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 Villarreal 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!”
Villarreal didn’t respond but DeSantos did. He dropped to a knee, squared up low, and brought Villarreal into his Trijicon night sights. He knew he’d be violating protocol—but it was akin to a white lie. Roughly stated, if you pull your gun, you’re planning to use it, and if you’re planning to use it, you’re planning to kill—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 exceptionally 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, Villarreal 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. Villarreal 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 Villarreal 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 Villarreal’s face. “I mean, really? 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,” Villarreal 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 still 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 telling the truth.” DeSantos cocked his head toward his right shoulder. “Fair enough?”
Villarreal did not reply but slowly interlocked his bloody fingers behind his neck. DeSantos approached and rested his knee in Villarreal’s back as he cuffed the man’s wrists, then patted him down.
“By the way, I really like your suit,” DeSantos said. “Sorry about the hole I made.” He pulled his two-way and keyed it. “DeSantos to Mann. You there?”
A moment’s hesitation, then, “Affirmative.”
“Suspect Villarreal in custody. Needs a bus. GSW to the leg.” As he was speaking, a young Vegas Metro PD officer pulled 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 Villarreal 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 thoughtfully. “I probably would’ve done the same thing.” He pointed a finger at Villarreal. “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 Bellagio. Into the radio, he said, “Mann, you got a status on Vail and Dixon?”
“Vail is headed to the basement of the Bellagio,” 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 Bellagio 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 wall 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 gradually decreased from four feet to a few inches. Robby followed 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 killers. He wasn’t about to let a piece of lead kill 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 belly 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 Bellagio. 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 brilliant 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.
Vail thought of Robby and grabbed her temples.
The elevator doors slid open and she practically leaped inside.
ROXXANN DIXON HAD LOCATED Cesar Guevara attempting to circle back and exit Caesars Palace through its front entrance. She was determined not to lose him again, but he appeared to be moving urgently—and he had a cell phone to his ear. If he had spotted her, bodyguards would not be far off. Armed bodyguards.
“This is Dixon,” she said into her radio. “In foot pursuit of suspect Guevara. Leaving Caesars’ main entrance. Request available backup.”
Dixon followed him as he ran across the pedestrian overpass that arced above South Las Vegas Boulevard at Flamingo Way. To her left, building-size pictures of Donnie and Marie Osmond smiled back at her.
