by Scott McEwen
He sat grinning ear to ear, looking right at Big Ray. “We call those three natural queens where I come from.” Then he laughed out loud, and Big Ray tossed his cards into the muck, shoving back from the table and swearing a blue streak as he stormed off through the crowd surrounding the table.
Tuckerman, to his great satisfaction, watched him go and then glanced across the table at Faisal. “How about you, Muhammad? Whatcha got over there, buddy?”
Faisal smiled. Tuckerman had been cleaning his clock all night, and to lose this hand would put him out of the game, but he flipped over his own hole cards to expose the king of hearts and the king of diamonds. Combined with the turn card king, these cards gave him an even stronger three of a kind than Tuckerman’s.
“Would you like to surrender now?” Faisal asked good-naturedly, coolly enjoying the thrill of victory.
Tuckerman was hard pressed to hide his sudden unease. He was up against the clock, and if he didn’t force Faisal from the game very soon, he was going to blow the mission’s timetable. Big Ray had given him fits all night, stretching the game out longer than he had planned for, so he didn’t have time for Faisal to die a slow death. He needed to finish him.
He sucked his teeth. “Why don’t we just see where the river takes us, huh?”
“Why not?” Faisal replied, his eyes glowing in triumph.
The dealer burned the top card by placing it facedown in the center of the table and flipped open the river card . . . the two of spades.
A collective gasp swept through the crowd.
“Fuck!” Faisal hissed acidly, tossing his cards into the muck at the center of the table.
Tuckerman pumped his fists and cheered, “Full house, bay-bee!”
Faisal sat back from the table with a bemused smirk as the jabbering crowd began to disperse. “How many times did you bluff tonight?” he demanded to know. “I know you bluffed at least twice, you son of a bitch. No one is that lucky—no one!”
Tuckerman laughed. “I’ve got a shamrock tattooed to my ass, partner.”
“This was supposed to be my night!” Faisal protested. “The night to break my losing streak, and I would have done it, if not for you. You owe me a drink—no, make it two!”
“Yeah, yeah, okay, fine,” Tuckerman said, stacking his chips. “But up in your suite, huh? I’m tired of sitting down here with the common people.”
Faisal wavered a moment, glancing briefly at Ma’mun, his bodyguard, standing near the wall.
“Oh, come on,” Tuckerman said, pretending not to even notice Ma’mun. “Don’t tell me you don’t have a suite here in the hotel, you rich bastard. Hell, if I had your money, I could probably afford to burn mine.”
Faisal was easily flattered when it came to his money, and he couldn’t help liking Tuckerman, admiring the way he had succeeded in getting inside of Big Ray’s head early in the game. Big Ray was normally a monster at the table, and Faisal had lost to him many times, but tonight Ray had made two critical miscalculations in a row, and those errors were entirely because of Tuckerman’s constant niggling.
Fuck it, he thought and grinned. “Yeah, okay. But tomorrow night you’re giving me a chance to win some of my money back!”
Tuckerman sighed as they stood up from the table. “I can’t promise I’ll be available tomorrow night.” He knew Faisal was on the hook now and wanted to keep him there. “But if I am, I don’t plan to lose. That’s entirely against my creed.”
“Of course, you’ll be available.” Faisal put a hand on Tuckerman’s shoulder. “Don’t talk nonsense. I can see you’re not a man to walk away from a challenge. Hey, where are you from, my friend?”
“Right here in Vegas,” Tuckerman said proudly. “Born and bred.”
“Well, that explains it!” Faisal said. “And what do you do—when you’re not cheating at poker, I mean?”
Tuckerman chortled, keenly aware that Faisal’s bodyguard did not approve of this budding new friendship. “I lead a high-wire act with Cirque du Soleil over at the Bellagio. You should come see us.”
Faisal laughed and clapped him on the back, saying to Ma’mun, “Call up to the suite and make sure there are enough girls.”
Ma’mun began to protest.
“Just do it, Ma’mun. I’m not in the mood to argue this evening. I’ve decided I’m going to get this man drunk, get him properly laid”—he stabbed his finger into Tuckerman’s chest—“and then tomorrow night I’m going to take all of his fucking money!”
They both broke up laughing, and to look at them, one would have thought they’d been friends for years.
“Like I said,” Tuckerman warned him, enjoying being back on the con, “I may have another obligation tomorrow night.”
“Your obligation is to me tomorrow night,” Faisal insisted, some of the spoiled child in him showing through. “And I won’t take no for an answer, my friend.”
“Well, okay.” Tuckerman chuckled. “Since you insist.”
34
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA,
Edwards Air Force Base
The president could smell the ozone in the darkened operations center the moment he stepped through the door, the static electricity in the air making the hair on his arms stand on end. He saw General Couture on the far side of the room talking to Colonel Eugene Bradshaw with the 432nd Air Expeditionary Wing, attached to ACC (Air Combat Command). Bradshaw was the air force liaison officer whose job it was to coordinate communications with Creech AFB, located forty-some miles northwest of Las Vegas.
The president looked at the giant hi-definition monitor on the wall, seeing the overhead infrared video feed of the Luxor hotel and casino provided by a loitering reconnaissance UAV (Unmanned Aerial Vehicle) based out of Creech. The op center was alive with the murmured communications of a half dozen men and women wearing headsets, rapidly running their fingers over keyboards to collate minute-by-minute information coming in from various intelligence sources and military commands. This was the president’s first experience in such an environment, and only with some difficulty did he manage to keep the sense of wonderment from his face.
“Mr. President,” Couture said as he approached with the colonel. “Allow me to present Colonel Bradshaw with the 432nd Wing.”
Bradshaw was dressed in his air force camouflage ABU (airman battle uniform). He was in his midforties, tall and slender, with a plain face and dirty blond hair cut in a sharp flattop. “How do you do, Mr. President?” He extended his hand. “It’s an honor, sir.”
“Likewise,” the president said, wiping the perspiration from his palm before shaking the colonel’s hand. “Are we about ready here, gentlemen?”
“Yes, sir,” Bradshaw said. “As you can see, the UAV is already over the target.”
“The target,” the president repeated softly. “My God, I never expected to hear our own military use that word in reference to an American city.”
“I can use a different word if you prefer, Mr. President.”
“You mean a euphemism?” the president asked. “No, Colonel, thank you. I’m a big boy—or at least so my mother tells me.”
Both field grade officers smiled dutifully.
“And how is she?” Couture asked, knowing that the president’s mother had been in and out of the hospital numerous times during the past few months.
“She’s holding her own,” the president said. He gestured at the video feed. “What exactly do we expect to see?”
“Not a great deal, really,” Couture replied. “We’ll see the entry team enter through the main doors, and then nothing until they come back out.”
“I’m worried the security video from the hotel will conflict with our AQAP cover story,” the president said. “How are we going to deal with that?”
“Pope’s people have already hacked into hotel security, sir.” The whole operation was distasteful to Co
uture, but he’d had no better plan to offer in the limited time available to them. “So there won’t be any video.”
“Okay,” the president said with a sigh. “I guess that’s one less thing to worry about.”
Bradshaw stole a glance at his immediate superior then looked at the commander in chief. “Mr. President, if I may speak out of turn, sir?”
Couture’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“Sure,” the president said easily. “That might be a refreshing change.”
Bradshaw smiled. “It may be somewhat of a bold assertion on my part, sir, but we have an entirely unprecedented situation on our hands. There is no standard procedure for protecting this nation from an imminent nuclear attack within our borders. All of this is pure OJT, every bit of it. So if we’re found out in the long run, so be it. No one is going to be able to blame us for what we do tonight because we’re acting one hundred percent in the interest of the American people. Win, lose, or draw, we’re looking for a live nuclear weapon, and I’ll be proud to stand shoulder to shoulder with you in front of Congress—should it ever get that far.”
The president would never admit it to anyone, but the colonel’s remark actually made him feel better. “Thank you, Colonel. Let’s hope I never have to hold you to that.”
35
LAS VEGAS,
Luxor Hotel
Arabic music played on the stereo while Conman Tuckerman sat on the sofa in Faisal’s suite with a gorgeous, dark, and leggy twenty-three-year-old black girl on his lap. She sipped from a glass of Armand de Brignac “Ace of Spades” Rosé champagne—the second most expensive champagne in the world. Her name was Missy, and she smelled like heaven, with big brown eyes and short, curly black hair, and Tuckerman could tell she was enjoying his company; he’d been with enough Vegas call girls to know when they were just going through the motions. Within moments of his entering the suite, she’d gravitated toward him.
Tuckerman knew that Faisal was scheming to keep him in the casino until the next night so he could win back his two hundred thousand dollars. It was a common gambit in the casino world, but it didn’t matter. By sunrise, Faisal would be either dead or wishing for it. What made Tuckerman worried was the presence of Missy and the other girls. He hadn’t expected there to be seven of them in the room. He hadn’t anticipated any girls, in fact, though he probably should have. This was Vegas, after all, and Faisal was a known “matador.”
“Join me in the other room?” he whispered into Missy’s ear.
She looked at him and smiled. “Sure.” She set down the glass and stood up from his lap, taking his hand.
“Muhammad, do you mind if we uh . . .”
“Not at all,” Faisal said, looking up from the opposite sofa, his hand up a young blonde’s skirt. “Enjoy yourself my friend.”
Tuckerman led Missy into the far room and closed the door.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, peeling out of her black body dress. “Those other guys give me the creeps.” She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him affectionately.
He drank her in as long as he dared before holding her out at arm’s length. “Look, you’re not going to believe this, but I need you to put that dress back on.”
“What? Why? What’s wrong? You’re not a cop, are you?”
“No.” He took his wallet from his jacket and pulled out three thousand dollars’ worth of crisp hundred-dollar bills, all of his CIA flash-around money. He picked her purse up and stuffed the money into it.
“What’s going on?” she asked, more intrigued than alarmed.
He took his cellular from inside his jacket. “Listen to me very carefully,” he said, typing out the text message: “Seven hookers in the room!” He sent the message and put away the phone. “I’m with the CIA.”
She laughed. “Baby, I already like you, and I’m a sure thing.”
He snatched her dress off the floor and held it out to her. “Listen! I want you to put this back on and get the fuck out, because in about five minutes, federal agents are coming through that fucking door, and you don’t want to be here.”
She saw that he was serious and took the dress. “Is this guy a terrorist or something?”
“Yes,” he said, fully aware that he was breaking every fucking rule in the Black Ops handbook.
The phone vibrated in his pocket, and he read the message. “See?” He held the phone out for her to read: “Keep your head in the game! Six minutes and counting!”
She stepped quickly into the dress, pulling the straps up over her shoulders and slipping into her heels. “Am I gonna be in trouble?”
He gave her a quick kiss. “Whatever you do, don’t ever tell anyone you were here tonight.”
“Okay,” she said, nodding her head in earnest. “I promise.”
“Look embarrassed when we go back out there.” He reached for the doorknob. “I’m gonna tell them you started your period and walk you straight to the door.”
“Okay.”
He took her by the hand and led her from the room.
“Wow, so fast!” Faisal exclaimed, looking up from the blonde’s exposed breasts. “Are you ready for another, my friend?”
A few of the other girls laughed, and so did a couple of Faisal’s people.
Ma’mun just stared. The only man in the room not paired off, he sat glumly on a stool over by the bar.
Tuckerman kept Missy moving toward the door. “This broad’s on her period and didn’t even fucking tell me.”
“Okay,” Faisal said. “There are plenty to go around.” He didn’t personally see the big deal about a girl on her period, but he took being a host seriously, and if the girl had displeased his guest in some way, then it was time for her to leave.
Tuckerman opened the door and stepped out into the hall with Missy. “Take the stairs.” He stepped back into the room and closed the door.
“You don’t think you were kind of rude?” asked the girl on Faisal’s lap.
Tuckerman frowned at her. “Champagne and blood do not mix.”
The mood in the room changed from one of lustful camaraderie to one of collective embarrassment.
“I’m sorry, my friend,” Faisal said solemnly. “It is my fault.”
“Don’t be silly,” Tuckerman said, waving him off. “I don’t think the girl even knew, to be honest.” He shrugged and sat back on the love seat. “Maybe I overreacted. I’m the one who should apologize.”
“I’m sure she didn’t know,” the blonde said. “We live together, so our cycles are the same, and she’s a whole week early.”
“Hey!” Faisal said. “Enough now! No more talk about bloody vaginas—please!”
Everyone laughed, including Faisal’s security men, and the mood improved over the next couple of minutes, but Tuckerman was worried. He’d seen women shot and killed many times before, and it didn’t sit well with him. He checked his watch again . . . ninety seconds left.
36
LAS VEGAS,
Luxor Hotel
The CIA plant/concierge was of Arabic descent. He’d been working at the Luxor for the past eighteen months, spying on Arabic gamblers, and though he had gotten to know Faisal pretty well during that time, he had never once suspected the man might be funding terrorists. He stopped the elevator on the nineteenth floor. “I sure hope you guys are right about this.”
“Makes two of us,” Gil replied, wrapping a green and black shemagh around his head. The other three operators were Alpha, Trigg, and Speed. Once all their faces were concealed behind shemaghs, making them look like Shiite raiders, they unzipped the valises they had brought along and armed themselves with suppressed AK-47 rifles.
“You’re sure there’s no guard outside the room?” Gil asked.
“If there is,” said the concierge, “he’ll be the first one I’ve seen.”
“Okay,”
Gil said to the others. “Remember, only gutter Arabic.” This was a shorthand form of communication they had developed during their time in the Middle East that they could use in the dark without immediately giving themselves away as Americans. It was barely rudimentary Arabic, but to the untrained American ear, they would sound enough like Arabs to convince any witnesses they were terrorists. “And try like hell not to hit the women.”
He checked his watch. “Okay,” he said to the concierge. “Ninety seconds. Let’s go.”
The concierge turned the key, and the inclinator rose to the twentieth floor. The doors opened with fifty seconds to go, revealing an Arabic security man sitting on a chair against the wall. He looked up just in time to catch a 7.62 mm round right between the eyes. His head snapped back as blood, brain, and bone spattered the wall, and he fell out of the chair. The bullet had continued on through the wall, but didn’t seem to have alerted anyone.
No one said a word to the CIA man about getting it wrong as they dismounted the inclinator and attached the breaching charges to the door; combat was an ever-evolving set of circumstances, where nothing ever remained the same.
• • •
WITH TEN SECONDS left on the clock, Tuckerman sat forward on the love seat to line himself up with his target. The door imploded with a bang, and he launched himself at Faisal, delivering a flying elbow to the bridge of his nose and taking the couch over backward, dumping both Faisal and the girl onto the carpet.
The girls screamed, and Faisal’s security men struggled to gain their feet even as they were being shot down with perfectly placed bursts of heavy-caliber fire. Blood flew as the men went down without ever managing to draw their weapons. Only Ma’mun succeeded in drawing a pistol before he took a three-round burst to the face, exploding his head. His pistol went off as he flew back against the bar and crashed to the floor.
With all secondary targets down, Gil ran forward and pulled Tuckerman off of Faisal, making sure they were both still alive, and quickly secured Faisal’s hands with flex cuffs. The women were sobbing and lying on the floor covering their heads, two of them wounded by flying door fragments. Only Faisal’s blonde was silent. Speed and Trigg began dragging the others one by one into a bedroom, shouting violently at them in gutter Arabic, to keep up the charade.
