Velocity (Karen Vail #3)(130)

How long did he have?

Ahead, he saw something reflecting off the rock wall—no, not a reflection, and not off the rock’s surface; off an opening in the rock. A way out? He swam toward it—and about twenty yards later, he was able to confirm it was, indeed, something resembling a cavity of some sort in the stone wall. And the water appeared to be flowing in.

As he approached, a rumbling vibration built inside the pipe to his right.

The fountains.

But before they exploded into the air, the slap of water behind him snatched his attention. Movement. A body. He yanked his head around but never saw it. A blow to the face caught him off guard, like a truck broadsiding a car at an intersection.

Dark—

Dizzy—

Music roaring, water raining down around him.

Head shoved underwater—can’t breathe— Blow to the back— He reached and grabbed—at anything—something to make it stop— And found purchase on a shirt— Yanked, twisted, elbowed his arm up and under the hand holding down his head and— Leveraged himself free.

Robby forced his face up through the water’s surface and sucked in air—saw a large dark head, body in front of him— And threw up his left arm in time to block another punch. The blow landed instead just beneath the gunshot wound, causing a stab of ice-pick intense pain.

Enough of this shit. Robby swung his right hand out of the water and snatched a grip around the man’s ear. He nearly slipped off the appendage, but he closed his hand as tight as he could, with whatever strength he had left, and pulled.

The ear is a sensitive part of the anatomy, and the innate desire not to have it separated from one’s body provided the survival mechanism Robby needed: his attacker instinctively refocused his attention and bent his neck to reduce the angle of Robby’s pull.

But Robby did not release his grip. The sicario switched tactics and grabbed Robby’s arm, but couldn’t pry it free. Robby squeezed harder—the man’s mouth opened—and if the music and fountains hadn’t been so damn loud, his yelp would’ve reached impressive decibels.

Robby yelled as well, infusing himself with the will to win . . . the will to live.

But the man extracted a knife from somewhere on his body. Light glinted off the chrome blade, seizing Robby’s attention. He yanked the man’s head toward him, then slammed his forehead into his attacker’s skull. It hurt like hell—but not as much as the pain inflicted on the asshole who’d tried to drown him.

The sicario’s eyes rolled up in submission. His head slumped to the side, and Robby grabbed him by his neck and plunged him down, beneath the surface.

The knife floated from the man’s open hand, then sunk impotently toward the lake’s bottom. An arm burst through the surface, reached up and clawed at Robby’s chest, grabbed for his wrist, his face—anything to make Robby release his grip.

But as the seconds ticked by, the man stopped struggling and went limp. Robby realized he was breathing rapidly—too rapidly—and was in danger of hyperventilating. He calmed himself, told himself this was not over.

He felt around, trying to move the man’s dead weight in the water, rolled him face up, and found a wallet. Shoved it into his back pocket, then searched for a handgun. Pancake holster—empty.

Robby’s body began quivering. The fight had depleted his adrenaline. He released his grip on the corpse and maneuvered himself toward the wall’s maw and—hopefully—land.



HECTOR DESANTOS had identified the men he was pursuing: Ernesto “Grunge” Escobar and Alejandro Villarreal. He had first engaged Villarreal, who then—fortunately for DeSantos—had met up with Escobar as they exited CityCenter. He followed both fugitives as they fled through the Via Bellagio shops, then spilled out onto the boulevard.

Dodging traffic and tourists, they headed south past the raucous Margaritaville bar and restaurant across the street on the right and Caesars Palace directly to his left. They then coursed along the winding sidewalk and plazas of the Forum Shops.

A two-decker bus painted bumper to bumper with Blue Man Group advertising slowed to a stop. DeSantos kept an eye on Villarreal and Escobar in case one or both hopped onboard. Splitting up—with only DeSantos in pursuit—would ensure one of them a successful escape.

As if they had a direct line to his thoughts, Villarreal cut left and Escobar right, onto the bus, as the rear doors folded closed. With the vehicle accelerating away, Escobar pressed his face against the window and glared at DeSantos, a slow smile broadening his face.

DeSantos couldn’t stop the bus—the recipe of a confined space packed with tourists and a cornered, armed killer was not a stew he wanted to stir up. It would’ve been bloody, with unacceptable collateral damage.

Instead, he pulled his Desert Eagle and cut a path forward, darting between, around, and over lovers holding hands, drunken fraternity youths on a weekend junket, friends in town for a bachelor party . . . DeSantos wasn’t discriminating. If they were in his way, they went down.

He yanked the two-way from his back pocket and keyed it. “Suspect Escobar headed north on Vegas metro bus, got on in front of Mirage. In foot pursuit same twenty suspect Villarreal. Over.” Someone else would have to follow up.

People were gathered along a railing just past the Mirage main entrance, staring at a darkened outcropping of artificial mountain rock. He picked his way through the crowd, attempting to keep track of Villarreal, who was still moving south—when a blast of flame and volcanic fire rose high into the night sky, then exploded to his left. The crowd roared. DeSantos flinched—nearly sending a .44-caliber round into an unwitting vacationer—then realized the pyrotechnics were merely more Vegas-style theater.