Music roaring, water raining down around him.
Head shoved underwater—can’t breathe—
Blow to the back—
He reached and grabbed—at anything—something to make it stop—
And found purchase on a shirt—
Yanked, twisted, elbowed his arm up and under the hand holding down his head and—
Leveraged himself free.
Robby forced his face up through the water’s surface and sucked in air—saw a large dark head, body in front of him—
And threw up his left arm in time to block another punch. The blow landed instead just beneath the gunshot wound, causing a stab of ice-pick intense pain.
Enough of this shit. Robby swung his right hand out of the water and snatched a grip around the man’s ear. He nearly slipped off the appendage, but he closed his hand as tight as he could, with whatever strength he had left, and pulled.
The ear is a sensitive part of the anatomy, and the innate desire not to have it separated from one’s body provided the survival mechanism Robby needed: his attacker instinctively refocused his attention and bent his neck to reduce the angle of Robby’s pull.
But Robby did not release his grip. The sicario switched tactics and grabbed Robby’s arm, but couldn’t pry it free. Robby squeezed harder—the man’s mouth opened—and if the music and fountains hadn’t been so damn loud, his yelp would’ve reached impressive decibels.
Robby yelled as well, infusing himself with the will to win . . . the will to live.
But the man extracted a knife from somewhere on his body. Light glinted off the chrome blade, seizing Robby’s attention. He yanked the man’s head toward him, then slammed his forehead into his attacker’s skull. It hurt like hell—but not as much as the pain inflicted on the asshole who’d tried to drown him.
The sicario’s eyes rolled up in submission. His head slumped to the side, and Robby grabbed him by his neck and plunged him down, beneath the surface.
The knife floated from the man’s open hand, then sunk impotently toward the lake’s bottom. An arm burst through the surface, reached up and clawed at Robby’s chest, grabbed for his wrist, his face—anything to make Robby release his grip.
But as the seconds ticked by, the man stopped struggling and went limp. Robby realized he was breathing rapidly—too rapidly—and was in danger of hyperventilating. He calmed himself, told himself this was not over.
He felt around, trying to move the man’s dead weight in the water, rolled him face up, and found a wallet. Shoved it into his back pocket, then searched for a handgun. Pancake holster—empty.
Robby’s body began quivering. The fight had depleted his adrenaline. He released his grip on the corpse and maneuvered himself toward the wall’s maw and—hopefully—land.
HECTOR DESANTOS had identified the men he was pursuing: Ernesto “Grunge” Escobar and Alejandro Villarreal. He had first engaged Villarreal, who then—fortunately for DeSantos—had met up with Escobar as they exited CityCenter. He followed both fugitives as they fled through the Via Bellagio shops, then spilled out onto the boulevard.
Dodging traffic and tourists, they headed south past the raucous Margaritaville bar and restaurant across the street on the right and Caesars Palace directly to his left. They then coursed along the winding sidewalk and plazas of the Forum Shops.
A two-decker bus painted bumper to bumper with Blue Man Group advertising slowed to a stop. DeSantos kept an eye on Villarreal and Escobar in case one or both hopped onboard. Splitting up—with only DeSantos in pursuit—would ensure one of them a successful escape.
As if they had a direct line to his thoughts, Villarreal cut left and Escobar right, onto the bus, as the rear doors folded closed. With the vehicle accelerating away, Escobar pressed his face against the window and glared at DeSantos, a slow smile broadening his face.
DeSantos couldn’t stop the bus—the recipe of a confined space packed with tourists and a cornered, armed killer was not a stew he wanted to stir up. It would’ve been bloody, with unacceptable collateral damage.
Instead, he pulled his Desert Eagle and cut a path forward, darting between, around, and over lovers holding hands, drunken fraternity youths on a weekend junket, friends in town for a bachelor party . . . DeSantos wasn’t discriminating. If they were in his way, they went down.
He yanked the two-way from his back pocket and keyed it. “Suspect Escobar headed north on Vegas metro bus, got on in front of Mirage. In foot pursuit same twenty suspect Villarreal. Over.” Someone else would have to follow up.
People were gathered along a railing just past the Mirage main entrance, staring at a darkened outcropping of artificial mountain rock. He picked his way through the crowd, attempting to keep track of Villarreal, who was still moving south—when a blast of flame and volcanic fire rose high into the night sky, then exploded to his left. The crowd roared. DeSantos flinched—nearly sending a .44-caliber round into an unwitting vacationer—then realized the pyrotechnics were merely more Vegas-style theater.
He felt the heat from the dancing fire warm his skin as Villarreal darted right, across the street. The traffic light had changed, and there was a break in the flow of cars.
“Freeze!” DeSantos said. “Federal agent!”
Villarreal didn’t respond but DeSantos did. He dropped to a knee, squared up low, and brought Villarreal into his Trijicon night sights. He knew he’d be violating protocol—but it was akin to a white lie. Roughly stated, if you pull your gun, you’re planning to use it, and if you’re planning to use it, you’re planning to kill—that is, aim at center mass to take down the target.
DeSantos was many things, but model soldier was not one of them. He was an exceptionally good shot with a sniper rifle and nearly as good with the less accurate handgun. But he didn’t need pinpoint accuracy. He just needed to bring down the fleeing suspect without hitting innocent bystanders.
And at this very moment, Villarreal was in the clear—that is, by Vegas standards. No innocents within twenty feet, no cars in the immediate vicinity. And a low trajectory shot.
One more warning. “Freeze!” Then he fired. Villarreal grabbed his right thigh, tried hopping forward a couple steps, then crumpled to the pavement, draping himself across the curb.
DeSantos ignored a screaming bystander as he approached his writhing prey, Desert Eagle out in front of him, not taking any chances that Villarreal could bring his own weapon to bear.
“Where do you think you’re going?” DeSantos said, now standing five feet away, his pistol aimed squarely at Villarreal’s face. “I mean, really? Do you want me to put a .44 in your head? Or are you gonna interlock your fingers behind your neck and make nice?”
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Villarreal said between clenched teeth.
“Since you don’t know what I’m thinking, there’s a good chance you’re wrong.”
“You think I had something to do with kidnapping your agent. But I didn’t. I was trying to help, I was trying to get him back to you.”
DeSantos pursed his lips. “What do you know? You were right about what I was thinking. But I’m in a good goddamn mood right now, so I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt. Thing is, you still need to get your hands behind your neck. Otherwise, my gun might go off and you’d never get the chance to prove you’re telling the truth.” DeSantos cocked his head toward his right shoulder. “Fair enough?”
Villarreal did not reply but slowly interlocked his bloody fingers behind his neck. DeSantos approached and rested his knee in Villarreal’s back as he cuffed the man’s wrists, then patted him down.
“By the way, I really like your suit,” DeSantos said. “Sorry about the hole I made.” He pulled his two-way and keyed it. “DeSantos to Mann. You there?”