Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(122)

“Yes, yes. But Mr. Cortez is offering us exclusive rights to a rather large territory. And he’s proposing a new supply chain for us, through one of his key suppliers in Colombia, which will enable us to increase our kilos moved per month by a third.”

Diego rubbed at his forehead. “Sir. None of that matters if the Feds shut us down.”

Villarreal turned back to the windows, his face reflected in the dark glass. “For how long can they do that? Seriously, now, Diego. A month? Two months? Three? The cost will be enormous in a down economy, their government deficits at record levels.” He shook his head. “I should have thought this through better.” He cocked his head. “Then again, it seems to have worked out just fine. Because if we hadn’t taken Mr. Hernandez here, this offer wouldn’t be on the table right now.”

Diego’s right hand reached behind his back—no doubt for his pistol. But if Robby saw it, Quintero could see it too, if he was looking. Diego slipped out a Beretta and had cleared his waist band when Robby leaned left and buried his shoulder into Quintero’s side, slamming both of them into the adjacent wall.

A gunshot rang out.

Robby scuffled with Quintero but in the periphery of his vision, he saw his friend drop to the floor.

“Diego!”

Quintero yanked his Smith & Wesson free and aimed it at the doorway—his immediate threat—but another blast from that direction took care of any danger Quintero posed.

Robby felt Quintero slump against the wall but did not celebrate. Standing fifteen feet away, holding a hulking chrome .45, was a person Robby never expected to see again—hoped never to see again.

Ernesto “Grunge” Escobar.

Escobar stepped across the threshold. “You are lucky I came when I did,” he said to Villarreal. “Looked to me like your own man here was about to shoot you.” With his cannon aimed at Robby, he stepped toward Diego and kicked away his Beretta, sending it skittering out of sight. He then walked toward Robby and, with the .45 pointed at his head, bent down and removed the Smith & Wesson from Quintero’s stilled hand.

Villarreal squared his jaw. “Sandiego was a fool. I don’t know what his problem was. But I have little tolerance for those who cannot follow my wishes.” He shook Escobar’s hand. “Something like this will not be forgotten.”

Robby, still on the floor, peered at Diego. A blood-soaked pulpy exit wound in the center of his friend’s forehead stared back at him.

Villarreal took a few steps closer to Robby. “So, Mr. Hernandez. As I said earlier, it was premature to thank me. I am truly sorry for what I must now do.”





81


Vail felt the familiar thumping rotor vibration in her chest. She repositioned the headset and pushed her hair away from her ears. As the helicopter approached the strip below, bright lights of all colors splashed across the landscape in a dual line along a central roadway. “Las Vegas Boulevard?” Vail asked over her headset.

“Affirmative,” Agent Clar said.

Dixon craned her neck to get a better view. “I haven’t been to Vegas in about twenty years. Looks like a totally different place.”

Mann chuckled. “Glad I don’t have their electric bill.”

“Lots of wind,” Clar said, shaking his head. “I hope that doesn’t give us a problem.”

DeSantos motioned out the window. “The wind’s not our only problem. If SWAT has to lumber in on the armored rig they’ve got, it ain’t gonna happen.” Below, South Las Vegas Boulevard was a tangled mess of vehicles. “I don’t know what the deal is, but no way are they getting through.”

“I’ll let ’em know,” Dixon said as she keyed her radio.

Vail studied the packed streets below. DeSantos was right. “Then we’re gonna do this differently. Mann, you stay behind with Clar and be our quarterback. The rest of us are going in from the air.”

Clar quickly glanced back at Vail. “Our orders were to support SWAT, let them do the heavy lifting.”

“We don’t know how long Robby has,” Vail said. “And you see what the traffic’s like. The only way in is by air. Last I checked, we’re the only ones airborne. Now—is there a helipad nearby where you can land and drop us off?”

“Just that tour place a mile down. But—”

“No,” Vail said. “Something closer.”

“A roof would be the closest I can get you. There’s no real clearing where I can set down.”

“So a roof it is.”

Clar reached forward and checked a dial as the Huey was noticeably shoved sideways.

“Karen,” DeSantos said, “give me LOWIS. I want to see if I can triangulate on the cell phone. See if we can tell which roof to land on to get us as close as possible to Robby.”

Vail handed it to him. DeSantos studied the colored LEDs on the otherwise dark display.

Dixon pointed at a dazzling spray of white shooting toward them from the center of a large body of water. “What the hell is that?”

Mann sat forward in his seat and stretched toward Dixon’s window. “That’s the Bellagio, their water show. Every fifteen minutes, miles of pipes shoot water hundreds of feet into the air. It’s all choreographed to light and music that blasts from loudspeakers around the lake.” He watched a moment as they neared, the water spiraling into the night sky beneath the bottom of the craft. “I was stationed here back in ’98 when they opened it. Next time you’re in town, you’ll have to catch it. Nothing like it.”