I’m nervous he’ll find the radio patch that’s behind my ear, but he’s not looking for anything like that and he doesn’t check for it.
People see what they expect to see.
The secret to misdirection.
He points to the hallway that leads past the dance rehearsal room. “This way.”
“Where’s Charlene?”
“Just walk.”
His name badge reads “G. Shepard.” I take it as a bad sign that he’s willing to let me see him in his uniform and let me read his name tag.
He wouldn’t let you see that if he was planning on letting you walk out of here alive.
“Why are we meeting backstage?” I ask, to give Xavier our location.
The cop doesn’t reply, just orders me to keep walking, so with him right on my heels, I cross down the hallway toward the stage.
Calista heard a knock, then heard the door to the room bang open.
Then shouting.
A gunshot.
Another.
The loud thunk of a body hitting the floor.
She wasn’t sure what was real. Maybe she was imagining this, hearing things.
The sounds came from the other side of the suite. She was weak and tried to roll over to see what was happening, but couldn’t make it.
There was a scuffle of movement, the harsh sound of male voices, and then a man was kneeling over her, removing her gag.
“Ma’am? Are you okay?”
She shook her head feebly. “I’m…” But she couldn’t get any other words out.
“My name is Agent Ratchford.” He was freeing her wrists and ankles. “I’m with the FBI. What’s your name?”
“Calista,” she managed to say.
“Calista, who did this to you?”
“He injected it… into me.” She gestured toward the bag of gray powder that he’d left on the counter in the bathroom. “I need help.”
“What did he give you?”
“Dust. Poison.” She was finally able to speak, but every word was a chore. Leaning on one elbow, she could see a couple security guards bent over Turnisen, who was on the bed at the other end of the suite. “I don’t know.”
But then she toppled back to the floor.
“Who? Who injected you?” Agent Ratchford pointed toward Dr. Malhotra’s body, which lay near the bed. The pistol he carried was beside him, where he’d dropped it when he was shot. “That man?”
She shook her head, starting to lose focus. “Derek.”
Ratchford called to one of the other men, who she now saw was from hotel security, “Get an ambulance here, stat! And contact poison control!”
He turned to her again. “Where is this Derek?”
“He left. I don’t know.”
“Do you know his last name?”
“Byrne. But he likes to be called…”
“He likes to be called what?”
She tried to catch her breath.
“Who is this man?” he asked her.
“Akinsanya.”
Antidote
“What?” Clay gasped. “Did you just say Akinsanya?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t know where he went?”
“He took… a wheelchair… ”
A wheelchair, huh?
This is a casino, he thought. They’ll have surveillance footage of all the hallways.
The officer leads me through the backstage area.
I notice the props for our show — the cages and swords, the glass panels and trunks with hidden panels and sliding doors. If I could lose the cop I might be able to use something back here against Akinsanya.
Before you do anything, make sure Charlene is okay.
As we cross onto the stage itself, I see that the auditorium’s house lights are off, but one of the spotlights is on and is directed at center stage.
“Go up there,” Officer Shepard commands. “Stand in the light.”
I walk onstage.
The piranha tank on my left looms in the darkness. The platform high above it that broke away and dropped me into the tank is out of sight. The larger platform on the other side — the one where the gurney was, where the divers were stationed, and where Seth took his bow — is also engulfed in shadows.
I enter the circle of light. “Alright,” I call. “I’m here.”
The words echo eerily through the vast, empty auditorium. The acoustics are good, and I’m confident that anyone in here would be able to hear me.
“Where is she? I want to see her.”
No reply.
When you’re a Las Vegas performer you get used to not seeing the audience. Instead, you spend most of the show with spotlights glaring in your eyes. Now, I use one hand to shield my eyes from looking directly into the spot so I won’t be blinded by it.
“I said I’m here,” I repeat, louder this time. “Where’s Charlene?”
A voice drifts down from the platform where the divers sat. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Mr. Banks.”
It sounds like the same person who was on the phone with me earlier, the one who identified himself as Akinsanya.
When I turn, I can’t tell who’s up there. “Where’s Charlene?”
“Tell me the launch codes.”
“Let me talk to her.”
“You’re going to have to trust me.”
“I’m not going to give you anything until I see her.”
He ignores that. “I propose an even trade.”
“Yes, I get it,” I say impatiently. “I know: the launch codes for Charlene. Now where is—”
“No.”
“No?”
“No: the launch codes for the antidote.”
My heart stops. “What?”
“Wheel her out.”
Another spotlight flicks on, illuminating the far side of the stage. It might mean someone is in the lighting booth controlling the lights, or it just might be Akinsanya using the booth’s iPad with all the controls.
The police officer who led me here appears from the darkness. He’s pushing a wheelchair.
Charlene is sitting in it. Her wrists are cuffed to the chair. She’s gagged but conscious.
“Charlene!” I start toward her, but the sharp blast of a gunshot ricochets through the theater and the stage splinters to pieces beside my left foot.
I stop.
“Don’t go any closer”—it’s Akinsanya—“I want you to tell me the launch codes, but you don’t have to be able to walk to do that. The next bullet goes through your left thigh.”
The shot seemed to come from the back of the auditorium near the lighting booth rather than from the platform above the tank.
Another person? How many people do they have here?
Choosing to confront us here in the theater really isn’t a bad idea. Keeping the effects of one of Vegas’s most famous performers secret is a priority for the Arête, so this place is secure. To keep our music from distracting people in the gaming area, the theater is soundproof as well.
“Take off her gag.”
Akinsanya’s voice: “Go ahead.”
The officer obeys him.
“Jev,” she gulps in a breath, “don’t give them what they want. I heard ’em talking; they want a drone. They want—”
“That’s enough,” the cop tells her.
“It’s for a drug cartel. They’re delivering—”
“I said that’s enough.” He grabs her hair with his right hand and yanks her head back.
I feel my hands tighten into fists. “Let go of her now, or you will never use that hand again.”
“Do it,” Akinsanya orders.
The cop untangles his hand, shoving her head roughly to the side as he does.