Mercer needed a moment to come to grips with losing one of his men. As much as he hated it, Ken Porter wasn’t the first he’d lost underground, and as long as he stayed in the business he probably wouldn’t be the last either. That was the nature of the work. “He’s paying the butcher’s bill.”
Red held up two fingers and then three and then gave a thumbs-up. Two out of three was damn good considering what they’d just endured. “Question for you,” he said, palming water from his hair. “You notice this tastes exactly like seawater?”
Mercer nodded in the darkness, then answered when he realized Red couldn’t see him. “Yeah, I noticed.”
“You got an explanation?”
This time Mercer just shook his head as the elevator climbed for the surface.
THE LUXOR HOTEL LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
Because everything had to be trucked to the mining camp, including fresh water, showers had been strictly regulated to five minutes under a limp drizzle. So for the first time in nearly two weeks, Mercer relaxed under a pounding spray in his tiled bathroom, the steady beat of the near-scalding water working into his shoulders and back, loosening knots deep in the muscle. He’d already gone through the complimentary shampoo and lathered himself so much that only a sliver of soap remained.
His image in the vanity mirror opposite the shower stall was merely a watery outline hidden in banks of steam.
An hour after emerging from the flooded mine, Ira’s promised helicopters had arrived. One took off immediately with Red Harding, whose injuries were a lot worse than he’d led Mercer to believe. The crack he’d taken to his head had left a fist-sized depression in his skull. And while most of the men, including Mercer, had been ferried to one of the Boeing 737-200s the government used to shuttle workers between Area 51 and Las Vegas, two additional Blackhawks were dispatched to the mine area to search for Donny Randall. He had returned to the command trailer while Mercer and his team had gone to place the seismograph, but no one had seen him since. Most of his clothes were still in his room, but enough were missing to make it clear he’d made a run for it. Not that Mercer needed this further evidence to be convinced of the link between Randall and the misfiring of the explosives that caused the flood. He also now understood why Donny had used more explosives while working. He’d been hoarding the Tovex to flood the mine.
It took a second call from Ira Lasko to order Mercer away from the site. He’d wanted to assist in the search. Ira assured him that the infrared detectors placed all around Area 51 would pick up a lone man in the desert on the first pass. Randall would be in a cell inside of eight hours.
Unsatisfied, but with no choice, Mercer agreed to go only after getting Ira’s promise that he could be there when Donny was first questioned. Ira relented and told Mercer he’d be at Area 51 in thirty-six hours and they’d interview Randall the Handle together.
He had sat by himself on the flight from the secret base to Las Vegas, trying to think through why Donny had done what he’d done. There was no way he could have anticipated that Randall was planning on a murder in the mine, so he no longer blamed himself for what happened. For now he focused on his anger. The short trip gave Mercer no time to find answers. Nor did he have much time when they landed because the secure terminal used by Area 51 employees at McCarran Airport was a stone’s throw from the Egyptian-inspired Luxor Hotel.
Mercer’s last visit to Las Vegas had been during the spring break of his first year at the Colorado School of Mines. He’d known the city had grown significantly in the years since, but he wasn’t prepared for the scale of the changes. All the hotels were massive, designed upon various themes to entice gamblers, and more recently, entire families. There were fantasy castles and circus big tops, reproductions of New York City and a hotel designed to evoke Venice, Italy. The Luxor, with over four thousand rooms, was one of the largest hotels in the world, and its pyramid design made it the city’s most distinctive. Atop the three-hundred-fifty-foot black-glass structure was the brightest spotlight ever built, at three hundred thousand watts and forty billion candlepower.
While smaller than Egypt’s Great Pyramid, the design and execution of the building stunned Mercer. He became even more impressed when he entered the lobby and realized the hotel was just a shell for an atrium large enough to hold ten wide-body jets.
The statuary, carvings and faux temples could not distract from the hotel’s real attraction. From the lobby, it was just a few paces to the casino floor, where the staccato chime of coins falling into hoppers and the ringing of slot machine bells lured gamblers by the thousands.
A few of the workers made plans to meet at the craps tables as soon as they’d stowed their meager luggage. Mercer’s first interest was a couple of room service drinks and a thirty-minute shower, preferably enjoying both at the same time.
Mercer reached into the soap dish for his vodka gimlet. It was his second drink and a third waited on the nightstand for when he was dressing. He checked the time on his TAG Heuer, assessed the puckered skin on his fingers, and gave himself another five minutes before shutting off the taps.
He dialed his home phone with a towel wrapped around his waist. He gazed out the window overlooking the azure swimming pools a hundred thirty feet below his room. Two workers were cleaning the area and stacking lounge chairs. Beyond, the city glittered almost to the horizon in a thousand shades of neon. The phone rang four times before his machine picked up. He cut the connection and dialed Tiny’s.
“Forget it,” a voice sneered.
“Nice way to answer the phone,” Mercer said to Paul Gordon.
“Hey, Mercer! Sorry about that. I’ve got caller ID,” Tiny explained. “I recognized the seven-oh-two area code but not the number. I figured you were a Vegas bookie looking to give me odds.” Apart from owning the tavern, Gordon ran a rather lucrative illegal sports book. “What are you doing out there? Harry said you were kidnapped by some government types for a job.”
“I was. Is he there?” Talking with Harry always lightened Mercer’s spirits and cleared his head.
“Yeah, hold on.”
Mercer could hear Tiny speaking to Harry and mentioning that he was in Las Vegas.
“You son of a bitch,” Harry rasped when he got on the line. “Why didn’t you tell me where they were sending you?”
“I didn’t know myself,” Mercer said quickly.
“How long are you staying?”
Mercer could sense the wheels already turning in Harry’s head. “Just the night,” he lied, knowing if he’d said two Harry would be on the next plane. He was dressing as he spoke: black slacks, a white oxford and an unstructured sports coat.
“Goddamn it. You just called to yank my chain, didn’t you?”
“Harry. I can’t believe you’d think that of me,” Mercer said innocently. “I thought that maybe you were worried and would like to know I was all right.”
“Screw you and your all right. You called to bust my balls about being in Vegas.”
“I would have called even if Ira had sent me to West Podunk, Wisconsin.”
“And I would’ve said you deserved to be sent there, you bastard.” Harry softened a little. “Where are you staying?”
“Luxor.”
“Do me a favor.”
“You want a shot glass?”
“Why? I steal yours. From the balcony outside your room you look right over the casino. See if you can take the phone out so at least I can hear it.”
Mercer laughed. “Are you that desperate?”
“I haven’t gambled since Tiny and I swiped your Jag to go to Atlantic City.”
“That happened last summer. Are you forgetting you hit the tables pretty hard when we were in Panama?”
Cackling, Harry said, “Last summer? Hell, we took your Jag again a couple weeks ago when you were in
