Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(121)

80


Willie Quintero drove around the strip, up and down side streets and back again to Las Vegas Boulevard, watching for a tail. They were clean, best he and Sandiego Ortega could determine in the thick traffic and frequent red lights that choked one of the busiest sections of the strip.

Robby asked for the cuffs to be removed, a request that Quintero rejected. “Once we get inside, Mr. Villarreal will tell us how he wants us to handle you. Till then, keep your fucking mouth shut. You’ve got us to thank for your life, and I wanna hear some grat-titude, amigo.”

“Thank you,” Robby said. “I appreciate what you did for me.”

“Damn straight. Now keep your head down until we’re ready to get out.”

Following another trip through the Vegas streets, Quintero guided the car into an underground garage. There they waited, Robby still scrunched into the rear seat, until Quintero received a phone call. He listened, then said, in Spanish, “Yes, boss.” He hung up, then told Diego they were to take Robby up to the condo.

After draping a jacket across his handcuffed wrists, they led Robby through the parking lot, up the stairs, across a larger area, then into an elevator bay. The ride up was long and, according to the LCD readout, fifty-seven stories.

Undernourished—and abused—for several days, Robby felt unsteady and had to lean against the elevator wall to keep from falling over. The car finally drew to a stop and the doors slid apart. Quintero gave him a shove, and Robby tripped forward. Diego tightened his grip on Robby’s arm and ushered him into Alejandro Villarreal’s ultramodern condo.

“Steady, hermano,” Diego said in a low voice. “We’ll get you some food in a few minutes.”

“That’d be good,” Robby said, finding it difficult to summon the energy to maintain an erect posture.

Inside, the condo’s clean, edgy lines were augmented by Zebrawood cabinets, teak doors, limestone vanities, and white oak flooring. Ahead of them, expansive picture windows dominated the wall. Bright casino and hotel lights sparkled starkly in black repose against the nightscape below.

In front of the window sat a man in a dark, broad-pinstripe suit. Tan and trim, he possessed the constitution of a wealthy individual whose vast amounts of money were well spent. He rose from the soft, cream-colored leather chair and sauntered up to Robby. “So this is the man all the fuss is being made over.” Villarreal pursed his lips, then nodded. He studied Robby’s face, no doubt taking in the abrasions and bruises, in various stages of healing, and the fresh slice inflicted by Ernesto Escobar. “I am Alejandro Villarreal,” he said with some flair. “I am responsible for saving your life. You know that, don’t you?”

Robby looked down at the man. “I do, sir. Thank you.”

He raised a hand and smiled out of the corner of his mouth. “Don’t thank me yet, Mr. Hernandez. Don’t thank me yet.”

A bowl of mixed nuts sat on a coffee table to Diego’s right. “May I, sir?” Diego asked, wiggling an index finger at the food.

“Yes, of course. Make our guest at home.”

Diego retrieved the dish and held it in front of Robby, who grabbed a fist full of nuts and shoved them into his mouth as a caveman would devour a fresh piece of meat.

Villarreal’s phone rang. He pulled a sleek Sanyo from his pocket and flipped it open with a flick of his thumb. “Yes.” He listened a moment, then said, “I see. No, no, thank you.” Another pause. “I will consider.”

Villarreal snapped the lid closed with one hand and looked up at Robby. “You see, Mr. Hernandez, I am a businessman. That is what I do. It so happens my product is cocaine, methamphetamine, marijuana, heroin. A little Fentanyl thrown in to round out the product mix. Demand is strong, so I try to keep the supply flowing.” He spread his arms. “And it makes for a very, very comfortable lifestyle. As you can see.” He rotated his torso, taking in the décor of the interior.

Robby, more interested in generating needed energy and strength, threw another handful of nuts into his mouth.

“I’ve been made an offer,” Villarreal said. He turned and walked toward the picture windows. Looking at the lights of Las Vegas below, he appeared to be lost in thought.

Robby shared a look with Diego.

“What kind of offer?” Quintero asked.

Villarreal turned slowly. “A very good one, Willie. Snatching Mr. Hernandez has opened up an opportunity I hadn’t considered.” His eyes narrowed. “That call was from Carlos Cortez. It seems he wants our guest back. And he has made a lucrative offer of exchange. He’s sent men over to formalize the agreement.”

Formalize the agreement. Robby knew that meant he was going to be returned to Cortez. If Cortez sent lieutenants to retrieve him, how long until they arrived? That depended on when Cortez had first approached Villarreal about striking a deal. Clearly this was not a topic freshly broached in that phone call.

He, or Diego, had to do something—but what? They didn’t have much time, he knew that. These were his best odds since he’d been kidnapped. An armed foe to his left, an armed ally to his right. Was Villarreal packing? Probably—though his slim-fitting suit seemed to indicate otherwise.

Diego stepped forward. “With all due respect, sir. We grabbed Hernandez because we know what Cortez is going to do. And the heat his murder would bring would destroy our busin—”