by Jo Leigh
And then she just wept. Wept in horror and disbelief that the bastard would do this to an innocent baby. That his cruelty far surpassed anything she could have imagined. He was a monster. And he would burn in hell for eternity for this.
She had to escape. Had to. So she could kill him with her own two hands.
NICK WOKE TO A soft breeze on his face and a gargantuan pain in his skull. He went to rub his head, but his hands wouldn’t move. When he opened his eyes, he saw that his arms had been tied to the arms of a Louis XV chair. His legs were also bound, tightly. He struggled against the ropes until he felt his arms burn. When he collapsed back in the chair to catch his breath, he heard the unmistakable sound of Henry Sweet’s laughter.
“You can try harder than that, Nick. That was nothing.”
“What are you doing, you bastard?”
Sweet walked in front of him, looming tall in the night air. He didn’t speak. He let his fist do it for him. He smashed it into the side of Nick’s face, crashing the back of his head against the chair, the pain sharp enough to mask his headache, but only for a moment. Soon, he hurt equally front and back.
“Call me that again and I’ll slice off your nose,” Sweet said.
Nick believed him. “What is this?”
“This? This is the best seat in the house. The best seat in Las Vegas.” He stepped to his right, looked out over the balcony.
They were still in Todd’s suite. To be more precise, outside his suite, at the edge of his balcony. Nick could see the whole Strip laid out in front of him like a glittering tapestry. From this height, he could see the shapes of thousands of people milling below, but it was too distant to make out any faces. The most prominent thing in his view was the El Rio. So it was before eleven-thirty. “So what?”
“Ah, you don’t know. How could you? See, here’s the deal.” He moved closer, bent forward so his mouth was sickeningly close to Nick’s ear. “There’s an extra-special surprise in the garage of the El Rio. A package all tightly secured. Two packages, really.”
“What the hell are you talking about.”
“Your girlfriend, Nick.”
Nick’s already racing pulse went into overdrive. “What?”
“You heard me. See, your mistake was you forgot who you were dealing with. Todd doesn’t miss a trick, don’t you know that by now? He knows you screwed her. And he knows the brat isn’t his. He’s your son. Soon to be your late son.”
Nick thrust himself forward, his fury turning his body to fire, his blood to ice. He would kill the bastard maniac Todd. Rip his throat out. But first, he’d kill this son of a bitch.
Sweet straightened, laughing. He took a sip from a tumbler, then walked over to the balcony, blocking Nick’s view. He leaned back, took another drink. “You and me, we’re gonna watch the building go boom. And then, when the dust settles and the fireworks go off, I’m gonna kill you. I mean, is this a great Fourth of July, or what?”
“I’m gonna send you straight to hell. That’s a little kid he’s killing. An innocent little baby.”
“He’s your spawn, Mason, so how could he be innocent? The way I see it is, we’re just taking him out before he has a chance to become like you. We’re doing the world a favor.”
Nick couldn’t look at him. He tested the ropes separately, pulling against the bonds he knew were carefully tightened. He had no idea if the two men he’d seen earlier were still here or if they’d gone down to protect Todd. That could have gone either way, but it didn’t mat ter. He had to get out of these ropes, and he had to kill Sweet, and he didn’t have much time to do it.
Sweet, looking smug, pulled a cigar out of his breast pocket and took his time lighting it. The smile on his face seemed out of place, mostly because he wasn’t a man to smile much. In fact, he was a miserable lout, and it wasn’t really a shock to see him enjoying something so macabre. Like Todd, the man had cruel tastes and the wherewithal to see them played out. This, however, was clearly a dream come true.
Nick forced himself to calm down. He’d get nowhere in a rage. He had to think, and he had to be ready to make his move. He’d have one shot at this, and if he blew it, Sweet wouldn’t wait. He’d just shoot him between the eyes.
The ropes weren’t going to give, not in time. He had no way to get to any kind of weapon. The only thing he did have in his corner was the chair itself. They’d used a dining-room chair. A replica of an antique that, despite its appearance, wasn’t all that sturdy. Nick had broken the arm off one about six months ago when he’d bumped into it with a heavy briefcase.
If he could get to his feet, he could smash the chair against the rail. It would break in a heartbeat and then he could get himself out. The problem was how to distract Sweet.
Henry puffed on his Cuban, still leaning cockily against the balcony. His weapon was in his shoulder holster and Nick was sure the safety wasn’t engaged.
Just as Nick was about to say something, someone saved him the trouble by setting off a massive firework to the east. It lit the sky with blue and silver, cracked the night with a tremendous boom, and Sweet turned to stare.
Nick stood on the first try, hunched over, barely balanced, and with every bit of strength he had, he swung the entire chair in a curving arc that ended when it made resounding contact with Sweet’s back.
The man fell, hard, and Nick wasted no time. He swung the chair again, this time smashing it against the balcony itself, and he felt the splintering of wood as sharp jolts of vibration.
Again, he swung, and this time the right arm separated from the base, and with that new freedom, he was able to maneuver smartly, but he didn’t have time to take another whack at the chair. Henry’s fist found his chin and Nick went crashing backward, doing more damage to the chair than he ever could have done on his own. He stood again with bits and pieces of chair stuck to his arms and legs, but he was upright.
Sweet went for his gun, but Nick kicked him with the weight of his body behind his foot, and the gun flew out of Sweet’s hand through the wrought-iron rail and sailed away into the night.
Growling with fury, Sweet swung at him again, this time connecting with his chest, and the blow knocked the wind out of Nick’s lungs.
He didn’t fall this time. Instead he wrapped his hand around the length of wood that had once been the leg of the chair, and when he swung back at Sweet, he impaled him in the thigh, blood spurting out, hitting Nick across the chest.
The roar that came from the man was inhuman, but Nick didn’t care. He had to get to Jenny and Patrick.
Without a second thought, he charged Sweet, butting him headfirst, pushing him back against the railing. Using strength he didn’t know he had, he grabbed the bastard around the hips, lifted him into the air, hardly feeling the blows raining on his back.
With one final burst of energy, he thrust up, carrying the bulk of Henry Sweet like a child. For a long moment they hung suspended, one man lifted by the other, forty-five floors above the city, and then, like a redwood felled in the woods, he went back, back.
Nick let go. He didn’t stick around to see where Sweet landed.
“IT’S OKAY, BABY. You don’t have to cry. We’ll get out of this. I swear.”
Jenny prayed she wasn’t lying. She’d been struggling forever with the ropes on her hands. She’d had more luck with the ropes on her legs, loosening them enough that she was able stand, but they’d tied her to a column so she couldn’t move more than a foot in any direction. Now she pressed harder against the side edge of the column, rubbing up and down, scraping the hell out of her arms, but making no headway with the knots.
If she had to go, she wanted to at least hold him. She’d screamed until she couldn’t scream any more. She’d wept, she’d prayed. No one heard. And her baby was crying.
A Klaxon sounded, hugely, painfully loud, and she screamed with the shock of it. Patrick screamed, too, higher, more desperate than ever. He was going to hyperventilate. God, get her out of here!
“Baby, baby, it’
s okay.”
He couldn’t hear her. She couldn’t hear herself. It was useless, hopeless. No. Never. Not when she had a breath left in her body.
She rubbed against the broken concrete, burning, tearing her flesh, and finally, she felt it. A tear in the rope. It filled her with renewed strength and despite the Klaxons piercing her ears, she worked harder, with everything she had.
Something caught her eye. Movement. She turned, looked… It couldn’t be… “Nick!”
“I’m here, Jenny. Oh, God, hang on. Hang on, baby.”
He was at her side, and he had a knife, and he was sawing away at the knots, but it wasn’t fast enough. She wanted to tell him to get Patrick first, but that wouldn’t work because she needed to hold her child.
The Klaxon calls were getting more insistent, the sound of hell itself, and she would go crazy if it didn’t stop, if the ropes didn’t give…
The rope around her wrists snapped apart and she sobbed as she knelt to help Nick get the last binding free. “Thank you, thank you. Hold on, Patrick, I’m almost there. Nick, hurry, please, please.”
Then she was free and she was picking up her baby and hugging him so tight, and they were both crying and crying. Nick tried to take him away, and she pushed him, but he kept screaming, “Listen!” and she heard a new siren, an urgent siren.
She let him take her baby and then they were running, running faster than she ever had, running around the curves of the parking garage until there was the street level.
That’s when she heard it, “Ten…nine…eight…” and she ran faster, no room for praying, only for speed. They hit the outside of the structure and Nick grabbed her arm and led her to the right. “Five…four…three…” There was a barricade, metal and sandbags. They had to dive behind it just as she heard, “…two…one…”
The implosion shook the world. She and Nick both hunched over Patrick, covering his body as noise beyond anything she’d ever heard blocked out everything but visions of being inside, being tied, watching her baby die.
It went on and on, dust covering them like blankets, earthquakes battering them with stunning force, between the barricade and the fence behind them.
The visions of her child’s death slowly shifted into pictures of Todd. Hate, bigger than the implosion, bigger than the planet, filled her with purpose. She would kill him. She didn’t care about consequences. The man had to die. There was no choice.
He’d almost killed her precious child.
“Jenny!”
She opened her eyes, startled that the noise had dulled, the Klaxons stopped. Another noise from behind confused her until she realized it was the crowd, cheering. She sat upright, and Patrick, still crying, but not as hard, struggled to wrap himself around her, to hold so tight she could hardly breathe. God, what a trauma for a baby. Over and over and over, she said, “I’m here, sweetie, and we’re safe. I’m here, and we’re safe.”
Slowly, slowly, she began to believe it herself.
Chapter Eighteen
Edward Potereiko headed south on the Las Vegas Strip. In his right hand he held a lit Bogatyri cigarette, in his left the suitcase nuke, all the way from the Ukraine. Heavy at just over eighty pounds, it would have slowed him down if the streets hadn’t been so crowded. It was late, and yet there were children here. What kind of parents would bring children to a place like this? Pressed between all these bodies, not being able to see. Stupid.
He had several blocks to traverse to his designated meeting with Todd. Fortuitously he’d left early with an eye toward strolling and enjoying the glittering street. Now he’d need every minute.
As he passed a woman in a Texas University T-shirt, a man with headphones playing so loud he would surely lose his hearing in a few years, he was overwhelmed with the amount of excess he saw in every direction. The entertainment, the huge LED boards flashing continuous come-ons, the video displays several stories high. And, of course, the hotels themselves. Great, huge buildings, reminding him of Versailles, of the Taj Mahal, of great power and wealth controlled by so few, while millions suffered.
Perhaps the cargo in his suitcase would change things. He was no fool, he understood that if this went off, thousands would die. But thousands died in all revolutions, no? And this thing he carried, the ten-kiloton, uranium-fission bomb was quite capable of killing forty thousand people. Especially if they deployed the bomb in a low-altitude airburst. All they would need was a light aircraft. Flying over the city would not be without complications, but by the time the military were alerted and a fighter jet scrambled, it would be too late.
He, himself, would be far away from any such horror. With the money from Todd, he would resign from political thinking. He would become a nation unto himself, and never again would he have to be part of the machine built to make the rich richer and the poor poorer. He had decided to go to Tahiti. The warmth, the ocean, the tranquil pace. It appealed to him greatly.
He crossed the street, propelled like a pebble in a rushing river. Bumped repeatedly, the Americans typically apologized, the Asians, used to the close body contact, did not. It was all what you were used to. Across from him was Circus Circus in its huge pink dome, which he could just barely see for the dust from the implosion. Soon, there would be fireworks. Soon, he would be a very rich man.
JENNY AND NICK had found an opening in the fence. She held Patrick tightly to her, and his cries abated, although he was still upset. They were all three covered in dust.
“This way,” Nick said. “I have to connect with my people. I’ll get you and Patrick out of here.”
She followed him as they crossed Las Vegas Boulevard, toward Desert Inn. Once they passed the police barricades, the crowd swallowed them whole.
It was madness. She got strange looks, but no one had room to steer clear of them. The short walk took a very long time, and the jostling was upsetting Patrick. She covered him as well as she could with her arms, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to be out of here.
“There,” Nick said, pointing above the head of a young boy. “That black Taurus.”
They fought their way through, each inch a victory. Just before they reached the Taurus, Nick put his arm around her and guided her the last few feet.
The driver, a black man so tall his head touched the top of the car, studied them for a long minute, and then she saw the flash of recognition. “What the hell?”
“It’s a long story. I need you to get these two out of here. As fast as you can. They need to be off the street. I need a radio and a weapon and I need it right now.”
The driver nodded, leaned over and opened his glove compartment. There was a weapon there, an automatic. He handed it to Nick, along with two clips of ammo. He turned to his partner, a rather stiff-looking woman with short red hair, and asked her for her radio. Somewhat reluctantly, she handed it over.
As Nick holstered the gun, he leaned down once more. “The photo of Potereiko. Do you have it?”
“No. We haven’t had any luck.”
Nick cursed, banged his hand on the top of the Taurus. Jenny looked at Patrick, at the woman in the car, then back at Nick. “I know what he looks like.”
“What?”
“I know. I’ll go with you.”
“No. Absolutely not. We’ll find another way.”
“Not in time, you won’t.” She walked around the car, leaned over. “This is Patrick,” she said.
The female FBI agent looked startled, but adjusted quickly. Opening her door, she stepped out and smiled. It transformed her face. “I’m Olivia, Patrick. Nice to meet you.”
Patrick buried his head against Jenny’s neck.
She hated to do it, but there was no option. “Honey, Olivia is going to take you to get an ice cream. You go with her and Mommy will meet you there real soon.”
“No.”
“Patrick, sweetie? I have to. You’ve been so brave tonight. Can you be brave a little while longer?”
His face crumpled into tears and she almost changed h
er mind. But she couldn’t. Someone had to stop these madmen. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I love you. And I’ll always be here for you.”
He cried in earnest as she handed him over to Olivia. Her gentleness made it a bit easier for Jenny to leave, but not much.
Jenny kissed him once more, then walked away, willing herself not to think of his fear. Not yet. She’d be back and they’d never go through anything like this again.
When she fought her way to Nick, he was on the radio, talking, searching the crowd. He said something about Fashion Center Drive, which wasn’t far. It would be terribly difficult to get there through the crowds and then to spot Potereiko. Like finding a needle in a haystack.
Nick adjusted his earpiece, then took a handkerchief from the driver, Gordon Jenkins, and wiped his face. It was like taking off an inch of pancake makeup. “Take Patrick to the Mirage. We’ll find him there. See if you can dig up a doctor to take a look at him, make sure he’s okay.”
“Will do.”
“And get someone else to take your place here.”
“It’s not going to be easy. The streets are a mess.”
“Do it.”
“Right.”
“We’re out of here. Owen knows the drill. You two, be careful.”
Gordon turned the key in the ignition. “I was just going to tell you to do the same.”
Nick leaned down to see Olivia in the back seat with Patrick. The poor kid was still crying as if his heart would break. “You be good, Patrick. We’ll see you soon.”
He didn’t get a response, and didn’t expect one. At least with Patrick safe, he had one less thing to worry about. It burned him that Jenny couldn’t go back to the hotel, but she was right. She knew what Potereiko looked liked, and he didn’t.
She came to stand next to him, her gaze scanning the crowd nearest them. She’d wiped her face down, too, and looked as though she was about fifteen, and hurting. He touched her arm. “You okay?”
