Hit: A Thriller (The Codename: Chandler) (12 page)

Shit. He’d seen me sparring with Heath.

I glanced over my shoulder, looking for a way out, a place to take cover close by.

Football Face closed behind me, having taken a different bridge.

Double shit. They had me hemmed in.

There was only one way out.

I flung myself over the rail and plunged head first into the shallow water.

Heath

When Comrade Sharkteeth raised his OTs-23 Drotik, a Russian-made machine pistol, Heath’s fist had already started its arc. He hit the man with a hammer blow to the side of his head, the force shuddering up Heath’s arm and sending his attacker spinning to the side just as he pulled the trigger.

A three-round burst sprayed the frescos.

Screams shrilled from the crowd around him, bouncing off marble and ornate moldings.

People scrambled on the moving steps, jostling, falling, a chaos of fear.

Comrade Dolphin Shirt and Comrade Chick Fuzz pulled their weapons, but Heath was already on the move. He swung his feet up, landing his ass on the escalator’s moving railing. Then with a mighty shove, he leaned back, feet first, and slid down to the first floor, kicking panicked people out of the way.

With only three of the Russians accounted for on the up escalator, he wasn’t surprised to find two more of them at the entrance, the tattooed
cabrones
he’d noticed earlier. One stepped out in front of the doors, blocking Heath’s way. His hand darted to the small of his back, no doubt grabbing the pistol he had stashed there.

Heath didn’t wait for him to draw the weapon.

He loved capoeira for its rhythm, its art. But this time, he forgot all that and went straight for a
martelo de estalo
, or cracking hammer, a roundhouse kick that utilized the top surface of the foot.

He connected solidly with Tattoo’s ribs, and the man crumpled to the side, breath whooshing from his lungs.

Heath kept moving, racing through the doors and out of the building before the second man even knew what was happening.

Several police cars filed into the entrance of the Venetian, and Heath slowed down, hoping the flashing light bars and sirens in the distance would prevent the Russian geniuses behind him from opening fire. But at only midnight on a Friday night, plenty of people moved by on the street, gawking at the first responders.

Heath crossed the arched bridge to the boulevard and mixed with the rubbernecking crowd, hiding behind a gurgling fountain.

A few seconds later, the man with
El Diablo
tattooed on his arm emerged from the doors, two others behind him, their weapons tucked discreetly away. Following the path Heath had taken, the three fanned out, sifting through the crowd.

Time to
adios
.

Flowing with the crowd, Heath crossed South Las Vegas Boulevard at the light. The night was cool, the desert in summer, and a barely there breeze ruffled the leaves of palm trees in the median. A crowd gathered on the opposite sidewalk, and he mixed among them, drawing several venomous stares from people. When the volcano show began, he understood why.

A mixture of fire and water, music and explosions, the volcano outside the Mirage Hotel was blindingly spectacular.

It also might provide exactly what he needed.

Heath blinked, trying to clear the ghost of the fire’s brilliance from his eyes. He wound through onlookers, moving closer to the lake and the cauldron of fire in its center. He was sure it would be hot enough. All he required was 60 degrees Celsius. Just slip the ring from his finger, give it a gentle toss, and let the fire show and a little time solve the problem for him.

So close. So easy.

He darted to the front of the crowd…and ran smack into an iron wall of a man.

The man muttered something that sounded like
izvinite
, and Heath froze.

Although Heath was fluent in several languages, his area of expertise was focused in Mexico, South and Central America, Western Europe, and the Middle East. He had little experience with the languages of Eastern Europe or Asia, but it didn’t take much to recognize the Soviet ring of the word.

He glanced at the man out of the corner of his eye, noting how the orange of the volcano flame reflected off the yellow fuzz on the man’s scalp.

Chingado
.

The man’s giant mitt of a hand closed around Heath’s arm.

Lifting his knee and quickly extending his leg in a
ponteira
, Heath delivered the simple front snap-kick hard and fast into the brute’s groin. Although the man tried to protect himself, he was too slow. He doubled forward, releasing Heath’s arm.

All Heath needed.

He spun and shoved his way free of the crowd. Where Chick Fuzz was, he knew the others would be also, and he ran like
El Diablo
himself was on his tail.

Up ahead, a bright light caught his attention, shooting into the sky like a beacon.

The laser streaming from the tip of the Luxor pyramid.

It was far down the Strip, but if he could catch a taxi, he might be able to make it, before the Russians or the Venezuelan or, if she was still alive, sweet Simone caught up with him.

It was worth a try.

Dodging groups of tourists and clumps of palm trees, he made it to the end of the block, then crossed against the light, picking his way through traffic to reach the Roman columns of the Forum Shops at Caesars Palace. Heath kept going, past fountains and grand entrances and rows of arborvitae, his breathing settling into a rhythm. The men chasing him were big and armed, but he was thrifty, fast, and smart.

He liked those odds.

Shouts erupted behind him, along with the trample of heavy, running feet. But as he turned on the speed, the distance grew.

Soon the muscles in his legs started to burn, his lungs hungry for oxygen. The sweat came quickly, but it didn’t do much to cool him in the desert heat. Even at night, Vegas was an oven. He kept moving, dodging around tourists and handbillers passing out pamphlets, jumping over the occasional drunk passed out on one of the sculpted sidewalks. He was in spectacular shape, but even he couldn’t keep up this mad dash forever. Already he could feel himself tiring, his strides slowing, growing shorter.

Although Heath could no longer hear the Russians, he knew they wouldn’t give up so easily. They’d catch up, weapons ready. And when they did, he had to make certain they wouldn’t be able to find him.

He crossed the boulevard again at the intersection of Flamingo Road, this time taking the escalator up to the footbridge connecting the Bellagio to the tube-like entrance of Bally’s. He kept moving, searching for a place to stop, to hide, a spot where he could keep an eye on his surroundings and yet no one would think to look.

He passed Bally’s and looked up, his gaze tracing the glorious architectural lines of an Eiffel Tower two thirds the size of the real one.

Heath smiled.

He’d always loved Paris. It must be the romantic in him.

Chandler

“Fear is debilitating,” The Instructor said. “Never let your enemy know what you fear. If he’s worth his salt, he’ll use it against you.”

Although I could swim just fine, I hated water. I’d done countless laps in training, learning to use my arms, my legs, my torso, and my breathing to move through the water as quickly and efficiently as possible. I’d trained in survival, spending hours in cold, deep water with only my jelly fish float and thoughts for company. I’d practiced lifesaving techniques, those focused on saving others and myself, until I could perform a cross body carry or tired swimmer’s assist in my sleep.

But none of it, not all those hours, all that practice, all that training, had rid me of my deep-seated fear of drowning.

There were several reasons for this; the interrogation resistance I had to endure in training, an unfortunate chapter in my life before that. I tried to push all of it from my mind as I entered the canal.

It didn’t work. Not entirely.

Even though I knew that in this shallow canal I was in more danger of breaking my neck on the bottom than of drowning the conventional way, I was still seized by a moment of sheer panic.

I arched my back, curving upward in the water as soon as I hit with a painful belly flop. Even so, my momentum took me to the bottom. I turned my head to the side, the floor of the concrete canal scraping my cheek and then my chest before I was able to arc back in the direction of the surface. The water was piss warm, dyed blue, and stung my eyes with chlorine.

Changing the curvature of my body again, I straightened my path, preventing my head from emerging. A few good dolphin kicks, and I was careening downstream, the shadow of a gondola passing overhead.

When I felt I’d gone far enough to surface without gunfire greeting me, I did, gasping in air.

The canal was shallow enough for me to stand, and I found a spot under a bridge and tight to a wall where I could rest for a second and assess my surroundings. My priority was finding Heath, but if he’d gotten clear of the hotel, I’d be hard pressed to track him down on the streets of Las Vegas.

I could only hope he’d run into as many problems as I had. If not, I’d have to guess he’d flag down a cab on the Strip and hightail it to the airport and who-knew-where, so he could sell who-knew-what information was in that ring.

I had to find him before he reached the airport.

Clinging to the wall, I listened to the activity around me. People seemed to be running everywhere, barking orders, static bursts from two-way radios, security or police, I wasn’t sure. With law enforcement on the scene, the Venezuelan and his merc would be stupid to stick around. At least my odds of being shot had dropped considerably.

I pulled myself from the water and climbed over the railing. Keeping my head down, I wound through the canal shops and blended with the frightened crowds, making my way to the escalators, the air conditioning raising goose bumps under my wet clothing.

Two security officers stood at the door, but they had apparently given up trying to stop the exodus of gamblers and shoppers. I walked in the shadow of an older man, and stumbling, I reached for his hand. Like a gentleman, he grabbed hold of me, and we swept out the door right under the noses of police, side by side.

I let go of him on the bridge arching over the outdoor canal.

“Thank you so much. I can take it from here.”

He looked at me, concern evident on his face. “Are you sure? Someone was shooting in there. Better to—”

“Yup,” I said, pulling free from his hands. “Gotta find my husband. Big guy. Really jealous.”

Leaving my protector, I searched the area for any sign of Heath in the crowd. But like I feared, he appeared to be gone.

Red and blue lights from emergency vehicles lit up the night, competing with the neon. I stopped at the fountain marking the entrance to the Venetian resort. If Heath was trying to get to the airport, he’d go south, so at the light, I crossed to the south-bound lane, stopping next to a clump of palm trees outside the Mirage’s volcano.

The show was over, the crowd breaking up, and from the look of it, catching a cab wasn’t going to be an easy feat. I eyed the flow of traffic. Coming toward me was a truck pulling a narrow trailer designed to hold a moving billboard. This one advertised “Hot Babes Direct 2 U,” and I figured that was as good an opportunity as I was bound to get.

The truck stopped at the intersection, and I made my move.

Springing back out into the street, I wove through parked cars until I reached the billboard. I grabbed the side railing and climbed aboard just as the light changed. The truck continued down the street, hopefully bringing this Hot Babe Direct 2 Heath.

The warm desert wind dried my clothing and hair. Everywhere on the Strip, people seemed to be partying, taking in the carnival atmosphere, not a care in the world. Neon blazed, turning darkness into twilight. I whizzed past Caesars Palace on one side, Harrah’s and the Flamingo on the other, the big resort casinos interrupted by small shops advertising tours of the Grand Canyon and Hoover Dam.

At the intersection with Flamingo, near the Bally’s on the opposite side of the street, I noticed a group of four men walking down the sidewalk. Even from this distance, I could see two of them were armed, yet their body language suggested none were cops. In fact, I’d lay down a sizable bet that none of them were American either.

But they were obviously searching for someone, and I had a pretty good idea who.

The truck slowed to merge with traffic flowing from Flamingo Road, and I jumped off my billboard trailer and took the pedestrian bridge to the other side of the street. I didn’t know precisely who these guys were, but I was certain I didn’t want to attract their attention.

I followed them to the Paris resort and stepped over a low rail and into the outdoor seating area of the Mon Ami Gabi bistro. Slipping into a vacant table scattered with empty dessert plates and coffee cups, I hooked my finger into the handle of one, pretending to be indulging in a little after dinner caffeine.

The men spread out, scrutinizing the diners, the trees, and the casino entrance under one leg of the Eiffel Tower. Two more men joined them, moving down the Strip to the next hotel.

Six men versus Heath. Not a fair fight, but I wasn’t sure for which side.

The waiter approached my table, making his rounds. Surprise crossed his face when he saw me pretending to sip on my coffee.

I raised the cup. “Can I get a little warmer upper, please?”

He frowned, clearly realizing I wasn’t supposed to be there. But instead of ordering me out, he grabbed the tip tucked under one of the plates, nodded and slipped back inside, probably to call the manager or security.

Time to bring an end to dessert.

I stood and passed by a large tray filled with cleared plates. On one side lay a thin, stainless steel stick, twenty centimeters long, pointed on one end and forming a ring on the other. The skewer was designed for grilling shish kabob, satay, or since this was French cuisine, brochettes. It wasn’t going to protect me against the firepower the men following Heath had on them, but since beggars can’t be choosers, I grabbed it off the tray and slipped inside my jeans, its length trailing down my thigh, the ring sticking out of the top of my waistband.