After the burst of light, Ralston and Jake would race up behind them, cuff the guards, then wrap duct tape around their mouths. With the suitcases of money, the men would return to the stolen van, parked thirty feet away, around the corner of the banquet facility. They’d drive a few miles away to Ralston’s window-washing truck, then head back to California.
Ralston looked at his watch. The show was over and the guards would be packing up the money now.
But where were they? It seemed to be taking a lot of time. Were they coming this way, after all?
He glanced toward the door, then he saw it open.
Except that, no, it wasn’t the guards at all. It was just a couple of men. A younger one in a striped shirt and an older one in a T-shirt, jeans and sports coat. They were walking along the path slowly, talking and laughing.
What the fuck were they doing here?
Oh, no. Behind them the door opened again and the guards — two of them, big and armed, of course — were wheeling the cart containing the cash suitcases along the path.
Shit. The two men in front were screwing everything up.
How was he going to handle it?
He crouched in the bushes, pulling the pistol from his pocket.
“Gotta say, man. I loved your show.”
“Homicide Detail? Thanks.”
“Classic TV. Righteous.”
“We had fun making it. That’s the important thing. You interested in television?”
“Probably features for now.”
Meaning, O’Connor supposed, after a successful career he could “retire” to the small screen. Well, some people had done it. Others, like O’Connor, thought TV was a medium totally separate from feature films, but just as valid.
“I saw Town House,” O’Connor offered.
“That piece of crap?”
O’Connor shrugged. He said sincerely, “You did a good job. It was a tough role. The writing wasn’t so hot.”
McKennah laughed. “Most of the script was like: ‘SFX: Groaning as if the house itself is trying to cry for help.’ And ‘FX: blood pouring down the stairs, slippery mess. Stacey falls and is swept away.’ I thought it would be more like traditional horror. The Exorcist. The Omen. Don’t Look Now. Or Howard Hawks’ The Thing. Nineteen fifty-one and it still scares the piss out of me. Brilliant.”
They both agreed the recent British zombie movie, 28 Days Later, was one of the creepiest things ever filmed.
“You mentioned a new project. What’s it about?” O’Connor asked.
“A caper. Sort of The Italian Job meets Ocean’s Eleven. Wahlberg kind of thing. Pulling the money together now. You know how that goes…How ’bout you?”
“TV probably. A new series.”
If I get my bump, O’Connor thought.
McKennah nodded behind him. “That was pretty bizarre. Celebrity poker.”
“Beats Survivor. I don’t dive off any platforms or eat anything too low on the food chain.”
“That Sandy, she’s one hot chick. I’m glad she’s still with us.”
McKennah wore no wedding ring; nor did Sandra Glickman. O’Connor wished them the best, though he knew that two-career relationships in Hollywood were sort of like the hammer at Texas Hold ’Em — not impossible to win with; you needed luck and lots of careful forethought.
“Oh, watch it there.” McKennah pointed to a thick wire on the sidewalk. It was curled and O’Connor had nearly caught his foot. The young actor paused and squinted at it.
O’Connor glanced at him.
McKennah explained that he was concerned about paparazzi. How they’d stalk you, even lay booby traps to catch you in embarrassing situations.
O’Connor laughed. “Not a problem I’ve had for a while.”
“Damn, look.” McKennah gave a sour laugh. He walked to what the wire was attached to, a photographer’s light, set up on a short tripod halfway along the path. Angrily he unplugged it and looked around. “Some goddamn photog’s around here somewhere.”
“Maybe it’s part of the show.”
“Then Aaron should’ve told us.”
“True.”
“Oh, there’re some guards.” He nodded at the security detail with the money, behind them. “I’ll tell them. Sometimes I get a little paranoid, I have to admit. But there are some crazy fucking people out there, you know.”
“Tell me about it.”
Ralston had to do something fast.
The two men had spotted the photoflash and, it seemed, had unplugged it.
And the guards were only about fifty feet behind.
What the hell could he do?
Without the flash there was no way they’d surprise the guards.
He glanced toward Jake but the biker was hiding behind thick bushes and seemed not to have seen. And the two men were just standing beside the light, talking and now — fuck it — waiting for the guards. Assholes.
This was their last chance. Only seconds remained. Then an idea occurred to Ralston.
Hostage.
He’d grab one of the men at gunpoint and draw the guards’ attention while Jake came up behind them.
No, better than that, he’d grab one and wound the other — leg or shoulder. That would show he meant business. The security guards’d drop their guns. Jake could cuff and tape them and the two men would flee. Everybody would be so busy caring for the wounded man, he and Jake could get to their truck before anybody realized which way they’d gone.
He pulled on the ski mask and, taking a deep breath, stepped fast out of the bushes, lifting the barrel toward the older of the two men, the one in the T-shirt and jacket, who gazed at him in astonishment. He aimed at the man’s knee and started to pull the trigger.
O’Connor gasped, seeing the small man materialize from the bushes and aim a gun at him.
He’d never had a real gun pointed toward him — only fake ones on the set of the TV shows — and his initial reaction was to cringe and raise a protective hand.
As if that would do any good.
“No, wait!” he shouted involuntarily.
But just as the man was about to shoot, there came a flash of motion from his right, accompanied by a grunting gasp.
Dillon McKennah leapt forward and, with his left hand, expertly twisted away the pistol. With his right he delivered a stunning blow to the assailant, sending him staggering back, cradling his wrist. McKennah then moved in again and flipped the man to his belly and knelt on his back, calling for the guards. The gesture seemed a perfect karate move from an action-adventure film.
O’Connor, still too stunned to feel afraid, glanced back at the sound of footsteps running toward the parking lot. “There’s another one, too! That way!”
But the guards remained on the sidewalk, drawing their guns. One stayed with the money, looking around. The other ran forward, calling into his microphone. In less than ten seconds the walkway was filled with security guards and Las Vegas cops, too, who were apparently stationed in the hotel for the show.
Two officers jogged in the direction O’Connor indicated he’d heard fleeing footsteps.
The assailant’s ski mask was off, revealing an emaciated little man in his forties, eyes wide with fear and dismay.
O’Connor watched a phalanx of guards, surrounding the money from Go For Broke, wheeling the cart fast into the hotel. Yet more guards arrived.
The officers who’d gone after the footsteps reported that they’d seen no one, though a couple reported a big man had jumped into a van and sped off. “Dark, that’s about all they could tell. You gentlemen all right?”