by Sharon Sala
“Then don’t expect anyone to show up at your damn safe house, because we both know Paco Cruz has already alerted his old boss as to what went down. There’s no way Baba is walking into your safe-house trap now. The only place he’s heading is directly to my house, since that’s where Paco first saw her. Thanks for nothing, Gleason. Don’t call here again.”
Nick hung up and went looking for Quinn, and found her asleep in the middle of her bed. He sat down on the side of the mattress, and when he did, she woke, saw the look on his face and sat up.
“What’s wrong?”
“The Feds didn’t get their paperwork done in time, so Paco Cruz was let out of jail. I was just on the phone with Gleason. They don’t know where Paco is and you can bet he sent a follow-up message to Baba, filling him in on our little plan.”
Quinn rolled off the bed and began putting on her shoes.
“Cruz will send Baba straight to this house. Where do we go?” she asked.
Nick was sick. He’d promised to keep her safe, and now he didn’t know what to do to make that happen.
“I don’t know, but we can’t stay here. We’ll pack a few things and figure it out as we go.”
She threw her arms around his neck.
“It’s not your fault. Stop looking like someone stomped on my toy and you’re afraid to tell me it’s broken. I’m a big girl. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”
Grateful she wasn’t angry with him, he began to focus.
“Pack for a few days on the road and don’t forget your pain pills. I’m going to pack some stuff, too, and then we’ll leave here for a while. I need to let my boss know what’s happening.”
“What about Gleason?” she asked.
“At this point, I don’t think we can count on the FBI for anything,” he said.
“Okay.”
Nick gave her a quick kiss and then ran across the hall to pack. While he was there, his cell rang, and again it was Daniels.
“Hey, Nick. We’re still working the homicide at Lucky Joe’s penthouse, but there’s been a development I think you’d be interested in. There was a guard who mentioned seeing a strange man come down the back stairs earlier.”
“So, what’s the big deal about that?” Nick asked.
“Well, it seemed odd because he said he never saw the guy go up. Only come down. So we pulled security footage for the delivery entrance, and we have a pretty good image of an older man—looks Latino. He was dressed in work clothes and carrying a toolbox, but no one reported the need for an outside repairman that day.”
When Daniels paused, Nick pressed him further. “I know there’s more, or you wouldn’t be trying to warn me. What aren’t you saying?”
“We ran the image through facial recognition and...it came through as a match for Anton Baba. He must’ve been in disguise.”
“Shit. He’s already back in Vegas.”
“Yeah, and hiding in plain sight as a Mexican laborer. I think you two need to—”
“We’re already packing. Gleason called about something else that led us to believe it wasn’t safe to stay here.”
“Okay, but if you need anything, let us know.”
“I’m about to call the sheriff right now,” Nick said. “Keep me updated.”
“Will do,” Daniels said and disconnected.
Nick sat down on the side of the bed, put in the call and quickly updated Sheriff Baldwin on the situation, then finished packing.
* * *
Anton was rattled by the roundabout message from Paco Cruz, but he was in a serious situation and didn’t have the manpower or resources to send someone else to check it out.
He read the text he’d gotten from Paco and then thought about the phone call from Paco’s brother and decided to trust his gut. Paco Cruz had never let him down, so he decided to trust his brother. He sat down at the end of the bed and turned on the television, wondering if Stewart’s body had been discovered yet, and when he flipped to a local morning show it was evident that it had.
Reports stated that an as-yet unidentified man was murdered in the penthouse of Lucky Joe’s Casino, owned by Anton Baba. Baba’s whereabouts were unknown, according to the broadcaster, and there was a federal warrant for his arrest on unrelated charges.
Just hearing all of that on the morning news was warning enough that he had no time to waste.
He was likely their first suspect, though they’d have to prove he was in the state. They’d be looking at videotape from all over the city, so he hoped his disguise would hold for one more day.
The phone call from Jesus Cruz was not how he had envisioned this day beginning, but now that he was up, he needed to finish what he’d come to do.
He would drive by the address Jesus had given him to get a feel for the location and layout, but he had to be careful. A cop would not be a fool with regards to home security, and would obviously have weapons on the property, as well.
All he needed was the advantage, and two kill shots later, one of two federal witnesses against him would be dead. He didn’t know where Star was, but he knew the Feds didn’t either, and since he was a betting man, he was betting his life that she would rather go into hiding from him and the law than endanger Sammy again. In a way, it would be as if his own son was saving him from jail. He liked that thought.
Even though he’d paid for another night at this motel, instinct told him it was time to move. So as he dressed for the day, he was also packing, and when he left, he left his key on the bed and a three-dollar tip beneath it. Nothing too ostentatious or it wouldn’t fit his disguise. A laborer would not be tipping with ten-or twenty-dollar bills.
He drove until he came across a strip of fast-food joints and went through the drive-through of one to get breakfast. A bacon, egg and cheese biscuit was not what he was used to for a meal, but it served the purpose. Two of those and a large coffee later he drove out of the parking lot and back onto the streets. Now he had to find the cop’s house.
He pulled out his cell phone, clicked on to a map app and typed in the address. Within moments, the directions were on his phone, telling him where to go and when to turn.
Technologically, it was easy to get where you needed to go these days, but he didn’t like doing all this for himself. A man accustomed to the finer things should not be forced to find his own way through life. There were people for that. He wanted his servants and that lifestyle back, but the only way to get it was to ensure his name stayed cleared. So for now he’d continue doing the grunt work, following the prompts on his phone until he spied Saldano’s house.
Now it was time to get serious.
Nineteen
The garage doors were up.
The car was already being loaded.
Nick went inside for another bag, passing Quinn, who was on her way out with more luggage, just as an old truck drove past the house. Quinn paid no attention to it, but the driver was certainly looking at her.
Anton grinned.
It was the troublesome redhead—and she was all alone. This was a gift from the Universe today. Without giving himself time to think his actions through, he turned up into the driveway, intentionally blocking their car from leaving as he put the truck in Park with the engine still running.
Quinn tossed her bag into the trunk of Nick’s car just as she heard the vehicle pulling up behind her. She turned and saw an older man getting out of an old beat-up truck. She didn’t recognize him, but the expression on his face was unsettling, as was the way he’d blocked them in. Her gut told her she was in danger.
She moved on instinct, reaching behind her back for the Beretta in the waistband of her jeans. In the same moment, Quinn saw his arm come up, got a glimpse of the gun in his hand, but swung hers around and fired first, hitting the sombrero as it went flying off of his head.
She dropped to the floor of the garage, lying flat as his shot went wild, hitting the back tire of Nick’s car.
Quinn fired a second shot, and the man ducked behind the door of the truck for protection and began firing into the garage.
Quinn was on her belly against the wall when Nick came flying out of the house, shooting.
His first shot burned the side of the man’s chest; the second got him in the shoulder. He leaped into the truck, yanked the gearshift into Reverse and stomped the accelerator. The squeal of tires and the scent of burning rubber filled the garage as the old man backed out of the drive, shifted gears and sped away.
Nick turned in a panic to check on Quinn, but she was already scrambling to her feet.
“I’m okay,” she shouted, as Nick turned to give chase, running into the street quick enough to get off one shot before the truck turned a corner.
But just as Nick shot, a young teenager came around the corner on a bicycle, swerved to miss the speeding truck and skidded sideways as he fell.
There was a split second of panic when Nick thought the kid might have been hit, and he watched in fear as the boy rolled over and crawled up into a yard and hid behind a bushy shrub.
Nick ran toward him, praying with every step as he got to the yard, and yanked the kid out of the bushes.
“D-Man... Donny...are you okay?” he cried.
The boy was shaking, but was nodding yes.
Nick threw his arms around him.
“Thank God you’re okay. Get your bike and go home. This neighborhood is about to become a crime scene.”
The boy ran toward his bike, limping as he went, and pedaled away as fast as he could.
Nick turned to go back toward his house when he began hearing sirens, and to his horror, he saw Quinn coming out of the garage on her Harley.
“No, Quinn, no!” Nick shouted, waving his arms to stop her. But she swerved around him, shouting as she went.
“Track me on the app,” she yelled and sped away.
“Lord have mercy,” he said and started running back to his house.
It wasn’t until he got into the garage that he saw his back tire had exploded. He heard the first patrol cars arriving on scene and ran back into the street to flag them down.
The first car slid to a stop as Nick flashed his badge.
“Detective Saldano, Homicide. I’ve got a woman in pursuit of a man who just tried to kill her. She’s chasing him on a motorcycle.”
“Get in!” the patrolman shouted, and Nick jumped into the car as the cop radioed to the cars behind him that they were going into pursuit.
Nick pulled the app up on his phone, and almost immediately, he had a map of the city and a swiftly moving blip.
“That way!” he said.
The cop took off again, running with lights and sirens, and less than a block away, two more patrol cars followed suit.
* * *
Anton was in so much pain he could hardly think. His side was burning, and the shot he’d taken in his shoulder had clearly broken something. He could no longer raise his arm.
He was driving the old truck as fast as it would go through neighborhood streets, barely missing pedestrians, running through stop signs, hitting the back end of a car going through an intersection, but he never once slowed down.
It had been years since he’d been this afraid, and it was not a memory he enjoyed thinking about. He’d killed an old woman for her car and money—a pitiful crime, one he was never proud of. That was nearly forty years ago and a continent away, but now he was running in fear again, only this time he was bleeding, and time was running out.
He knew the moment he got shot where he would have to go. To the TomCat Club—his first whorehouse and the place where he’d amassed his first fortune. Delilah would hide him and the truck, and his girls there were loyal. He would be safe and he could heal, but there were fifteen miles between him and the club, and he was bleeding like a son of a bitch.
“No cops, no cops, no cops,” he kept saying, as if turning that into a mantra would make it real.
He saw the street up ahead that would take him out of Vegas toward the TomCat and tried to go faster, but the old truck was already smoking and shaking.
“No cops, no cops, no cops,” he repeated and took the turn.
* * *
Quinn didn’t think, she just reacted when she realized that son of a bitch was going to get away. It had to be Anton Baba. No one else wanted her dead, and when he shot at her, something in her snapped. She had been a victim too many times in her life, but no more. She ran for the Harley, jammed the helmet over her head and swung her leg over the bike.
Even though it hadn’t been ridden in days, it started like a charm. She patted her pocket to make sure Nick’s cell phone was still there, checked quickly to make sure it was on and then flew out of the garage after the truck.
Nick was running back toward the house—toward her. She knew he was going to try to stop her, but she didn’t have time to explain.
“Follow me on the tracking app,” she yelled and then accelerated through the streets trying to catch a glimpse of that truck.
It wasn’t until she realized she was following a trail of wrecked cars and skid marks through intersections that she guessed she might be on the right path.
She saw the smoke coming from the tailpipe first and then noticed the truck up ahead and breathed a sigh of relief. It was him. She didn’t know where he was going, but figured he was trying to get out of Vegas as quickly as possible. Her best bet was to try to catch up with him and shoot out his tires. That would stop him, and hopefully Nick and the cops would be right behind her.
She made a point to stay about a half block behind, waiting and waiting for police cars to appear so she could make her move, but it didn’t happen.
Between trying to keep up with Baba and watching for cops, she’d ridden all the way out of the city before she realized how far they’d gone.
Nick! Nick, where are you?
The traffic was heavy on the road out of town, which helped to keep Baba in her sights with just enough cover to hopefully go unnoticed. She didn’t want to catch him without backup, so she just kept up the chase, driving straight into the heat waves rising up above the highway.
When he suddenly veered off the highway onto a smaller road leading out into the desert, she had no choice but to follow or lose him. If she followed, he would see her then, for sure. She didn’t know what he would do when he realized she was behind him, but she had her gun and a full clip of ammo. It was time to make a move. If she could get close enough before he noticed her, she’d end this race right now.
She leaned forward, lowering her body to counteract wind resistance, and accelerated even more. There was a knot in her belly and a hot sun burning down her back.
God help me.
* * *
The relief of exiting the highway onto the county road was huge. In less than ten minutes he’d be at TomCat’s and sanctuary. He imagined the look of dismay on Delilah’s face and knew she would take care of him.
He was light-headed from blood loss and pain, but he would get well and get out of the country. It no longer mattered as much about losing this empire. Empires were made to be lost and won. He built it up once. He could do it again somewhere else. This wasn’t the end for him, he was certain.
Until he glanced in the side-view mirror and his heart nearly stopped.
“What the fuck?”
It was a biker—directly on his tail. There was always the chance that this guy was just some customer heading to the TomCat, but something about the way the bike moved suggested an urgency that worried Anton. He accelerated, but the truck was already at its maximum speed, so he just concentrated on driving it with one hand.
Another minute passed, a
nd he glanced in the mirror again. The biker was closer—and now he could see long red hair beneath the helmet.
The redhead?
“No fucking way,” he muttered, reaching for his gun before being overcome with a shooting pain—a violent reminder that his right arm was out of commission.
He glanced down and stifled a gasp at the sight of himself.
He was sitting in blood. Blood was everywhere.
The biker was coming closer and closer, and his panic was climbing with every second. He would not, by God, be brought down by some woman.
He heard a sound, something like a pop, and quickly realized she was shooting at him.
“No, no, no!” he shrieked as he heard another pop, then two more, and just like that, she’d flattened both his back tires.
One moment he was on the road and the next he was in the sand and frantically steering from side to side to keep from rolling.
He caught a glimpse of motion out the window beside him, saw the biker, red hair flying from under the helmet, and the gun in her hand was pointed straight at him. He hit the brakes. It was a mistake.
The truck rolled twice, coming to a stop upside down in the dirt.
The bike’s tires squealed as she also hit the brakes, did a one-eighty on the blacktop and then killed the engine and dismounted, running toward his truck.
The glass in all the windows was gone, and he was struggling to move around inside the cab, hurt and disoriented and trying to find a way out.
“Give me your hand!” the woman shouted at him as she reached inside the front window.
He took the offer gladly, his desire to live stronger than his desire to kill her, and grabbed on to her wrist with one hand.
The woman grabbed on to him with both hands and began pulling him backward. The truck was beginning to smoke, he noticed with cold panic.
“Hurry!” he shrieked. “It’s burning!”
He was in so much pain he could barely move, but she kept pulling and pulling until the upper half of his body was free.
Something inside the truck burst into flames.
