Robby heard the slide of a semiautomatic pistol, dangerously close to his left ear.
“I’ll make this quick,” the man said.
Robby threw up a hand. “No. Wait—”
The gunshot echoed loudly.
83
When Pryor radioed his supervisor for the exact location of the maintenance shop, he was told they had another hundred feet to go, around the bend—but he was informed that SWAT and Vegas Metro PD were on their way. They were to stop and await their arrival.
“Bullshit,” Vail said to Pryor as he reholstered his two-way. “I’m not waiting.”
Pryor pulled a ring from a clip on his uniform and sifted through the various keys before making his choice. “The engineers are all gone for the night.”
Vail took the key and said, “Stay here. No one goes past unless they’re law enforcement. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Vail jogged down the curving corridor until she reached a gray metal door that bore a red and black sign:FOUNTAIN MAINTENANCE SHOP
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
Vail slid the key into the lock and entered the room. She quietly shut the heavy door and proceeded forward. A network of pipes extended the length of the ceiling—as best she could see in the room’s low light. Machinery lined both walls: what looked like a welding apparatus, a band saw, a large pipe cutter, a circular saw.
Because it was dimly lit, she had to move slowly to make sure she didn’t trip on a spike or fastener bolted into the ground.
Vail pointed her BlackBerry’s lit display at the floor and used it as a flashlight. She followed the machinery until she heard voices nearby. Workers? Pryor said they’d all gone home for the night. She stopped and listened. I know that voice. Where’ve I heard it before?
“ . . . skimmed off that huge black tar heroin shipment coming in. You’d then collar Guevara, maybe Cortez, too, and no one would know about the missing money. Does that sound about right?”
That voice she knew. Robby. Who’s he talking to? Vail edged forward another few steps.
“You’re a fucking disgrace to the badge, Sebastian . . . ”
Sebastian? What the hell’s going on?
She turned her head left, then right, trying to triangulate on the echoing voices.
“We don’t have a lotta time. Take care of him, then meet me where we discussed.”
Vail advanced forward, Glock out in front of her. To her left, the room opened up into a larger space. Two men were standing by Robby.
And one of them had a pistol pointed at his head.
84
Robby, no!
The gunshot was deafening. And it was followed by a second, equally as loud—but Vail’s hearing was blown from the close-quarters echo of the first, so she more or less felt, rather than heard, the latter round.
The dead man to Robby’s left hung in the air, but the one to his right was heavier—and he hit the ground with a thud, that sickening hollow thrump when a skull strikes cement with significant force. His colleague followed a split second later, dropping to his knees before falling forward onto his face.
Robby’s eyes caught Vail’s and she merely stood there, emotion welling in her chest, threatening to erupt. She found herself unable to move, her feet still planted in a Weaver stance, both hands squeezing the Glock. The smell of cordite stinging her nose.
Robby, on his knees, was crying—she could see that much in the dim light from the overhead bulb. Tears streaked his cheeks.
She dropped her arms to her sides, took a tentative step forward, then ran. Ran into his arms, and joined him on the floor. Hugged him tight.
Neither said a word.
85
Outside in the carport, an ambulance sat idling in front of the Terrazza di Sogno—the Terrace of Dreams—an Italian balcony overlooking the Bellagio fountains. Peter Yardley and Thomas Gifford had just arrived from the Green Valley Ranch Resort and were jogging toward them, accompanied by three men in black windbreakers with light gray DEA block letters on the back, chest, and arms. Two men in suits, presumably FBI, took up the rear.
Robby lay on a gurney, his torso elevated and an IV snaking from his arm. Roxxann Dixon and Hector DeSantos stood at his side, shoulder to shoulder with Vail, who had her phone pressed to her ear.
“How’s he doing?” Gifford asked the medic.
“I’m doing fine,” Robby said.
The medic frowned in annoyance. “Vitals are stable. It was a through and through. The constricting effects of the cold water helped. Some blood loss, but I’ve stopped the bleeding. Motor and sensation are intact. We’ll transport and give him a good look-see in the ER.”
“That really necessary?” Robby asked.
Vail, having ended her call with Jonathan—she’d woken him, but needed to hear his voice and couldn’t wait till morning—said, “Yeah, Robby, it’s really necessary. Not up for discussion.”
“For once,” Gifford said, “I agree with you.” He looked at Robby. “Anything we can get you? Something to eat?”
“Someone already brought me a fancy chili burger—”
“Yeah, that’d be me,” Dixon said, playfully raising her hand.
Vail chuckled. “Which he downed in two bites.”
“You earned it,” Gifford said. “That and a whole lot more.” He nodded at DeSantos. “Status.”
“Escobar’s in the wind. BOLO’s been issued and checkpoints have been set up. Lots of places in Vegas to get lost, so I’m not overly confident we’re gonna find him.”
“Villarreal and Guevara are in custody and being treated for GSWs,” Vail added.
A black Chevy SUV pulled up beside them, drawing their attention. Turino stepped out and faced Yardley. “I’ve got something for you, sir.” He pulled open the rear door, where Sebastian sat restrained in silver handcuffs and leg irons.
Sebastian and Robby locked eyes, then Turino slammed the door closed. “Apparently someone placed a tracking device in his phone.”
Yardley grinned. “How rude. I wonder who’d do something like that. And those blanks in his gun. Definitely not standard issue.”
“My pleasure to bring him in, sir,” Turino said.
“I thought you’d appreciate it.” Yardley’s face turned serious. “We’re due for a chat. Half hour, back at the office?”
Turino pulled open his door. “Yes sir. Looking forward to it.”
As Turino drove off, Yardley took a deep, relieved breath, then said, “Fine work, agent.”
“Thank you, sir,” Vail and DeSantos answered in unison.
“No offense.” Yardley motioned to Robby. “I was talking to my agent.”
Vail couldn’t suppress her smile. Robby had earned that. She glanced at Gifford, who seemed to be sporting a proud, though subtle grin.
“Given Agent Turino’s concern over Velocity,” Yardley said, “I thought you’d like to know that DEA moved up its timetable. We figured that with Cortez and Villarreal busy sparring over Robby, the distraction would make our jobs easier. We launched Velocity—” he consulted his watch—“sixty-five minutes ago. Early reports are very encouraging. Arrests in five states. More to come through the night.”
“Cortez?” Robby asked.
“Nothing yet. So far he’s slipped the net. But if not tonight, we’ll get him some other time. Our job’s not done till guys like him are out of business.”
Gifford extended a hand toward DeSantos. “Hector, you’ve been a godsend. Next time I see Detective Bledsoe, I’ll have to thank him for bringing you into the fold.”