The two cops leading us away let go and turn back toward the action. I hold on to the girl and lead her toward Nova. He opens his mouth but I shake my head and push the girl toward him, say, “Take her back to the garage.” He knows better than to argue; he takes her arm and then they’re slipping through the crowd of people that is quickly dispersing, everyone running and screaming now that there’s gunfire.
I turn back around, inspect the damage. I hold the chain up at my side, the gold coin swaying back and forth. If any of Roland’s men are watching, they’ll recognize it. If they recognize it, they’ll understand what’s happened and come for me. That’s fine. My goal here is ensuring nobody follows Nova and the girl.
The gunfire continues by the elevators. It’s only been going on now for thirty seconds. Some police are hit, some of Roland’s people are hit. The three that were in the elevators don’t look like they’ll be a problem for me.
But then I see more of Roland’s men. It looks like just two of them. Not wearing suits but dressed casually, like a pair of insomniac gamblers.
They’re watching me, fury in their eyes.
I look back at them. I wave. I smile. I give them the finger.
They start toward me.
I run.
Eight
Believe it or not, sprinting through the lobby of the Bellagio in a schoolgirl outfit at three o’clock in the morning isn’t as conspicuous as you’d think. Not while gunfire continues by the elevators. Not while someone has apparently pulled the fire alarm and strobes are blinking and a siren is blaring. Not while almost everyone else is hurrying away, running for their lives. So yeah, me running through the lobby, the gold flash drive swinging from my hand, isn’t that strange at all.
I come outside and see cop cars everywhere, their lights flashing red and white. The people closest to the entrance when the gunfire started have already made it out, many crowded around like the violence inside has no chance of escaping. A few police officers stand around, their weapons drawn, looking back and forth frantically.
The Strip is still heavy with traffic, people at Bally’s and Paris across the street having no idea the amount of chaos ensuing inside the Bellagio. They’re drinking, gambling, not having a care in the world, while right behind me people are screaming and crying and dying.
Coming up the drive is a group riding motorcycles. The cycles are crotch rockets, what look like Hondas, and I start in the group’s direction.
The guy in front has stopped his bike, straddling it as he takes off his helmet. I glance behind me, the entrance now fifty yards away, the pair of Roland’s men having just made it outside. I turn my attention back to the guy on the lead bike, say with a seductive smile, “Hey, that’s a sweet ride.”
He’s overly tan and has long dark hair with highlights and probably drinks Red Bull. He smiles and says, “Thanks. Maybe you’d want to go for a ride sometime?”
I’m standing less than five feet away, really putting on the charm, giving him a sexy look as I grab his helmet and say, “Actually, I’d love to go for a ride right now.”
Looking surprised, he says, “Really?”
I glance behind me. Roland’s men are running now, their guns out and held at their sides.
“Only thing is,” I tell the guy, stepping close, “I don’t ride bitch.”
The smile fades abruptly. He gives me a confused look but by then I’ve put on the helmet—it’s sweaty and smells of cigarettes—and I’ve grabbed the one handle of the Honda and with my other hand I shove the guy off the bike. He shouts and falls back, loses his balance, hits the ground. I’m already on the bike, applying the throttle, letting go of the clutch, before the guy even has a chance to sit back up.
The Honda’s rear tire burns rubber as I incorporate a one-eighty, and then I’m speeding away, hearing a distant pop behind me as one of Roland’s men fires.
At the end of the drive I brake and stop and glance back. Roland’s men have taken a much less subtler approach in acquiring their transportation. A number of the other riders are either on the ground or starting to get back to their feet, having been thrown off. Both of Roland’s men are now on the bikes, turning them around, heading toward me.
Of course they’d know how to ride a motorcycle. How naïve of me to think otherwise.
I give them an extra second to make sure they see me, and then I shoot out onto the Strip.
I’m headed south, swerving in and out of traffic. Some people brake, some honk and shout obscenities. I keep riding. I pass the Monte Carlo, the MGM Grand, and at the main intersection right by New York New York the traffic light flicks to yellow and then red. Cars are stopped in front of me and I swerve up onto the sidewalk, downshift so I don’t run into the late-night stragglers.
At the corner I glance back, see Roland’s men are right on my tail. They’re following my lead, up on the sidewalk now, and I give it an extra second before I pop the clutch and then I’m speeding over the sidewalk onto Tropicana Avenue.
I’ve been to Las Vegas before at least a half-dozen times, I know my way around the city pretty well, and my plan now is to lose them on the interstate.
So that’s just what I do—I merge onto 15 and head north. The traffic is lighter here. A couple taxis, a couple tractor-trailers, a number of cars. As I pass one car I look over just as the car’s driver looks over. He sees me on the bike, sees me in my outfit with my skirt and shirt
