Velocity

by Alan Jacobson

  Robby forced his face up through the water’s surface and sucked in air—saw a large dark head, body in front of him—

  And threw up his left arm in time to block another punch. The blow landed instead just beneath the gunshot wound, causing a stab of ice-pick intense pain.

  Enough of this shit. Robby swung his right hand out of the water and snatched a grip around the man’s ear. He nearly slipped off the appendage, but he closed his hand as tight as he could, with whatever strength he had left, and pulled.

  The ear is a sensitive part of the anatomy, and the innate desire not to have it separated from one’s body provided the survival mechanism Robby needed: his attacker instinctively refocused his attention and bent his neck to reduce the angle of Robby’s pull.

  But Robby did not release his grip. The sicario switched tactics and grabbed Robby’s arm, but couldn’t pry it free. Robby squeezed harder—the man’s mouth opened—and if the music and fountains hadn’t been so damn loud, his yelp would’ve reached impressive decibels.

  Robby yelled as well, infusing himself with the will to win . . . the will to live.

  But the man extracted a knife from somewhere on his body. Light glinted off the chrome blade, seizing Robby’s attention. He yanked the man’s head toward him, then slammed his forehead into his attacker’s skull. It hurt like hell—but not as much as the pain inflicted on the asshole who’d tried to drown him.

  The sicario’s eyes rolled up in submission. His head slumped to the side, and Robby grabbed him by his neck and plunged him down, beneath the surface.

  The knife floated from the man’s open hand, then sunk impotently toward the lake’s bottom. An arm burst through the surface, reached up and clawed at Robby’s chest, grabbed for his wrist, his face—anything to make Robby release his grip.

  But as the seconds ticked by, the man stopped struggling and went limp. Robby realized he was breathing rapidly—too rapidly—and was in danger of hyperventilating. He calmed himself, told himself this was not over.

  He felt around, trying to move the man’s dead weight in the water, rolled him face up, and found a wallet. Shoved it into his back pocket, then searched for a handgun. Pancake holster—empty.

  Robby’s body began quivering. The fight had depleted his adrenaline. He released his grip on the corpse and maneuvered himself toward the wall’s maw and—hopefully—land.

  HECTOR DESANTOS had identified the men he was pursuing: Ernesto “Grunge” Escobar and Alejandro Villarreal. He had first engaged Villarreal, who then—fortunately for DeSantos—had met up with Escobar as they exited CityCenter. He followed both fugitives as they fled through the Via Bellagio shops, then spilled out onto the boulevard.

  Dodging traffic and tourists, they headed south past the raucous Margaritaville bar and restaurant across the street on the right and Caesars Palace directly to his left. They then coursed along the winding sidewalk and plazas of the Forum Shops.

  A two-decker bus painted bumper to bumper with Blue Man Group advertising slowed to a stop. DeSantos kept an eye on Villarreal and Escobar in case one or both hopped onboard. Splitting up—with only DeSantos in pursuit—would ensure one of them a successful escape.

  As if they had a direct line to his thoughts, Villarreal cut left and Escobar right, onto the bus, as the rear doors folded closed. With the vehicle accelerating away, Escobar pressed his face against the window and glared at DeSantos, a slow smile broadening his face.

  DeSantos couldn’t stop the bus—the recipe of a confined space packed with tourists and a cornered, armed killer was not a stew he wanted to stir up. It would’ve been bloody, with unacceptable collateral damage.

  Instead, he pulled his Desert Eagle and cut a path forward, darting between, around, and over lovers holding hands, drunken fraternity youths on a weekend junket, friends in town for a bachelor party . . . DeSantos wasn’t discriminating. If they were in his way, they went down.

  He yanked the two-way from his back pocket and keyed it. “Suspect Escobar headed north on Vegas metro bus, got on in front of Mirage. In foot pursuit same twenty suspect Villarreal. Over.” Someone else would have to follow up.

  People were gathered along a railing just past the Mirage main entrance, staring at a darkened outcropping of artificial mountain rock. He picked his way through the crowd, attempting to keep track of Villarreal, who was still moving south—when a blast of flame and volcanic fire rose high into the night sky, then exploded to his left. The crowd roared. DeSantos flinched—nearly sending a .44-caliber round into an unwitting vacationer—then realized the pyrotechnics were merely more Vegas-style theater.

  He felt the heat from the dancing fire warm his skin as Villarreal darted right, across the street. The traffic light had changed, and there was a break in the flow of cars.

  “Freeze!” DeSantos said. “Federal agent!”

  Villarreal didn’t respond but DeSantos did. He dropped to a knee, squared up low, and brought Villarreal into his Trijicon night sights. He knew he’d be violating protocol—but it was akin to a white lie. Roughly stated, if you pull your gun, you’re planning to use it, and if you’re planning to use it, you’re planning to kill—that is, aim at center mass to take down the target.

  DeSantos was many things, but model soldier was not one of them. He was an exceptionally good shot with a sniper rifle and nearly as good with the less accurate handgun. But he didn’t need pinpoint accuracy. He just needed to bring down the fleeing suspect without hitting innocent bystanders.

  And at this very moment, Villarreal was in the clear—that is, by Vegas standards. No innocents within twenty feet, no cars in the immediate vicinity. And a low trajectory shot.

  One more warning. “Freeze!” Then he fired. Villarreal grabbed his right thigh, tried hopping forward a couple steps, then crumpled to the pavement, draping himself across the curb.

  DeSantos ignored a screaming bystander as he approached his writhing prey, Desert Eagle out in front of him, not taking any chances that Villarreal could bring his own weapon to bear.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” DeSantos said, now standing five feet away, his pistol aimed squarely at Villarreal’s face. “I mean, really? Do you want me to put a .44 in your head? Or are you gonna interlock your fingers behind your neck and make nice?”

  “It’s not what you’re thinking,” Villarreal said between clenched teeth.

  “Since you don’t know what I’m thinking, there’s a good chance you’re wrong.”

  “You think I had something to do with kidnapping your agent. But I didn’t. I was trying to help, I was trying to get him back to you.”

  DeSantos pursed his lips. “What do you know? You were right about what I was thinking. But I’m in a good goddamn mood right now, so I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt. Thing is, you still need to get your hands behind your neck. Otherwise, my gun might go off and you’d never get the chance to prove you’re telling the truth.” DeSantos cocked his head toward his right shoulder. “Fair enough?”

  Villarreal did not reply but slowly interlocked his bloody fingers behind his neck. DeSantos approached and rested his knee in Villarreal’s back as he cuffed the man’s wrists, then patted him down.

  “By the way, I really like your suit,” DeSantos said. “Sorry about the hole I made.” He pulled his two-way and keyed it. “DeSantos to Mann. You there?”

  A moment’s hesitation, then, “Affirmative.”

  “Suspect Villarreal in custody. Needs a bus. GSW to the leg.” As he was speaking, a young Vegas Metro PD officer pulled up on a white motorcycle. The man got off the bike and quickly squared up.

  “Let me see your hands!”

  “What’s happening?” Mann asked.

  “Ah, shit. Nothing. Stand by.” DeSantos lifted his hands and said, “I’m a federal agent. ID’s in my back pocket. I’m gonna take it out, okay?”

  “Slowly,” the cop said.

  “I wouldn’t think of doing it any other way.” He removed his creds
and tossed them at the cop’s feet. The man bent at the knees, keeping his weapon trained on DeSantos, inspected the ID, and then nodded.

  DeSantos keyed his mike. “Mann. I’m turning over custody of Alejandro Villarreal to VPD.” DeSantos retrieved his credentials from the officer. Stole a look at his tag, then said into the two-way, “Suspect now in custody of Officer David Rambo.” DeSantos shoved the radio back in his pocket. “Serious? Rambo?”

  “Was Rambowski. Rambo’s cooler. I shortened it.”

  DeSantos nodded thoughtfully. “I probably would’ve done the same thing.” He pointed a finger at Villarreal. “Look after this scumbag. Very dangerous felon. Make sure you get a photo with him in cuffs. Never know, it could make your career.” He gave the officer a wink.

  DeSantos walked off, back toward the Bellagio. Into the radio, he said, “Mann, you got a status on Vail and Dixon?”

  “Vail is headed to the basement of the Bellagio,” Mann replied. “Hernandez may be shot. Last seen in the lake, possibly heading toward the fountain’s maintenance facility. Dixon’s in Caesar’s. Due for a SIT REP. Clar and I are headed to the Bellagio to drop off SWAT.”

  “Roger that. On my way to Vail’s twenty. Over.”

  DeSantos shoved the radio into his pocket and took off, sprinting back the way he came.

  ROBBY SWAM THROUGH the opening in the wall of rock, which led to what appeared to be a launch ramp for boats. Off to the right, a secured dingy bobbed alongside a barge—necessary equipment, he figured, for repair and/or maintenance of the fountain.

  As the canted concrete floor rose, the lake’s depth gradually decreased from four feet to a few inches. Robby followed the ramp as it doglegged left, then right. There he stopped moving and lay facedown, the water lapping against his cheeks.

  Two ducks started quacking and flapping their wings. They went airborne and flew past his head. Had he had more energy, he would have flinched.

  When he had gathered sufficient strength, he struggled to his knees, but even lifting his soaked pant legs required effort. He crawled forward onto the cement floor and lay down again. He’d lost blood, he was sure of that.

  He gathered the wet shirt sleeve in his right hand and yanked. The cotton fibers gave in and tore, slowly, along the shoulder seam. He twisted the cloth into a thin band, then tied it above the wound, tightening it as best he could.

  He’d made it this far, through beatings and drug dealers and hired killers. He wasn’t about to let a piece of lead kill him.

  VAIL FOLLOWED THE GUARD, whose name tag read “Pryor,” through the hotel’s ground floor to the room service elevator.

  “Aren’t there stairs?”

  Pryor, who sported a belly that had likely played host to many a six-pack evening, sighed audibly. “You didn’t say you wanted to walk it. What are you, some exercise nut?”

  “No, I’m a federal agent in a goddamn hurry.”

  “Faster to take the elevator,” Pryor said as he reached out and poked the button again with a stubby finger. “By the time we’d gotten to the staircase over by the retail shops, elevator would’ve been here twice over.”

  Vail keyed her radio. “This is Vail. En route to the lower level of the Bellagio. Waiting for the elevator.”

  Mann’s voice boomed over the two-way. “You kidding me? Take the fucking stairs!”

  Vail brought the radio to her mouth and faced Pryor as she spoke. “Now there’s a brilliant idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Pryor looked up at the ceiling and rocked back on his heels. Not a worry in the world.

  Vail thought of Robby and grabbed her temples. I can’t believe this.

  The elevator doors slid open and she practically leaped inside.

  ROXXANN DIXON HAD LOCATED César Guevara attempting to circle back and exit Caesars Palace through its front entrance. She was determined not to lose him again, but he appeared to be moving urgently—and he had a cell phone to his ear. If he had spotted her, bodyguards would not be far off. Armed bodyguards.

  “This is Dixon,” she said into her radio. “In foot pursuit of suspect Guevara. Leaving Caesars’ main entrance. Request available backup.”

  Dixon followed him as he ran across the pedestrian overpass that arced above South Las Vegas Boulevard at Flamingo Way. To her left, building-size pictures of Donnie and Marie Osmond smiled back at her.

  Ahead, amid people moving in both directions across the bridge, César Guevara was thirty feet from the down escalator and staircase.

  “Hold it right there,” Dixon yelled. “Agents are coming right at you, there’s nowhere to go.” Not true, but what the hell.

  The tourists who saw her SIG veered away, but those who were oblivious bumped her from behind or weaved around her. Guevara slowed and glanced through the clear Lexan walls, no doubt attempting to verify Dixon’s claims of nearby reinforcements.

  But Guevara apparently felt that if there were federal agents approaching, he would be no worse off than if he were to surrender. And he surely knew she wouldn’t discharge her weapon with innocents in such close proximity.

  Down the stairs they both went. Dixon keyed her radio.

  Guevara negotiated a sharp left at the bottom of the staircase, passing Bill’s Gambling Hall and Saloon and moving toward the Flamingo Hotel.

  “Guevara headed north at the intersection of Las Vegas Boulevard and Flamingo Way,” Dixon said into her two-way.

  Guevara sidestepped the open casino entrance, where two scantily clad women were dancing atop a raised pedestal. Dixon struggled to stay in visual contact with Guevara, as the crowd was now considerably thicker than it had been on the bridge.

  Guevara fended off Latino workers shoving porn trading cards into the hands of passersby. He looked right, at the raucous college students pulling on neon green drinks in Margaritaville, then glanced left at the thick, slowly moving traffic.

  Dixon made up ground and was only thirty feet behind him when Guevara stopped suddenly, shoved a man aside, drew his handgun, and—

  Before Dixon could reach him, his weapon bucked, followed by his body.

  He’d been hit—but by whom?

  As Guevara slumped back into the trunk of a streetside palm tree—he’d taken a round but was not incapacitated—Hector DeSantos stepped off the planted median in the center of the boulevard, his gold Desert Eagle out in front of him, approaching Guevara with caution.

  Cars stopped, drivers gawking at the man in front of them advancing across the roadway with a handgun—and making no attempt to hide it.

  “Don’t make me shoot you again,” DeSantos said. “Drop the gun or you’ll be joining all your dead cartel brothers.”

  Guevara, his face contorted in pain, did not acquiesce.

  But Dixon came up behind him and pressed her SIG against the man’s temple. “Does this make the decision easier?”

  Guevara dropped the handgun. He was bleeding from the abdomen—a notoriously painful wound—but Dixon showed him no mercy as she grabbed his hands and yanked them behind him, then fastened her set of cuffs to his wrists.

  “That’s for Eddie,” Dixon said of her deceased ex-boyfriend.

  Guevara winced. “Don’t know who that is.”

  “John Mayfield killed him.”

  “Don’t know who that is, either.”

  “Lying pisses me off, César. And that’s not something you want to do.”

  “I don’t know—”

  Dixon slapped him on the head. “Just shut up, asshole.” She turned to DeSantos. “Robby?”

  “Haven’t heard anything,” DeSantos said as he holstered his weapon. “Call this in. I’ll go see if Karen needs help.”

  ROBBY TRIED TO GET TO HIS FEET, to right himself. But he was still dizzy from the punches he took and the head butt he meted out. After all he’d endured lately, his tank was running dry.

  He sat back down on the cold floor, water dripping from his face. His clothing was thick and heavy, and his arm throbbed.

  An
d he couldn’t shake the image of holding the man’s head down as his lungs filled with water. He had killed him. But it was different from the time as a teen when he had murdered the man who had done the same to his uncle. Here it was a matter of survival. Before . . . it was as Diego had said: revenge. Raw, inexcusable, premeditated revenge.

  He’d repressed those memories, those thoughts and feelings, for so long that he’d gotten skilled at it. Too skilled. He now realized he had been cheating. He had broken the law and never paid the price.

  But was the price too expensive now, given that he had dedicated his life to catching those who would harm others? Did that balance out the scales of justice? Did it tip them in his favor?

  Robby shivered. He had to get to his feet, find help, dry clothing, some food, and medical attention for his gunshot wound.

  He rolled left and pushed himself up.

  VAIL FELT THE ELEVATOR bottom out, then leaned forward as the doors slid apart. She side-slithered through, Glock in her hands, and swept into the hallway.

  “Which way?” she called back to Pryor.

  He remained behind her and silently pointed ahead, no doubt realizing that, with the handgun clenched in both hands, out in front of her, Vail’s frenzied demeanor wasn’t an act. He was probably beginning to wonder what he’d gotten himself into.

  Pryor directed her through the seemingly endless, curving corridor.

  “How much farther?”

  Pryor slowed, then looked back over his shoulder. “I don’t know. The back of the house isn’t my patrol area. I’ve only been down here once.” He pursed his lips, stopped walking, then again glanced behind him. “There’s no elevator at the north end of the property. I’m pretty sure the room service elevator was the best way to get there.”

  “But you’re not really sure where ‘there’ is.”

  “I think if we keep going, we’ll eventually get to the maintenance shop.”

  Vail tightened her grip on the Glock. Great. Robby could be in trouble—if he’s still alive—and I get the tour guide with no sense of direction.