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.
CHAPTER 12
Marta Bedford woke at three in the morning to Rick’s snores. Between his frequent training with the Army and the sheriff ’s office and now his deployment, she had grown accustomed to being unaccustomed to him each time he returned. If he was gone more than a month it took her several days to get used to his movements beside her in bed and the little noises he made in his sleep.
But this time was different. He’d never been a snorer, and, though she could overlook even that, the way he moaned hurt her heart. The first night after he’d gone to see her brother to take care of the boil, she’d shaken him to make sure he was all right. Of course, he’d said he was fine. Rick Bedford wouldn’t admit pain if he drank a glass of molten lava.
She slipped out from under the covers and went into the bathroom, waiting to turn on the light until she’d pulled the door shut behind her.
Staring into the mirror, she grabbed a handful of straw-blond hair and pulled it toward the ceiling, shrunken-head fashion. Blue eyes, normally bright, stared dully back beneath drooping lids. Her face was beginning to break out like a teenager, and she was getting a sty that would soon turn her into a squinty cyclops. The girls would really get a kick out of teasing her for that. Thankfully, her mother had agreed to take her granddaughters for a few nights while Rick tried to shake whatever this was that had him down.
She grabbed two aspirin from the medicine cabinet and swallowed them with a cup of water, grimacing at the pain in her throat. If this kept up Marta would have to ask her mother to watch the shop as well as the girls.