Ahead, amid people moving in both directions across the bridge, Cesar Guevara was thirty feet from the down escalator and staircase.
“Hold it right there,” Dixon yelled. “Agents are coming right at you, there’s nowhere to go.” Not true, but what the hell.
The tourists who saw her SIG veered away, but those who were oblivious bumped her from behind or weaved around her. Guevara slowed and glanced through the clear Lexan walls, no doubt attempting to verify Dixon’s claims of nearby reinforcements.
But Guevara apparently felt that if there were federal agents approaching, he would be no worse off than if he were to surrender. And he surely knew she wouldn’t discharge her weapon with innocents in such close proximity.
Down the stairs they both went. Dixon keyed her radio.
Guevara negotiated a sharp left at the bottom of the staircase, passing Bill’s Gambling Hall and Saloon and moving toward the Flamingo Hotel.
“Guevara headed north at the intersection of Las Vegas Boulevard and Flamingo Way,” Dixon said into her two-way.
Guevara sidestepped the open casino entrance, where two scantily clad women were dancing atop a raised pedestal. Dixon struggled to stay in visual contact with Guevara, as the crowd was now considerably thicker than it had been on the bridge.
Guevara fended off Latino workers shoving porn trading cards into the hands of passersby. He looked right, at the raucous college students pulling on neon green drinks in Margaritaville, then glanced left at the thick, slowly moving traffic.
Dixon made up ground and was only thirty feet behind him when Guevara stopped suddenly, shoved a man aside, drew his handgun, and—
Before Dixon could reach him, his weapon bucked, followed by his body.
He’d been hit—but by whom?
As Guevara slumped back into the trunk of a streetside palm tree—he’d taken a round but was not incapacitated—Hector DeSantos stepped off the planted median in the center of the boulevard, his gold Desert Eagle out in front of him, approaching Guevara with caution.
Cars stopped, drivers gawking at the man in front of them advancing across the roadway with a handgun— and making no attempt to hide it.
“Don’t make me shoot you again,” DeSantos said. “Drop the gun or you’ll be joining all your dead cartel brothers.”
Guevara, his face contorted in pain, did not acquiesce.
But Dixon came up behind him and pressed her SIG against the man’s temple. “Does this make the decision easier?”
Guevara dropped the handgun. He was bleeding from the abdomen—a notoriously painful wound—but Dixon showed him no mercy as she grabbed his hands and yanked them behind him, then fastened her set of cuffs to his wrists.
“That’s for Eddie,” Dixon said of her deceased ex-boyfriend.
Guevara winced. “Don’t know who that is.”
“John Mayfield killed him.”
“Don’t know who that is, either.”
“Lying pisses me off, Cesar. And that’s not something you want to do.”
“I don’t know—”
Dixon slapped him on the head. “Just shut up, asshole.” She turned to DeSantos. “Robby?”
“Haven’t heard anything,” DeSantos said as he holstered his weapon. “Call this in. I’ll go see if Karen needs help.”
ROBBY TRIED TO GET TO HIS FEET, to right himself. But he was still dizzy from the punches he took and the head butt he meted out. After all he’d endured lately, his tank was running dry.
He sat back down on the cold floor, water dripping from his face. His clothing was thick and heavy, and his arm throbbed.
And he couldn’t shake the image of holding the man’s head down as his lungs filled with water. He had killed him. But it was different from the time as a teen when he had murdered the man who had done the same to his uncle. Here it was a matter of survival. Before . . . it was as Diego had said: revenge. Raw, inexcusable, premeditated revenge.
He’d repressed those memories, those thoughts and feelings, for so long that he’d gotten skilled at it. Too skilled. He now realized he had been cheating. He had broken the law and never paid the price.
But was the price too expensive now, given that he had dedicated his life to catching those who would harm others? Did that balance out the scales of justice? Did it tip them in his favor?
Robby shivered. He had to get to his feet, find help, dry clothing, some food, and medical attention for his gunshot wound.
He rolled left and pushed himself up.
VAIL FELT THE ELEVATOR bottom out, then leaned forward as the doors slid apart. She side-slithered through, Glock in her hands, and swept into the hallway.
“Which way?” she called back to Pryor.
He remained behind her and silently pointed ahead, no doubt realizing that, with the handgun clenched in both hands, out in front of her, Vail’s frenzied demeanor wasn’t an act. He was probably beginning to wonder what he’d gotten himself into.
Pryor directed her through the seemingly endless, curving corridor.
“How much farther?”
Pryor slowed, then looked back over his shoulder. “I don’t know. The back of the house isn’t my patrol area. I’ve only been down here once.” He pursed his lips, stopped walking, then again glanced behind him. “There’s no elevator at the north end of the property. I’m pretty sure the room service elevator was the best way to get there.”
“But you’re not really sure where ‘there’ is.”
“I think if we keep going, we’ll eventually get to the maintenance shop.”
Vail tightened her grip on the Glock.
“Don’t
82
After struggling with the soaked, clinging material, Robby stripped off his shirt. There was a gentle flow of oil-scented air swirling through the dimly lit area, which helped evaporate the dampness from his skin.
The breeze made him shiver. His shoes sloshed with each step. And his waterlogged pants rubbed against his thighs.
But none of it mattered. Because he was free—no one with high-powered ammunition or bloodstained machetes was threatening, beating, or chasing him. In a few minutes, he’d reach safety. Dry clothing. Medical attention. And, hopefully, Karen.
But before he’d gone twenty feet, something struck him in the head. Hard. And he went down.
Two arms pulled him upright and a dark figure approached.
A few steps more and the glow of a nearby incandescent bulb shadowed across the hard features of Antonio Sebastiani de Medina.
“Sebastian—”
“You had to fuck everything up, Robby. Everything came together the way it was supposed to. I just needed a few more days,
