transportation. A number of the other riders are either on the ground or starting to get back to their feet, having been thrown off, threatened by weapons. Both of Roland’s men are now on the bikes, turning them around, heading toward me.
 

Of course they’d know how to ride a motorcycle. How naïve of me to think otherwise.
 

I give them an extra second to make sure they see me, and then I shoot out onto The Strip.
 

I’m headed south, swerving in and out of the traffic. Some people brake, some honk and shout obscenities. I keep riding. I pass the Monte Carlo, the MGM Grand, and at the main intersection right by New York New York the traffic light flicks to yellow and then red. Cars are stopped in front of me and I swerve up onto the sidewalk, downshift so I don’t run into the late night stragglers.
 

At the corner I glance back, see Roland’s men are right on my tail. They’re following my lead, up on the sidewalk now, and I give it an extra second before I pop the clutch and then I’m speeding over the sidewalk onto Tropicana Avenue.
 

I’ve been to Las Vegas before at least a half dozen times, I know my way around the city pretty well, and my plan now is to lose them on the Interstate.
 

So that’s just what I do—I merge onto 15 and head north. The traffic is lighter here. A couple taxis, a couple tractor-trailers, a number of cars. As I pass one car I look over just as the car’s driver looks over. He sees me on the bike, sees me in my outfit with my skirt and shirt flapping in the wind, and makes a face. Because he can’t see my smile, I give him a thumbs up. Then I glance behind me and see the two of them back there, headed my way. I let up off the throttle, letting them catch up. As they do, I reach behind me for the TEC-9.
 

Seconds later the two men are riding right on my tail. We’re doing seventy-five miles per hour, almost eighty. They’re spread out, one behind me on the left, the other behind me on the right. Both of them have their weapons drawn. I hit the brake just a little and they zoom past, both looking back at me as the same time. I do a quick enne-meene-minee-moe and then I raise the TEC-9, fire at the man to my right. The bullets hit him in the back. He goes down hard, the bike scraping against the highway, spitting up sparks.
 

The other man points his gun back at me. He starts firing. I duck and swerve off to the left and—shit—lose the TEC-9 in the process.
 

The man veers wide to the right. He glances my way, starts to drop back. I accelerate. I push it hard, watching the glowing needle go up to eighty, eighty-five, ninety, and I concentrate on the highway, on the cars and taxis and tractor-trailers, swerving from one lane to the next, knowing the man is right on my tail. No way is he going to try to take another shot, not at this speed, but then again I have run into dumber dipshits, so maybe this one will surprise me.
 

I try calling Nova or Scooter, but my voice is too muffled because of the helmet. Besides, the transmitter only goes up to two miles, and if everything went accordingly for them, they should already be headed to the garage.
 

The interchange is coming up fast. I make a split-second decision and then veer right, merging onto 515. I continue on for maybe a tenth of a mile and then slow for the exit. Next thing I know I’m back on Las Vegas Boulevard. Driving up three blocks and then pulling over onto the side of the street, I jump off the bike, take off my helmet, and glance back the way I came.
 

Roland’s man has kept up and is coming my way.
 

Making sure he sees me, I wait another moment and then turn and start down Fremont Street.
 

Despite the late hour, the place is still packed. At this time of night, the freaks have come out. I figure with my outfit I should blend right in, but still I get a few stares, even a whistle. I glance back, expecting to see Roland’s man having ditched his bike, following me now on foot. But I’ll be damned if the crazy son of a bitch hasn’t driven up onto the sidewalk. He’s revving his engine as he maneuvers around people trying to scurry out of his way, and he has the gun in hand, as if he isn’t making himself conspicuous enough.
 

If there is a God, he’d have police swarm on this stupid shmuck right now, but maybe God’s busy playing craps at the Golden Nugget. I am by myself, surrounded by people, and without looking back—with just sensing it—I know Roland’s man has seen me.
 

I approach the Four Queens, quickly dart into the casino. If I draw some stares, I’m not aware of it, because I keep my focus on the entrance. I position myself to the side, the helmet in my hands. I wait. Listening to the sounds of the casino, listening to the hushed murmur of disembodied voices, I can just hear the motorcycle approaching. I hear it shut off.
 

Roland’s man appears moments later. He still has his gun out in one hand. I figure, what the hell, for anyone watching now it’d be self-defense, and as he takes a step forward I take a step forward and wind up my arm holding the helmet and smash it right into his face.
 

He goes down hard. The gun clatters to the ground. I kick it out of his reach and keep wailing on him with the helmet. It’s just like déjà vu, like I’m back in the bedroom with Jerold. Only now I have a captive audience, people having gone silent watching. The only sounds are the bells and whistles of the slot machines. I smell sweat and cigarette smoke and the distant aroma of the buffet. The man’s face has become a bloody mess.
 

I stand up straight, drop the helmet, and turn back to everyone staring at me.
 

“This bastard just tried raping me,” I say, my voice loud but hoarse.
 

Then I walk away, dipping low to pick up the gun, concealing it in my shirt as I disappear into the moving crowd of freaks.
 

9

The boys aren’t happy with me.
 

Scooter hasn’t spoken to me since I’ve returned to the garage. He keeps himself busy packing up his computers on the table. Every couple seconds he glances back at me with a scowl as he chomps on his gum.
 

I guess it doesn’t matter though. Nova does enough talking for both of them. Standing in front of me, his arms crossed, he says, “Just what the fuck were you thinking?”
 

“You mean back at the hotel? I was thinking about staying alive. Besides, what the hell do you care? Not like you had to do any hard work.”
 

“Actually, for your information, your little friend over there and I ran into some trouble. One of Roland’s men was hanging out by the garage entrance.”
 

I roll my eyes, shake my head. “God, just how many henchmen did this bastard have?”
 

“He came at us with his gun drawn. He even aimed the fucking thing at my head.”
 

“Well,” I say, crossing my arms now to match Nova, “judging by the fact you’re standing here telling me this captivating story, I’m guessing you made it out alive.”
 

“Just barely. The fucker actually took a shot at us. I had to bat the gun away, hit him in his throat, break his neck.”
 

“Aw, poor baby. You actually had to get your hands dirty for once?”
 

Nova, his face already red, opens his mouth to respond. But before he can Scooter slams his hands down on the table. He turns around to glare at us.
 

“Enough of this shit,” he says. “What’s in the past is in the past. Each of us is st-st-still alive, which is all we can ask for after a job. Now the only thing left to ask are two questions both Nova and I have been asking ourselves for the past half hour. Just who the f-f-fuck is that woman and why the f-f-f-fuck did you have her brought here?”
 

I’ll admit it—Scooter’s intensity catches me off guard. Very rarely does he raise his voice like this. Normally he’s the easygoing one, the guy who’s always cracking jokes, looking on the brighter side of life, sometimes even making fun of his own stutter. Not the guy who has venom in his eyes.
 

The Mexican girl is standing off in the corner. Apparently she hasn’t said a word to either Nova or Scooter this entire time. She hasn’t even let them near her. But when I first arrived she smiled and ran over to me, wrapped her arms around my neck, murmuring in Spanish how happy she was to see me. Then when Nova came over and started up with me she slipped away to the spot she’s standing in right now.
 

“Well?” Scooter says, and when I glance at him I see his jaw is still and I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him not chewing his bubblegum.
 

“She saved my life back there. I needed to repay the debt.”
 

“That doesn’t answer the questions, Holly.” Nova still has his arms crossed, glaring at me. “Who is she and why is she here?”
 

“She’s a prostitute,” I say.
 

“No shit.”
 

“But I don’t think she’s any ordinary prostitute.”
 

“What makes you th-th-think that?” Scooter asks. “The fact that she’s an illegal?”
 

I ignore him and walk past Nova to the girl. I hold my hand out to her and smile and tell her my name. I ask her what her name is. She says it’s Rosalina.
 

“It’s very nice to meet you, Rosalina. Thank you again for your help back at the hotel.”
 

She shrugs and looks away, embarrassed.
 

I push on. “Rosalina, you mentioned something about men and a ranch. What did you mean about that?”
 

Still looking at something near the ceiling, Rosalina shakes her head.
 

“Please,” I insist, “I want to help you. But you need to tell me about them.”
 

Her eyes shift to meet my own and I can see tears are threatening. In a very small voice she says, “They will kill me if I tell you.”
 

“No they won’t. I promise they won’t. Now please. Please tell me.”
 

And so she does tell me. Not a lot at first. She’s vague and I have to keep asking questions, and when she speaks her words are slow and thoughtful. Then, the more questions I ask and the more she answers, her words begin to increase. Soon she’s frantic, telling me everything, every terrible detail, her arms waving around, tears streaming down her cheeks. Then she falls silent. She holds her hands to her face, begins sobbing.
 

I place a hand on her shoulder, squeeze it, tell her that it will be okay, before turning away and walking back to where Nova and Scooter now stand together.