The Rescue(59)

“That’s okay. Thanks, though.”

“You don’t have to be there to get in on it,” said the guy, trading the cigarette for the tallboy. “I’ve got the table locked down, man. Any money you give me gets doubled. Maybe tripled.”

“I’m not a big gambler,” said Decker, fishing for his wallet. “How much is a round trip to the old strip?”

“I have a better idea. I can get dressed really quick,” said the guy. “You can check out the card game and see what you think. They bring in some whales, which drives up the stakes. That’s when my guy is going to hook me up. He could hook you up, too.”

Decker promised himself he wouldn’t talk to anyone else, except himself, for the next twenty-four hours, unless his life depended on it. This guy was relentless—and already completely intoxicated. He was definitely moving to a new hotel this morning. This guy would be at his door all day talking about this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

“Sorry, man. I can’t leave this room until my company calls. I’d be happy to pay for your cab fare,” said Decker. “How much is a round trip?”

The guy took a few more steps forward, his body odor invading Decker’s space.

“Fifty bucks should cover it.”

Decker knew the old strip in downtown Las Vegas was just a few miles up Fremont Street, but he wasn’t about to haggle with this guy. Anything he could do to get him out of here for the day was worth the money. He pulled three twenty-dollar bills from his wallet and offered them to the man.

“How does sixty sound?” said Decker, trying his best to feign a smile.

The guy plastered the fakest grimace on his face, sighing at the same time. “Wow. That’s really generous of you,” he said. “But I kind of have a confession to make.”

Damn. He’d fallen for the oldest trick in the run-down-Las-Vegas-motel book. This guy was the Ucky Ass Motel’s trapdoor spider, waiting around all day for something to walk by his lair.

“The thing is, I had to buy a seat at that table, which wasn’t cheap. Emptied all the cash from my pockets,” he said. “And then the damn ATM machine ate my card. Seriously. Barely had enough to get back here yesterday. It won’t do me any good to take a cab over there without enough to throw around the table. I can pay you back with interest, as soon as I get back from the game. I have a briefcase in the room to carry all the cash. It’s gonna be huge.”

“All I can spare is sixty bucks,” said Decker. “Seriously. I’m on a business trip.”

“Here?” said the man, his pleading demeanor gone. “What kind of business?”

“None of your business,” said Decker, pulling his shirt up far enough to expose part of his concealed holster.

“Must be serious business,” the man said. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“You want the sixty bucks?”

The man scratched his groin and guzzled the rest of the tallboy. “I guess.”

Decker tossed the money as far as he could and was back in the SUV, driving as fast as possible out of the motel parking lot, by the time the guy had retrieved the money. He turned right onto Fremont, headed toward the old strip, convinced that the quality of lodging would improve the closer he got to the downtown area.

A few minutes into the drive, his satellite phone chimed. He snatched it off the passenger seat, eager to hear Harlow’s voice.

“Hello?”

“That’s it?” Harlow’s voice was completely soothing. “I expected some kind of smart-ass comment about your hotel. Katie said it was a one-of-a-kind place.”

“She called it a hotel?”

Harlow laughed.

“Funny,” said Decker. “I’m headed to a new . . . hotel.”

“You don’t have to relocate,” said Harlow. “It’s time to—”

“Yes. I have to relocate.” He hurried through a recap of his encounter with his neighbor. “Believe me, this guy was going to be on me like white on rice unless I got out—”

“I was about to say it’s time to check out of the motel. We may have found something,” said Harlow. “Great you’re making friends, though.”

“Even funnier,” said Decker. “What did you find?”

“I’m not exactly sure how to tell you without opening an old wound.”

“The wounds are still very fresh,” said Decker. “Just hit me with it.”

“We suspect Brad Pierce cut some kind of deal with the feds.”

“Pierce? He was killed with his family in Idaho. After serving a one-year sentence for a few bogus charges the US attorney was able to slap on him.”

“They disappeared in Idaho. No bodies have been found. And there’s no record of him in the Bureau of Prisons system, beyond a short stint in the Metropolitan Detention Center. Less than two weeks. We think he gave the feds enough to get released and promptly disappeared. He never testified in any of World Recovery Group’s trials.”

He didn’t want to believe it. Brad had been like a brother to him for more than a decade. They had founded World Recovery Group after working together in the CIA and had grown the company from a contract investigative team to a global VIP-rescue powerhouse. Decker had shifted most of the blame and legal responsibility for the Hemet catastrophe onto himself to minimize Pierce’s exposure. He hadn’t seen or talked to Pierce since they were hauled away from the motel by the FBI.