Time of Attack (9 page)

Q
uinn slid the Kimber back in the holster under his jacket as he sprinted toward the elevators, ready to draw again at the first sign of a threat. He took the first elevator going down to the lobby, smiling at an elderly couple who were already on board. They stood well back from him, as if plastered to the wall, wanting to be as far away as possible during their ride. It wasn’t until he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that Quinn realized a smear of Drake’s blood was splashed across his cheek and ran down like a tear under his left eye.

Assuming he was on camera anyway, Quinn shrugged it off and stepped into the Augustus Tower lobby when the doors finally opened. He scanned the knots of milling hotel guests that stood here and there, looking for some sign of irregularity.

Frightened or violent people left a sort of wake behind them when they ran. Not everyone recognized it for what it was, but some did, even if subconsciously. Quinn saw two older men, each wearing Vietnam Veteran caps, staring down the hallway toward the casino. Veterans, men who had seen close conflict, would sense people who were out of the ordinary. Following their gaze, Quinn trotted past the two men, nodding in salute as he went by.

By the time he reached the Palace casino floor, the man in the hoodie had gone. But the invisible wake remained. Most of the hotel patrons were ambivalent, happy to stay blissfully unaware. But a handful of people here and there craned their heads to look toward the door. A bellman stood by his stand, his back to the casino, gazing out the window as if watching something. Two uniformed security guards walked toward the front exit, intent on making sure someone had left the premises.

Very likely a man in a gray hoodie.

Quinn picked up his pace, leaving his own wake of watchers. He ran past the bellman and pushed his way out the front door into the covered portico and valet parking.

The blast of chilly night air was a pleasant reprieve from the stuffy, bottled atmosphere of the casino. The sun had long since set, but the lights of the Vegas Strip danced and exploded in a blinding rainbow of colors and hues. Quinn had to slow for a moment and let his eyes adjust. There was always a chance the man would be waiting for him outside, behind a potted shrub or around any corner. He had the smell of a runner though, so Quinn chased, hoping his instincts were correct. By the time he knew better, it would be too late.

Quinn jogged past the line of sparkling black limousines and assorted Prius cabs parked along the circular drive. The man in the hoodie was nowhere to be seen, but a turbaned Sikh beside the lead cab brushed the seat of his pants as if he’d been knocked over before Quinn came on the scene and was just regaining his feet. The Sikh stared past the fountains and statuary, muttering angry words under his breath.

Quinn followed the cabbie’s gaze and broke into a full run, sprinting across the concrete plaza under heroic statues of muscular horses and Roman gods. Arms pumping, he slid to a stop as he reached the pedestrian bridge that crossed above Las Vegas Boulevard. He scanned the rivers of people flowing north and south, leaning over the bolstered concrete edge to check both sides of the Strip. He’d nearly given up when he caught a glimpse of gray, heading north between the palms and boxwood hedges in front of the garishly lit Flamingo casino. The hoodie bounced with a particular bobbing walk and moved a half step faster than the crowd.

Quinn bolted across the bridge, dodging and ducking his way through tourists, beggars, and con men. Half sliding, half running down the escalator to the street below, he sprinted north the moment his feet hit the pavement.

Evening brought a heightened activity to the Strip. Tourists stood and gawked at the lights, the buildings, and each other. Huge parties of all ethnicities and nationalities moved in great herds, blocking sidewalks in search of the perfect cheap buffet. Greasy men and sad-looking women wearing matching T-shirts lurked at every corner and chokepoint, snapping business cards for strip clubs to everyone who met their tired eyes. Bands of motorcycles, from Harleys to Hayabusas, blatted and growled at each stoplight. Stretch limos, Hummers, and every sports car conceivable jammed Las Vegas Boulevard, bumper to expensive bumper.

About the time Quinn got to the Imperial, he saw the hooded man flag down a cab. Though traffic was stop-and-go, if the cab took the left lane, the hooded man would be gone before Quinn could sprint to it and drag him out. Two college-age boys slouched on the curb in front of the Rockhouse Bar. One wore a green Windbreaker, the other, a mustachioed UNLV sweatshirt. The objects of their attention were a couple of working girls. The boys were trying to convince the ladies they were old enough not to be jailbait. A Ducati Hypermotard and a Kawasaki Ninja stood parked along the curb behind them.

Thankfully, the boy in the sweatshirt was brain-addled by the short skirt and long legs of the two hookers. He’d backed his Ducati into the curb and left the keys in the ignition.

Quinn took one last look at the bobbing gray head of the hooded shooter as the cab rolled passed Harrah’s a block away. Quinn was fast, but the shooter had too much of a lead. Following on foot was not going to work.

Without slowing his stride, Quinn threw a leg over the red Ducati and brought the engine roaring to life. Bikes rumbled by incessantly on the Strip, and by the time the kid in the UNLV shirt tore his eyes away from the girls to look behind him, Quinn was halfway down the block.

Quinn bent low, leaning in over the handlebars, coaxing as many of the 110 horses from the Duc’s Tes-tastretta engine as he dared without spilling into traffic. Rolling on the throttle, he split the lanes, shooting between an idling panel truck that advertised
HOT BABES ON CALL
and a low-rider Silverado pickup.

The Hypermotard, Ducati’s version of a dirt bike for the street, was built for speed and maneuverability in all terrains, perfect for Quinn’s needs at the moment. He caught sight of the gray hoodie’s head through the back window of the cab, craning backward to see if he was being followed. Quinn pulled to the side of the road, in the shadow of a Hummer limousine.

The hoodie jumped out of the cab after less than a block and began walking again. Quinn often used the same trick to see if anyone was following him. The short ride made the drivers mad, but a good tip got them over it in a hurry.

Quinn slowed the bike to a rumbling putt, falling in with the flow of stop-and-go traffic while he watched the hoodie bob its way north with the sidewalk crowd. This man had shot Hartman Drake, likely to shut him up before he could tell Quinn anything useful. He’d had enough resources to find out what room Drake was in and the juice to get a key to that room. Had Dolores not assisted by plowing into the guy, Quinn might have thought she was involved.

Quinn veered right, nearly forced into a line of palm trees by a big-haired redhead paying more attention to her cell phone than the path of her shiny Coupe de Ville. The mere act of riding a motorcycle in such traffic brought an extra level of awareness that only added to the intensity of the chase. Not only did he have to worry about keeping the man in the hoodie in sight, or that same man turning to shoot him, but half the vehicles crammed onto the Strip seemed hell-bent on grinding him into the pavement.

“Where are you headed?” Quinn mused to himself as he leaned on the handlebars and watched the gray hoodie bob across the small service street on the other side of Denny’s and Casino Royale. The shooter continued walking in front of the Venetian, answering his cell in the flickering green glow cast by the outdoor gondola canals.

Quinn knew that phone would contain a wealth of information.

Still moving, the man in the hoodie turned to look over his shoulder while he spoke, his bob becoming more animated. Turning again, he scanned the pedestrian bridge that crossed Las Vegas Boulevard to Treasure Island, then back over his shoulder. His head on a swivel, the man’s eyes shot back and forth, looking behind him, then up at the bridge. Twenty meters back, partially hidden by the
Hot Babes
panel truck that had caught up with him in traffic, Quinn couldn’t hear the conversation. But he didn’t need to. Someone was telling the shooter that he was being followed, warning him.

Instinctively, Quinn began to scan the area, eyes combing the windows above. When he looked back, the man in the gray hoodie hunched his shoulders—and ran.

R
olling on the throttle, Quinn shot around the
Hot Babes
panel van, squirting between traffic. His knee was just inches from the wrought-iron fence along the curb. The light changed on the street somewhere up ahead, and Quinn felt the wind from a passing side mirror graze him as a Hummer sped by.

The man in the hoodie shot a glance over his shoulder as Quinn bore down on him under the Palazzo portico. Spying the oncoming bike and certainly the look of death on Quinn’s face, the man redoubled his efforts and sprinted toward the open double doors to the hotel. Less than ten meters behind, Quinn held his breath as he sailed through the same doors and into the lobby of the Palazzo.

Crowds of milling hotel patrons scattered like quail at the machine-gun blat of the oncoming bike. The marble interior of the huge, columned rotunda seemed to shake with the captive roar.

Quinn’s target slid along the floor, squatting low to regain his traction on the slick marble.

Behind him, Quinn fared little better. He planted a foot and let off the gas to maintain some semblance of control on the torquing bike.

The man in the hoodie darted left to keep from becoming trapped by an oncoming group of Chinese tourists. Quinn gunned the throttle, drifting the rear tire in a squalling rooster tail of smoke to get the bike pointed in the right direction. Hotel patrons turned to watch what many thought was some incredible Las Vegas attraction. Some had to scramble out of the way as Quinn followed his target straight into the casino.

The shooter cut left, yanking an older man off a stool at the champagne bar before darting up the middle of the casino floor. The Ducati’s tires found easier traction on the carpet, and Quinn flicked the bike easily back and forth between casino patrons. He gained quickly on the runner, nearly catching him at the high-stakes blackjack tables. Feeling Quinn behind him, the man grabbed a cigarette girl and shoved, sending her flying into a cursing tangle of cigar tray, tiny dress, and boobs, directly into the path of the oncoming motorcycle.

Quinn jagged to the right to avoid the spitting girl, narrowly missing a row of roulette players with his knee as he fought to keep the bike on two wheels. Men in dark suits began to materialize from every pit and shadow of the casino. Some identified the man in the hoodie as part of the problem, but most converged on Quinn.

Quinn poured on the gas to keep out of the grasp of a particularly large, baldheaded pit boss who vaulted over a craps table after him.

Speeding up on a straightaway between the tables, he watched the man in the hoodie flee the casino for the lobby and jump on the escalator beside a huge, floor-to-ceiling waterfall. He bounded upward, jerking other riders to the side as he bulldozed his way past. He reached the top at the same time Quinn reached the bottom.

With a virtual army of security behind him, some in suits, some in the comically loose Italian gendarmerie blues worn by hotel security, Quinn yanked up slightly on the handlebars and goosed the Ducati into a low wheelie.

No motorcycle was purpose-built for climbing escalators, but the Hypermotard came close, making the tooth-jarring journey to the top in time for Quinn to see the runner shove his way through the protesting crowds. He brutally yanked a young girl to the ground as he ducked under the arch into the adjoining Venetian Canal Shoppes.

Quinn rolled off the gas again at the top of the stairs, planted a foot to turn the bike toward the Shoppes, then accelerated smoothly on the slick marble. It looked as though he would make it until he hit a puddle of melted milkshake, part of the wake of shoppers and food left by the fleeing man in the hoodie.

The front wheel flipped sharply left, handlebars slapping the tank. The Ducati went down hard, bucking wildly and throwing Quinn over the front. He landed on his shoulder, rolling like a bowling ball through a crowd of gawking onlookers to send them scattering in all directions.

The armor in the Transit jacket took the brunt of the impact and Quinn was on his feet in an instant, running. He reached instinctively for his waist, touching the butt of his Kimber to make certain it had survived the crash.

Humidity and the swimming-pool smell of the indoor gondola ride hit him in the face as he rounded the corner. The man with the hoodie had cut to the left of the canal, darting between the milling crowds that stood at the rail, watching the singing gondoliers and waiting for their turns for a boat ride.

Quinn scanned the area ahead, spotting an approaching wedding party that blocked the runner’s path. He cut to the right of the canal. The man in the hoodie, realizing he’d been cut off, tried to cross the small footbridge that arched over the water. Quinn met him halfway across.

Wanting to buy time away from the approaching security, Quinn crashed into the hooded gunman, hips low and rising like a football player off the line. He used the man’s energy to spin him, driving him sideways, then backward over the concrete railing of the bridge to land with a splash in the clear blue water of the gondola canal ten feet below.

The man in the hoodie hit the surface flat on his back, catching the brunt of the force. Quinn landed on top of him, hands at the throat of the hoodie. Kicking as hard as he could, he drove the man down to the bottom of the shallow water. A cloud of silver bubbles erupted from the man’s mouth as Quinn kept pushing, forcing the air from his lungs. Aware that his opponent had a gun, Quinn kept the pressure up, squeezing the man’s throat and hoping the desire to breathe would outweigh any ability to shoot.

Quinn held him under for a full minute, writhing on the bottom of the crystal blue water and surely giving the crowd above a good Vegas spectacle. They broke the surface together, the man in the hoodie choking and spewing water, gasping for air. A ring of security stood along the railing above, shouting orders but unwilling to get themselves wet now that their quarry was contained.

Quinn twisted the shooter’s arm behind his back, wrenching upward, not caring how much damage he caused. He spun the man around so he was facing away and Quinn could talk directly into his ear.

“Who sent you?” he hissed, water spraying from his mouth.

The man, a Pakistani from his accent, rattled off a vehement oath. Although Quinn didn’t understand completely, the gist of the words was clear. He wrenched the arm higher against the man’s back. Sidestepping, Quinn bent at the waist, using the man’s arm to shove his head underwater.

Along the railing, some people clapped, still thinking it was a show.

The Pakistani struggled as Quinn held him under, ignoring the shouts from the security men above. “I need a name,” Quinn said, lifting him back to a standing position.

Sputtering, the Pakistani looked up as if to speak. His body suddenly tensed, as if hit with a bolt of electricity.

“The Foo Dog,” he said under his breath, mouth hanging open. He backpedaled furiously, trying to get away.

“What?” Quinn jerked the man upright again.

A series of muffled
woompfs
from a suppressed pistol popped in the humid air. Quinn felt a splash across his face. The Pakistani convulsed and then went limp in his hands, a gaping wound where his forehead had been. Quinn held the body up as a shield, spinning slightly to make sure he kept the dead Pakistani between him and the shooter. Four more shots came in quick succession, riddling the Pakistani but obviously meant for Quinn.

He caught a glimpse of dark hair beyond the Venetian railing above, tucked back in a small recess beside the stone support column that led from the escalator to the Canal Shoppes.

“Hands in the air!” a voice barked from the gondola docks. Quinn looked up to see a Las Vegas Metro police officer, pistol pointed directly at him.

He let the dead man fall and raised his hands, not bothering to mention he was a federal agent. They would find that out soon enough. For a split second, he got a clear view of the woman beyond the railing. A uniformed Palazzo guard stood immediately beside her, not realizing that she was the shooter.

The law enforcement and casino security chasing Quinn had run right past. They’d left her virtually alone long enough to fire several rounds from her suppressed pistol, which was obviously now tucked under her brown leather jacket. She was compactly built, with narrow hips and long hair that hung like a thick mask over much of her perfectly oval face. Black eyes stared out from beneath the curtain of hair. An exasperated sneer hung on her small mouth.

Quinn looked away long enough to follow orders from the Vegas Metro officer, who was shouting at him to walk backward to the side of the canal.

Quinn’s heart sank when he realized how little he had to go on. Drake had told him nothing, and the Pakistani shooter had given him only two words.

Foo Dog
.

These ferocious lion dogs guarded virtually every temple and shrine in Asia. The words had something to do with the woman in the archway.

When Quinn glanced back, she was gone.