Nick slammed the form into Tommy’s chest. “He’s not a he, that’s why. The horse is a filly, Tommy. It’s her first time against the boys.”
Tommy didn’t bother to review his alleged oversight. He turned to Silk with pride. “See, that’s why he’s the law. He spots every little detail. That’s why he’s got the cutest wife in town.”
“Hey,” Nick said, “easy with the wife comments. I’m beginning the think you’ve got a thing for her.”
Tommy held up his hands. “Hey, Nicky, don’t insult me like that. I mean you’re like family to me.”
“Tommy, you’re my cousin. We are family.”
“See, you’re making my point for me.”
Nick’s face turned serious.
Tommy said, “What’s up?”
“I need your help.”
“Anything,” Tommy said.
“What I tell you two is confidential and-”
“That’s enough,” Silk interrupted. “We know the drill.”
Nick paused. He was uncomfortable with what he was about to do, but there was still a slim chance he could save his brother’s life. In Tommy’s world, information was a currency, like cash, only more valuable. Las Vegas, limos and kidnapping were all staples in his domain. If there was a weak link somewhere in the Nevada desert, Tommy would find it.
Nick said, “Phil’s been kidnapped.”
Tommy’s face grew severe. His lip curled up in disgust. “Who done it?”
For the first time since Nick got there, Silk put down the Form.
“A terrorist.”
“Who?” Tommy repeated, his jaw furiously working on a bright orange toothpick in the corner of his mouth.
Nick hesitated, wary of the eagerness on Tommy’s face. “I can’t tell you that right now, but Phil was gambling at the Rio late last night and was taken away in a limo. We’re running into a wall trying to find this limo. Whoever rented it probably paid cash. Lots of cash. The kind of cash that shuts people up.”
Tommy nodded.
“Do you think you could make some calls and find out something about this limo?” Nick asked.
Tommy took the toothpick from his mouth and twirled it between his fingers like a baton. “No problem. But you gotta promise me something.”
Nick winced, bracing himself for the can of worms he was about to open. “What?”
Tommy pointed the orange toothpick at Nick. “When this is over, you gotta promise to tell me who done it. I want a name.”
Nick tossed the idea around in his head. If Phil ended up dead he’d gladly throw Kemel Kharrazi to the wolves. If his brother lived it would more than likely be because of Tommy’s help. Either way, he could live with the trade-off. “Okay.”
Nick handed him a blank business card with a handwritten name and phone number on it. “I’m flying to Vegas tonight, but I want you to call this number if you find out anything. It’s the number of an FBI agent in Vegas. He won’t ask questions, just tell him anything you can that might help us track down the limo.”
Tommy placed the card in his pocket, “Done.”
Nick saw the horses approach the starting gate. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got rush hour traffic to deal with.”
“Hey, Nicky,” Tommy said, pointing to the Racing Form. “What about this four horse? I got three large on her nose. You think I should change my bet?”
“Nah,” Nick said, “she’s the only speed in the race. She’s liable to steal it.”
Tommy winked. He loved asking questions he already knew the answer to.
By the time Nick reached the parking lot he could hear the track announcer’s voice rise with excitement as he described the final furlong of the race. The crowd roared as he declared the only filly in the field a wire-to-wire winner.
Nick smiled. Just like riding a bike, he thought.
Chapter 6
“Will you look at this beauty,” Matt McColm said, holding up a magazine at arms length. He sat at the window seat while Nick sat on the aisle, an empty seat between them.
Nick gave a furtive glance for spectators, then leaned toward Matt for an eyeful.
“Oh, baby, the places I could take you,” Matt said, his eyes racing up and down the glossy photo.
Nick followed Matt’s stare. He took a long moment examining the image, finally squinting for confirmation. “It’s a gun.”
“That,” Matt said, “is no gun. It’s a Slimline Glock 36. She’s so sleek, she just begs you to wrap your fingers around her.”
Nick rolled his eyes.
While Matt flipped pages of Gun Magazine, Nick sifted through files of terrorists known to have any link to the KSF. He groped for something, anything that might give him a clue why so many of them were spreading themselves across America’s landscape. Why would they appear to be moving in such a diverse pattern? He found himself staring at pictures of Kurdish rebels as if the power of his glare could evoke an answer from them.
The flight was long and the closer they got to Las Vegas, the quieter the conversation became. Both agents readied themselves as the night closed around them and reduced their world to the few dozen people on board the jet. Finally, Nick broke the silence. He held up a surveillance photo of a grizzly looking man with bad teeth and wild eyes. “They should lock this guy up just for taking a picture like this.”
Matt placed his forehead up against the window. Flying west at such a rapid pace extended twilight unnaturally, suppressing nightfall as the plane chased the setting sun. Looking down at a tiny sprinkling of lights covering the Midwest, he said, “It looks so peaceful down there.”
“Why can’t we have that?” Nick asked.
“Have what?”
“A peaceful, uneventful life. Go to work, punch the clock, type up a few reports and drive home. It sounds so calming.”
“You mean boring.”
“Yeah, boring. I like boring.”
“I don’t.”
“That’s because you’ve never tried it. Boring could be good for you. I hear the survival rate at AT amp;T is very high. A lot less stressful too.”
Matt shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. There’s just as much stress working for a big corporation as there is with the Bureau. Just a different type of stress, that’s all.”
“You’re probably on to something there,” Nick mused.
“Besides,” Matt said, “you had it a lot worse when you were trolling West Baltimore in a cruiser five nights a week.”
Nick knew he was right, of course. He wondered if he would find the world so pressing if he were a bank teller or a teacher, like Julie. Her concerns must seem just as disturbing to her, yet she rarely showed it. Apparently it wasn’t the profession so much as the professional. He looked over at Matt, who was leaning back in his seat, eyes closed. The picture of serenity. He respected Matt’s composure. He was cool, placid, skillfully poised.
As if Matt felt the weight of Nick’s stare, he said, “I know what they’re doing.”
“Who?”
“The Kurds,” Matt said, head back, hands folded on his lap.
“Tell me about it.”
“Obviously they’re planning a bombing. That’s why it’s so important for them to spring Rashid. He’s the best bomb expert they have. Probably the best in the world. They’re inundating us with enough riff-raff so we can’t cover
