The Holly Lin Series
Books 1-3
Robert Swartwood
RMS Press
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Contents
No Shelter
The Devil You Know
Hollow Point
Newsletter
Other Holly Lin Titles
About the Author
Publisher’s Note
Also by Robert Swartwood
For my wife
Part One
Less Than Human
One
My flight gets in at McCarran a few minutes before midnight. Nova picks me up in a black Escalade reeking of stale cigarette smoke.
The first thing he says to me: “I know what you’re thinking and no, this isn’t stolen.”
The second thing he says to me: “You ready to kill some bad guys?”
He drives us to our temporary base of operations, a cinderblock storage garage on the outskirts of the city. Inside the garage are a table set up with computers, a card table covered with weapons, and what looks like a brand new Lincoln Town Car.
“Like it?” Nova asks me as we get out of the Escalade. “It’ll be your ride tonight.”
“Can’t wait.” I walk over to the card table, look at the mini-arsenal of rifles and pistols. Then I glance over at Scooter on the computer. “What’s up, handsome?”
He smiles at me, chomping away at his Bazooka Joe. “Hey, Holly, how was th-th-the flight?”
“Too short. They didn’t even serve me one of those tiny bags of peanuts I like so much.”
Nova walks up to me, holding a manila folder. “So you want to know who the target is?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
He clears a space at the table and pulls up two stools. I take one and he hands me the manila folder. Inside are surveillance photos of a middle-aged man in a suit, balding with bushy eyebrows and glasses.
“Where’d you take these?”
“Those were taken just outside the MGM Grand.”
“That’s where he’s staying?”
Nova shakes his head. “He’s staying at the Bellagio, but he’s been making stops at all the major casinos the past week.”
I look up from the pictures, glance at Nova, then at Scooter. “Just how long have you guys been here?”
“Week and a half.”
“Walter never mentioned anything to me.”
Still typing at the computer, his back to us, Scooter says, “Th-Th-That’s because we weren’t sure yet whether we’d need you.”
“You really know how to make a girl feel special, Scooter.” I look back at the pictures. “So who’s the woman—his girlfriend?”
In almost every photograph there is a tall, thin, blond woman beside the target, carrying a briefcase.
“That little hottie right there,” Nova says, “is Delano’s personal assistant. Her name’s Alayna Gramont. Believe it or not, she used to be a model.”
“Do I need to worry about her?”
“No. She won’t be there tonight.”
I nod once, give Nova a serious look. “So what’s the deal?”
He clears his throat. “The deal is he and his associates are having a party.”
“And?”
“And they’ve requested girls.”
“Of course they did,” I say. “And I just bet this guy right here—what’s his name again?”
“Roland Delano.”
“I just bet Roland Delano has a thing for Asian chicks.”
“Actually,” Scooter says, his back still to us, “the guy with the Asian fetish isn’t the target. It’s the target’s buddy.”
Nova hands me another manila folder. Inside are more surveillance photos, this one of a large black man, his head bald, wearing wraparound shades.
“The bodyguard?”
Nova nods.
“And he’s the one that likes Asian chicks.”
He nods again.
I glance once more from Nova to Scooter, Scooter to Nova. “I’m going to be completely alone on this thing, aren’t I?”
Nova says, “At least on the inside, yeah.”
“Great.” I cross my arms, take a breath. “So what’s the plan?”
Two
Nova thumbs through the photographs of Roland Delano until he finds the one he wants. He sets it on the table, taps his finger on a specific place.
“See this?”
“The guy wears bling.”
“It’s not bling,” Nova says, keeping his finger on the spot just beneath Delano’s neck, where a golden coin hangs off a chain. “It’s a flash drive.”
“A flash drive,” I say.
“This is a two-part job, Holly. Taking Delano out is part one. The second part is ensuring you walk away with this flash drive.”
I look up from the photograph, glance at the two incongruous men, Scooter small and thin and wearing glasses, Nova big and strong and gorgeous. “What does this Roland Delano do again?”
“Your run of the mill terrorist.”
“And what does he specialize in?”
“Arms.”
“Big arms or small arms?”
“Massive.”
Nodding, I say, “So security is going to be tight.”
“Very,” Scooter says. He waves me over to the computers. “Delano’s st-st-staying in the Chairman Suite of the Bellagio. Apparently he’d wanted one of the villas but th-th-they were all booked and he got pissed. As you can imagine, th-this is a guy who always gets what he wants.”
Scooter opens up a window on the screen, types rapidly and brings up the Bellagio’s website.
“Wow,” I say. “It’s impressive all the legwork you’ve accomplished in the past week and a half.”
“Keep laughing, keep laughing.” He clicks and clicks until he brings up the page for the Chairman Suite. “You have to keep in mind this isn’t a George Clooney movie. Infiltrating a casino is pretty much impossible, especially with my limited equipment. The best I could do was determine his floor, his suite number, and tap into his room phone. Th-Th-That’s how we know about the party tonight and the girls he requested.”
“And how did I get my invite?”
“He requested an Asian from one of the agencies,” Nova says. “We called a few hours later, giving them all the same information, told them to cancel the order but that we’d still pay in full.”
“An Asian,” I murmur, shooting a glare at Nova. “You guys are so racially sensitive.”
“Anyway”—Scooter moves the mouse and clicks something else—“th-this is the basic floor plan. You have the foyer leading into the living and dining area, the wet bar and conference room on the right.
