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.
CHAPTER 11
Rolling 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.