Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(69)

“What?” I said.

“Like a shiver in the air? You turn your head, and—”

“Exciting?”

“Sometimes. Then others, it’s like fingernails on glass.”

“I feel it.”

Shwetz had left us at the bar. We looked out across the gaming floor. The ambience had changed a little now; a scattering of daytime guests had given it a faint gloss of normality, drinking and chattering, playing a few innocuous games. But I could spot the regulars. It wasn’t hard. There was a woman near us, for example, practically glued to her machine. It wasn’t just the dedication that got to me, it was the look on her face: after a few quick spins, her head would nod, her eyes roll back, her body start to sway. She could have stood in for the portrait of a saint in some old Spanish church, and only when the money ran out did she rouse herself, tug at her wrap, almost surprised to find herself there, in a public place. Her hands would move across the console, fluttering, uncertain; and she’d dip into her purse, and start the whole process again.

Angel and I drank coffee. I kept my phone out on the tabletop, desperate to send another message, but holding back.

Don’t look too eager. Don’t scare him off.

The meeting had been set for 3:00 p.m.

3:00 p.m. had come and gone.

“He reckons I’m his friend,” I said. “Here to take him home.”

She sipped her drink.

“This place could get to you,” she said.

“Yeah. Leave, or stay forever.”

3:15.

“You’re watching me,” she said.

“I like watching you.”

“No. You’re watching me, but you’re thinking, is she up to it? Is she OK?”

“I—”

“Don’t lie, Chris. For one, you’re no good at it. For two, it’s kind of demeaning, yeah?”

I felt myself tense up. Thinking, this would be the worst time in the world to have a fight.

Wondering if it was just the atmosphere, putting me on edge. Something in the air, or in the place itself . . .

Or else in me.

The same thing that had killed off every other good relationship I’d ever had— 3:25.

“That’s it,” I said. “I’m done.”

I downed my coffee, slapped my hand on the tabletop. I went to put my phone back in my pocket, then, as if by instinct, stopped, and sat there, two, three minutes more.

The phone buzzed.

Coming down, the message said.

Angel made to stand, but I motioned her to stay.

“Hold on a while,” I said. “Let’s watch . . .”



A bank of elevators led to the hotel above. It was always busy. Right now, a bunch of elderly vacationers seemed to have commandeered it, spread out in bright, primary colors like a row of flags. I watched the other guests coming and going round them: a couple of upmarket goths, a bachelor party, and then a solo devotee, who marched straight to the nearest vacant slot, sat, and started working.

McAvoy, I missed, initially.

He must have sneaked down with another group—the bachelor party, probably—and slipped out behind the mob of seniors. He was over to the side before I even noticed him.

The clothes were the same, the shades, and the rolled sleeves on his jacket. His hair was tied back. He was thinner and more angular than I’d expected, and he moved in short, mistrustful little steps, like a man on ice. I caught the shine of a bracelet, the glint of a medallion. Retro chic. Irony? Disguise? Role play?

Or maybe he’d just not grown up?

Angel and I stepped out into the aisle.

At the same moment, ahead of us, a pair of burly-looking guys detached themselves from the scenery, and they, too, headed for McAvoy.

Angel touched my arm.

“I see them.”

They, though, had not seen us.

They dressed like tourists—Hawaiian shirts and baseball caps—but they didn’t act like tourists, they didn’t walk like tourists. They split up—eight, nine feet between them, and scarcely glanced at one another, but they moved in perfect sync. Two sharks, homing in on lunch.

“Perhaps he does have enemies, then, after all.”

McAvoy saw them, too, and his reaction told me plenty.

He’d come expecting to see me. So far as I knew, he’d no idea of what I looked like. But he knew I wasn’t either of these guys. And I could bet he knew exactly who they were, as well—or at least, who’d sent them.

I saw him glance back at the elevators, realize he’d never get to them in time. A look of panic crossed his face. Then he ducked down, into the avenues of slot machines, and I lost him.

I told Angel, “Circle. Get behind him.” She was faster than I was. For me, I took a side turn, hoping I could cut him off.

There were too many unanswered questions here. These two guys had been waiting for him. So how did they know to be here now, today? Through Shwetz? I doubted that. And I could bet it wasn’t just good luck.

I saw him again. McAvoy. Twenty yards away, crouched behind a big machine called Golden Goddess. Reflections from the lights flashed on his face, flared on his suit. He craned up, checking the area— And bolted. Straight across the floor. He stumbled, smacked into a waitress, sending her tray of glasses smashing to the ground.

After that, it all went very, very fast.