I reach him a second later as he tries to stand back up, tries to reach for the gun. I bend down and pick up his gun, knowing he has more rounds in his piece than in mine.
His face is red. It looks like he’s hyperventilating. I should tell him to take it easy, just breathe, but instead I point his own gun at his face.
“Easy, baby, everything’s okay.” I’ve dropped my dumb schoolgirl act and speak in my normal tone of voice. “You’re going to be a good boy and help me out here, okay? Otherwise I’m going to kill you.”
He’s still hyperventilating. His eyes are huge. He manages to say, “Fuck … you,” and tries to spit at me.
I shoot him a third time in the leg.
He screams, begs for me to stop.
I say, “Then stand up, you sissy.”
He raises himself on his elbow but that’s as far as he gets. I have to help him with the rest. Keeping the Glock aimed at him, I pull him up then push him forward, toward the main room, the gun digging into his back.
“Believe it or not,” I tell him, “I don’t plan on killing you. So listen carefully to me, do as I say, and I won’t shoot your spine in half.”
He tries to act tough but it’s difficult when you have three bullets in your leg. He limps forward into the main room and I direct him toward the master bedroom, the one where Roland took his trio of girls.
The air has become thick and bitter with cordite. I realize the rap music is still blaring. I don’t have a remote so I take a moment to shoot the stereo system. That takes care of the music, but leaves the porno going. The thing makes me sick, so I put a bullet in the widescreen.
The guy takes this as his cue to be a hero. He turns and tries to make a play. I block his first punch, push his fist away, step forward and knee him in the balls. He goes down groaning.
“Get the fuck back up,” I tell him and use the back of his jacket to yank him to his feet.
The two girls still alive keep crying. One of them realizes the gunfire has stopped and hurries toward the foyer. The other follows. She’s in such a hurry she stumbles and falls, for some reason can’t remember how to get back up, and sobs into the carpet.
I push the guy farther ahead. The bedroom is ten feet away. The door is still closed.
When we reach it I put the barrel of the Glock to the back of his neck.
“Open it.”
“But—”
“Now,” I say, and he does, and the moment the door is opened gunfire comes from inside, and I hunch down and use the guy’s body as a shield as I push him into the room where all three girls are naked and hiding behind the bed, Roland also naked and standing there with a .45 in his hands, yelling as he fires.
But then the realization hits him that he’s shooting one of his own men. He pauses, frowns, and I push my human shield away, take aim, and place one bullet right between Roland’s eyes.
The naked girls start screaming. Two of them get up and rush past me. I let them. The last one stays where she is behind the bed, crying.
I walk over to where Roland has fallen. I get a load of how small his junk is and have to suppress a smile. I bend down, grab the golden flash drive, and jerk it away so that the chain snaps.
“Scooter, you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“Target’s out and I have the prize.”
“Good. Now get th-th-the hell out of there. More are c-c-coming!”
I glance over at the girl sobbing beside the bed, the girl looking back at me with tears in her eyes and her lips trembling.
“How many?”
“At least four.”
“Roland’s men?”
“Definitely not Bellagio security.”
“When?”
“Any second now.”
Seven
Back in the main room, I stop by the wet bar and grab the dead guy’s MPX K. I search his pockets, thankfully find he has another mag. I stuff the Glock in the waistband of my skirt and then eject the MPX K’s spent magazine, load the fresh, and hurry around the bar.
The hooker who’d stumbled and forgotten how to get back up is still sobbing into the carpet. I keep the pistol aimed at the foyer door as I reach down and take a fistful of dress fabric. I try to pull her to her feet but her body is dead weight and she just starts sobbing how she doesn’t want to die.
“Then stand up and maybe you won’t.”
She stops sobbing for a moment, looks up at me. She wipes at her eyes, scrambles to her feet. Then she just stands there, her legs shaking, biting her lip.
I motion toward the foyer door, say, “Go,” and she takes off, running awkwardly because one of her heels has fallen off and she’s too scared to notice or even care.
Then she’s gone and I start to head in that direction but pause when I realize I’m forgetting something.
Back in the other bedroom then, stepping over Jerold’s body, hurrying toward the bathroom, I knock once on the door and speak in Spanish, telling the girl that it’s okay, it’s me. I push the door open. The bathroom is empty. I take another step, confused now, and notice that the shower curtain has been drawn. I step over and pull it aside, find the Hispanic girl lying in a fetal position in the base of the tub.
“Hey,” I shout, and when she looks up at me, I say, “Let’s go.”
She murmurs in Spanish, “Leave me here. They’re going to kill me anyway.”
Scooter says, “Ah, Holly, what do you th-th-think you’re doing? Th-Those men are coming up the elevator right now.”
I ignore Scooter and tell the girl
