Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(70)

The guys in the Hawaiian shirts began to run. The house security was up, too, and moving. Suddenly I saw where McAvoy was heading. A small red exit sign marked an emergency door. At a sprint, he’d get there well before security, his pursuers—and me.

But I was nearer than the others. And I ran, too.

I lost him for a moment, in among the pillars and the potted palms. Next time I saw him he was pelting, flat out, hands splayed in front of him, a helpless, panic-stricken flight. In the video, he’d had some poise, some cool; all that was gone now.

He reached the door and flung himself against it. The bar gave and he tumbled through. Alarms began to shriek, mingling with the bleep and ping of the machines. I heard another sound—a low, soft thump, and felt a moment’s pressure in my ears. A thick white cloud began to curl over the tops of the machines. A smoke bomb? In seconds, someone would yell “Fire!” and then the whole place would go to hell. There’d be panic everywhere. I couldn’t see Angel. But if I waited, I’d lose McAvoy. I hit the door and barreled through.

I ran down a service corridor. At the end there was a flight of stairs. I froze a moment, listening.

Footsteps, down below.

Angel was right. I was out of shape. I scrambled down the steps, jumping the last few in each flight. I was breathing hard.

Something clattered, one flight down.

And then I saw him. He was trying to get a door open. An ordinary wooden door. He kicked it, pulled it, shook it in its frame.

It wouldn’t budge.

I slowed. I caught my breath.

“Looks like it’s shut,” I said.

He spun around, one arm up, as if fending off a blow.

“Copeland,” I said. “I think we had a date?”

I showed him my ID. He snatched at it, pulled it to him. I let him read it, and then took it back.

He said, “I need to get the door open. It’s never locked! They tricked me. It’s a trick—”

He kicked it, like a child in a tantrum.

“Locked is locked,” I said.

“You’re meant to have a key!” He turned on me, accusingly. Spit hung from his lips. “You’re meant to get me out of here! You’re meant to get me home—”

And then it dawned on him.

“You’re not control,” he said.

“I’m all you’ve got.”

“You’re not—”

We heard the lock click.

Someone outside wrenched the door open.

They were soldiers—maybe half a dozen—and they poured into the stairwell, quick and silent. They wore flak jackets and gloves and desert camouflage. They carried billy clubs and Tasers.

I put my hands up in the air.

“OK,” I said. “OK.”

McAvoy lunged for the stairs.

They grabbed him and he fell headlong.

I was frisked, searched. Quick, professional. They took my phone, my reader, and my wallet with my three IDs.

“This one’s our guy, too.”

A couple of them traded knuckle-bumps and high-fives.

But not with me.

I said, “‘Our guy’?”

They dragged McAvoy onto his feet. He squirmed and struggled, then all at once went limp. He seemed to fold in on himself, hanging from his captors’ grip. He whimpered, sobbed, then let go the most awful wail. It wasn’t fear or pain. It was frustration, like a child denied his favorite toy. He threw his head from side to side, and that dreadful sound just echoed, bouncing off the concrete, moaning, on and on.

One of the soldiers stuck a finger in his ear and waggled it, for fun.

Then he went up to McAvoy, and smacked him in the face.

That shut him up, all right.

“Who are you guys?” I said.

Nobody answered me.

“You got names? ID?”

But I got no names from them, and no ID. Instead, I was shoved towards the stairs, and then, with McAvoy beside me, prodded and manhandled, back the way we’d come.

The gaming floor looked like a riot had just taken place.

But then, I’d been expecting that.





Chapter 56

Assault on a Casino




A thick white smoke hung just below the ceiling, trailing from the pillars and the chandeliers. Lights flashed on its underside. There was a stink of fireworks. My eyes began to itch, my nose began to run.

A group of guests fled past, chivvied by a man in combat gear. One of the women kept on asking, over and over, “Is it a shooter? Is it a shooter?” She got as much response as I had to my own questions.

The alarm throbbed. Someone was shouting. I heard a crack. Not gunfire—Taser, possibly?

A voice beside my ear said, “Not secure,” and we fell back, first to the wall, then, after a hasty reconnoiter, retreated to the gift shop. One window had been smashed. The carpet here was strewn with broken glass.

“Down.”

McAvoy and I were made to sit upon the floor. I saw figures race by outside. Somebody was screaming. It was hard to make things out. I craned my neck, trying to get a view. The soldiers took up their positions, in between the Hermès scarves, the china cups, the displays of Sony, Rolex, Nikon.

I watched a man dragged from a slot machine and bundled out. Incredibly, he had still been playing, even through the mêlée. A running battle had begun between security and the invading force. I heard orders bellowed over pop music and bleeping slots. At the same time, ordinary tourists were quickly and efficiently rushed to the exits. The scene was one of violence and confusion, but the operation had been smartly planned. With only a handful of men—I thought twenty, at the most—the building was subdued with an extraordinary speed. People were evacuated. Guests were brought down from their rooms and ushered out in groups.