by Brandt Legg
“You didn’t do too bad for an old cowboy,” Tess teased, climbing out and sounding not winded at all.
He took her in his arms and kissed her.
“Why, Flint Jones, I do declare,” she said in her best Scarlett O’Hara voice. “You do make a woman blush.”
“I aim to do more than that.” He pulled her toward the house. “Let’s get you out of these wet things.”
Tess laughed.
Out of the corner of his eye, Flint caught sight of an armed man dressed in black emerging stealthily from the trees. Even while processing and instantly planning his reaction, he turned slightly away, as to not let on that he had seen the man, while he searched for options. Fifteen feet away, his gun, along with his clothes, lay on the large glass dining table. He put his arm around Tess and appeared to kiss her cheek.
“Laugh like I just said something funny, but we’ve got trouble,” he said under his breath.
She laughed nervously, her eyes searching.
He grinned, as if amused, and continued talking low. “I’m going to try to make it to my gun. Anything happens, don’t worry about me, get into the house.” He glanced back at the man to see how much room he still had, but the intruder was gone. Flint picked up his pace while subtly but quickly scanning the perimeter. Instead of finding the man he was looking for, he saw a different man.
The second darkly dressed killer and Flint made eye contact. Flint shoved Tess into the manicured shrubs landscaped around the pool as he hurdled a chaise lounge, heading toward the table with his gun. Before he reached it, the table exploded. The second man, seeing what Flint was going for, had shot the glass-top table. The flying crystals of glass were compounded by incoming machine gun fire.
Flint rolled, hitting the concrete and broken glass with his bare shoulder, desperately searching for the gun as his back hit shards that tore into his flesh. The pain didn’t even register as blood oozed from his still wet upper body. He kept moving, partially concealed by oversized-pots filled with tropical trees and heavy patio furniture. The gun was nowhere. Imported trees created a mini forest, giving Tess’ pool area a small island resort look. Flint stooped as he ran along the edge of the house, taking his first glance back to check on Tess. Damn it, where is she? At the same time, he attempted to calculate the moves of the two gunmen. Are there more? He frantically took in the entire area. Where have they gone?
Sixty-Five
Flint made a break for the tower, figuring it could give him the advantage of the high ground and because he knew, from their earlier tour, that he could also access the main house in case Tess made it that far. As he reached the tower’s door, he spotted one of the men following him. Flint bolted up the narrow steps which wrapped the inside walls of the four-story, ten-foot by ten-foot square structure.
The pursuing man climbed the stairs cautiously. Flint, having already decided the man was a professional, anticipated his careful movements and knew the man would be leading with his weapon, holding it close, expecting surprises. He also predicted the man to figure Flint had to be at the top of the tower. Still, the locked door connecting to the house, which Flint had checked, would bother and distract his pursuer. He’d wonder if maybe Flint had slipped into the house. Flint was banking on the fact that the man knew Tess, his target, a highly placed CIA official, and the man with her, might also be trained with prior field experience.
Flint, keeping one eye on the stairwell, glanced out the window, saw Tess dash into the back door of her house as the other intruder fired several shots at her. It appeared he missed, but Flint couldn’t be sure.
The trick was convincing the assailant that he’d made the wrong guess, that Flint had actually gone into the house and locked the door behind him. Flint deduced that there would be no other way to get enough of a surprise on the man to make up for the fact that he was armed and Flint was not.
The man reached the top step, tentatively peering into the open space, anticipating an ambush. When he didn’t see Flint, he climbed all the way up into the small room and quickly looked at the ceiling, searching for a hatch or opening into an attic. Nothing. He smiled when he saw a wardrobe cabinet against the far wall just large enough to conceal a man. A stack of hastily discarded clothes, still on hangers, dumped on the otherwise clean and uncluttered floor, told him what he needed to know. Deciding it would be foolish to attempt to open the door, not knowing what kind of weapon the hiding person had, he aimed his gun midway up the thin pine door of the wardrobe and fired.
In that same instant, Flint pounced from behind, grabbed the man, and snapped his neck. The gun fell from his now limp hand. In addition to dumping the clothes from the wardrobe, Flint had opened the four windows, one on each side of the tower, and had been silently waiting on the roof. Wasting no more time, he snatched the man’s handgun, submachine gun, and extra ammo, ran downstairs, darted out onto the patio, and quickly scanned the area for additional intruders.
As soon as Flint crossed the threshold, he went completely stealth, having no idea where Tess or the agent could be. A moment later, the agent revealed himself with footsteps and a closing door. Flint knew it was the agent and not Tess because she, being the one pursued and highly trained, would never have given herself away like that. It told him two more things—Tess was still alive, and the man’s location. Still in just swimming trunks, barefoot, wet, and bleeding, Flint tiptoed toward the sound.
The noise from a gunshot blast forced Flint to cast away all caution. He flew down the hall, knowing she’d be in the master bedroom suite because that was where she most likely kept her gun. The shot he’d heard had been fired from a gun fitted with a suppressor. Tess would not have a silencer on her pistol. Trying to control his personal feelings, afraid he might already be too late, Flint thundered into the room.
Tess stood in the corner next to her king-sized bed, hands in the air. The man, about to shoot her, spun around, firing when he heard Flint. The bullets cut across Flint’s stomach, but as he fell, he managed to get a shot off.
The shooter fell back as Flint’s bullet clipped his shoulder. It took him only a moment to recover, but by then Tess had retrieved her gun.
With Flint down, the man spun to face Tess, ready to fire. She beat him to it. Her shot, from a .44 magnum, hit him in the center of his chest, a perfect kill shot. His gun fired as he went down, the bullet lodging somewhere in the ceiling.
Running to aid Flint, she fired another round into the man’s head to be certain he would not be coming back to life. Tess crouched next to Flint, knowing it was too late to call for help. She pulled the bedspread off and used it to try to staunch the blood, but there was too much. “I love you,” she said.
“Could. Be. More,” Flint said in a low, hoarse voice.
She held up her gun as if to assure him she was prepared. “You’ll be okay,” she said, lip quivering, trying to convince herself.
“No,” he said weakly, then, finding her eyes, added, “I love you. Always have.”
She nodded, her battle with tears failing now.
“You must. Take. Care of Chase. Promise. Me.”
She looked confused.
“It’s a debt. I owe.”
“I will,” she said. “Promise.”
“Thank. You.”
“Call the company,” he said, meaning the CIA. “Could. Be more.”
Tess didn’t want to leave him to get her phone. She knew he could be gone any minute.
“I want another dance,” she said.
He started to smile.
“Flint? Flint? Oh, Flint . . . I’m so sorry.”
Sixty-Six
The call between Chase and Tess had left Wen concerned. “Tess isn’t going to just let us walk around with this horUS information,” Wen said. “This is kill-data. There are drones up there right now, watching us.”
“They’re always watching,” Chase replied, letting it sink in as they arrived at the Bellagio Casino.
When Flint’s crew still had not show
n up more than twenty minutes after the appointed time, Chase grew impatient. “Something isn’t right.”
“We don’t have unlimited time,” Wen said. “But we could use backup, so maybe we should give them a little longer.”
“I can’t reach Flint,” Chase said, looking at his phone after trying a second call in the past five minutes. “I’ll keep trying, but they’ll just have to catch up with us later.”
As they headed out to the entrance of the Bellagio, Wen, as always, scanned the area. “Look over there,” she said quietly. “And there.”
“I see them, but we can’t do this here.”
“Do what?”
“These guys are most likely with the same group that killed my dad,” he said, clenching his jaw.
“We don’t know that.”
“There’s one way to find out. They are a link. We can get one of them to talk, tell us who they work for.”
“Ryker isn’t with them. Let’s wait for Ryker. If we try to take out these four guys right here, you’ll have every cop in Vegas on us.”
Chase stopped, assessing options.
“We don’t need that,” Wen said slowly. “Remember the mission.”
Chase closed his eyes for a moment and tried to drown out the bells, bings, and bustle of the casino. When he opened them, the four men had moved closer. “What do you want to do?” he asked, deciding to leave it up to her expertise.
“Follow me,” she said, moving quickly onto the street. Chase stayed close.
The four men were now less than thirty feet behind them.
Wen pulled a startled valet out of a waiting copper-colored Lamborghini convertible. “Get in!” she shouted to Chase.
He jumped over the door and had barely hit the leather seat, as Wen floored it. “You want to talk about Las Vegas cops after us? Could you have picked a more conspicuous car? This is a Lamborghini Aventador Superveloce Roadster. Five or six hundred thousand dollars,” he shouted over the roar of the engine. “The owner won’t be happy.”
“It goes fast,” Wen said, trying not to smile.
“That doesn’t help in strip traffic,” Chase admonished as they reached a red light intersection. He turned around and surveyed the lineup. “The ‘goon-squad’ is six cars back. At least let me drive.”
“Okay,” Wen said, knowing she was better riding shotgun and he was better driving. “But remember, this is not a race. We have to get to Lipton Innovations by midnight.” She slid across the front seat as he climbed around and dropped into the driver’s seat.
“Lipton Innovations is eighteen minutes from here,” Chase said as he tapped in the address to the GPS and the light changed to green. “Meanwhile, there’s a case of liquor.” He pointed to a box labeled “Booker’s Rye” whiskey wedged between the seats. “Maybe you can fix me a drink.”
She wasn’t amused as she looked behind them. “Five back now,” she said.
“Moved up one already?”
“Yeah, you see them in the dark blue SUV?”
Chase checked the rearview mirror. “Yeah, but our car is way faster.” He used the congested strip to their advantage. Nine or ten blocks later, after some quick turns on to and out of side streets, he declared, “I think we lost them.”
“Maybe,” Wen said, looking slowly all around. “Then let’s ditch this car. It’s too flashy.”
“I was kinda getting used to it,” Chase said with a smile, which had been almost completely absent since his father’s murder. “When we’re all done with this, I might have to pick up one of my own.”
Wen shook her head. Suddenly, the blue SUV pulled out of an alleyway just ahead of them.
They raced in and out of lighter traffic, alleys, parking lots, and the occasional sidewalk for fifteen more minutes. Every time Chase thought they were clear, the SUV showed up again.
“They have to be using horUS,” Wen said after they lost them again. “That’s the only way they could keep finding us.”
“Which means these guys work for whatever government agency is managing horUS.”
“CIA?” Wen asked. “Tess Federgreen?”
“Would she have arranged this before I told her we knew about horUS?”
“Maybe she thought you already knew something she needed to know. Maybe Flint’s team was never coming.”
Chase thought about those theories while he searched for another vehicle they could trade the Lamborghini for. The SUV squealed out of a street they had just passed. Now on the edge of town, Chase punched the accelerator and watched as the speedometer topped two hundred mph.
“There,” Wen said, pointing to a long, wide underpass.
“Good idea.” Chase pushed the car faster, praying the airbags worked in case they met an oncoming vehicle, but otherwise hoping they could lose these guys for good. Halfway into the underpass, orange and white reflective construction barrels blocked their way. “Damn! Who put those there?” Chase yelled. “Too late to turn back now.”
They plowed ahead, smashing through the barrels, and found themselves in a lengthy tunnel created by the underpass with eight lanes above them. Parked cement mixers and dump trucks totally blocked any exit.
“We’re boxed in!” Chase danced his feet in a rapid combination of gas pedal and breaks, putting the car into a 180-degree spin, turned on his brights, and headed back the way they came. A split-second later he slammed the brakes again.
The SUV was stopped crossway at the entrance of the tunnel. Eight armed men climbed out and took cover behind the vehicle and the few construction barriers still in place.
“Got any ideas?” Chase asked.
“Back up slowly. We can go out the other side on foot.”
“So can they. How long do you think it’ll take him to catch us?” Chase asked, nodding toward one of the men setting off on the outside of the concrete tunnel. “He’s heading around there now to meet us.”
“Then we’d better get there first.”
Chase, glancing into the rearview mirror to check how far they still had to go as the Lamborghini slowly crawled back into the darker section of the tunnel, saw something. “I’ve got an idea.”
Sixty-Seven
Damon and Ryker, with two others, had been standing by in the SUV while the other four approached Chase and Wen back at the Bellagio. They’d learned how slippery the pair could be, but as Damon ran around to the back entrance of the tunnel and took position, they thought they might finally have their prey.
“What’s the status?” Ryker asked into his wrist to the group on the other side.
“The Lamborghini just burst into flames,” one of the men responded.
“It’s a distraction,” Ryker said. Watching the tunnel entrance with night vision, Ryker communicated directly to Westfield in his Washington office. “Do you see us?”
“I got you,” Westfield said, looking at the screen displaying a live feed captured by horUS. The drone’s CSR filtered in night vision heat patterns, and the program could remove all vehicles.
“Remove all vehicles and show me just people,” Ryker said, staring into real-time visuals on his tablet.
“The CSR is acting up,” Westfield said when the image failed to change right away.
“The what?”
“It’s a critical imaging sorting component,” Westfield said. “Has anybody left that tunnel?” He made more swipes with his finger to rewind the view until he saw the copper-colored Lamborghini enter the tunnel.
“No one has left. They’re still in there,” Ryker said.
“Make sure he doesn’t leave.”
Ryker spoke into his wrist to confirm with Damon on the other side. Then he spoke to Westfield again. “Can you make sure the local heat stays out of this?”
“I’ll do it now,” Westfield said, pointing to an assistant in his office to get the Las Vegas Police Department to back off. “And Ryker, you’ve got to finish them.”
Ryker acknowledged, then told Damon to send someone in. At the same time, he pointed s
ilently to the two men still with him to proceed inside.
He radioed Damon as they approached the burning car. “I’ve got a bad feeling that Malone and that Chinese chick slipped out.”
“Not out this side. Did they get past you?”
“No, but what the hell is with the fire?”
“Blinds our night vision.”
“Maybe. Or what if they get one of those dump trucks started, plow it into the flaming car, and cruise out that way? Check the dump trucks, now!”
“Let’s go,” Damon said, as his men ran to the trucks. “If you’re right, they can only come out your way. Too much equipment and piles of sand and stuff back here.”
“I’m ready,” Ryker said.
Ryker’s earpiece buzzed with static, and then Westfield’s voice came through. “What’s happening?” his boss asked, unable to see inside the tunnel.
Ryker ignored him.
Damon and the others each took a dump truck, approaching slowly. Then a frantic search, cab, bed, underneath . . . nothing. Empty. Ryker and his men ran to the two cement mixers. Nothing.
“Damn it!” Ryker barked. “Where are they?” His shouts echoed inside the tunnel. “Check every inch of the place!”
Noxious smoke from the burning Lamborghini began filling the area with fumes and black clouds. They rifled through two portable storage cabinets, lifted tarps, double checked underneath, behind the tires, and fired shots into several sand piles. The heavy smoke continued to close in on them.
Ryker tied a bandanna around his mouth and nose and approached the vehicle, looking for bodies, studying the scene. “Unbelievable!” He ran as close to the car as he could, then screamed every profanity he knew.
Damon arrived next to him as Ryker pointed to what had upset him.
“Get the dump trucks started!” Ryker yelled to one of the men. “Push this damn car out of the tunnel, now!”
One of them climbed into the closest truck and went to work. He used a Jack key, which could start any ignition, and ground gears until the big truck lurched forward. He slammed the truck into the burning vehicle, and at first it struggled to move the half-a-million-dollar melting hunk of metal and rubber. A long five seconds later, and a relic of the Lamborghini began sliding toward the entrance.
