“You don’t understand…” Drake began to hyperventilate. “These people are cruel. Capable of things you can’t even imagine.”
“Oh, I can imagine a lot.”
Drake started to sob again. “I have to have assurances.”
“You—”
Quinn froze as an electronic whir came from down the hall. Someone else with a key was at the door.
“Ahhh.” Drake sniffed, then rolled up on his side with his ear toward the door. His conceited swagger bloomed across his slobbering mouth along with the courage of a man who thought he was about to be rescued. “That’ll be my Capitol Police guys coming to shoot you in the face.”
Quinn grabbed Drake by his collar and dragged him off the mattress to the floor. At that same moment a slender man wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt popped around the corner from the hallway, blazing away as if he had unlimited ammunition. At least two rounds hit Drake as Quinn pulled him down.
At first, Quinn thought the newcomer might be Dolores’s pimp, but the Browning pistol the newcomer carried was nearly a thousand bucks without the suppressor — much too professional for a man lording over a string of prostitutes, even in Vegas. The man took another shot at Drake’s bare feet where they trailed past the end of the bed, obliterating a big toe in the process.
Quinn fired back with the Beretta, sending the attacker into retreat down the hallway. He got a fleeting glimpse of a face under the gray hood and guessed the man to be Pakistani.
Firing with the suppressed .22 didn’t exactly provide a show of overwhelming force, so Quinn swapped the diminutive Beretta for the Kimber 10mm tucked inside his waistband. During the heat of battle, people hit with a silenced weapon often didn’t realize they’d been shot. The big bang provided the signal to drive that point home.
Kimber in hand, Quinn prepared himself for the onslaught of police and federal agents that would rain down on him as soon as he fired the booming gun with no suppressor. No amount of tipping would keep the housekeepers from calling security once he started shooting.
A sudden thud, followed by a surprised grunt, came from the hallway. The door slammed and Dolores’s husky voice came tentatively down the hall.
“It’s me, baby,” she whispered. “Don’t shoot, okay. You good in there?”
“I’m good,” Quinn said. He kept the Kimber trained toward the voice. “What happened?”
“He’s run off.” Dolores peeked her head around the corner. Her hands were still cuffed behind her back. “I smacked him with the bathroom door. He didn’t know I was in there so I think it scared him.”
“Just curious,” Quinn said, standing, but still eyeing the door, “how’d you get out of the flex cuffs hooked to the sink?”
“Oh.” Dolores shrugged. “You gotta learn to loosen up when you search women. Be a little more thorough. We got… places, you know.”
Drake moaned at Quinn’s feet. “That son of a bitch tried to kill me…”
Dolores sat on the bed, bouncing on the edge of the mattress while she stared down at the bloody mess that had been her date. “I think he did more than try,” she said.
Drake looked up at Quinn, anger flashing in his eyes. “You have no idea what hell I’m going to unleash on you…”
“Apparently, I’m not the only enemy you have.” Quinn leaned in closer to make sure Drake heard correctly. “But I’m the one close enough to kill you. Now, who is the Japanese woman?”
Drake smiled through his pain. Blood smeared his teeth. He coughed. “… I’m the most powerful man in the world…”
“The woman.” Quinn patted his face to keep him focused.
Drake gave a rattling chuckle. “Powerful… until they killed me…” His head lolled, eyes rolling back to show their whites.
Quinn jumped to his feet and pushed his way past a dumbfounded Dolores. “I’ll leave the handcuffs on you so the police will know you weren’t involved in this. Stay with him.”
“What do I tell them?” she shouted down the hallway.
Quinn yelled over his shoulder as he ran. “Tell them I’m going after the man who killed the Speaker of the House.”
CHAPTER 10
Quinn 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.