True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(46)
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Ronnie and Margo took turns driving the 1974 Ford Country Squire on the ten-and-a-half-hour journey to Las Vegas. He drove the first four-hour stretch, southwest into California so they could travel on paved roads, then due south for two hundred miles on US 395 before they veered east again, crossing back into Nevada. They rolled into Reno at about 8:00 p.m. and stopped at a Goodwill store. Ronnie reluctantly ditched his aluminum foil helmet before he and Ian went inside. The men bought used business suits, ties, and dress shoes while Margo went to a gas station and got them some food at Carl’s Jr.
Margo picked them up and stayed behind the wheel as they headed southeast, stopping four hours later at a Shell station in Tonopah, Nevada, which was on the northwestern edge of the 4,530-square-mile US military range for aircraft gunnery training, aerial bombardment, nuclear weapons testing, and army combat exercises. Their proximity to all of that secret military hardware and testing made Ronnie very nervous. He desperately wanted to put his aluminum-foil helmet back on but Ian convinced him it would draw too much attention to them. While Margo refilled the gas tank, Ian and Ronnie went to the restroom, where Ronnie shaved off his beard and they both changed into their Goodwill suits.
Ronnie took over the driving and put his helmet back on. Nobody argued with him about the helmet. It was fine for him to wear it in the car. Ian figured the helmet was like a security blanket for him and he couldn’t blame Ronnie for feeling anxious. Ian wished he had a security blanket of his own and thought about sucking his thumb instead but it wasn’t something Clint Straker would ever do. Margo hummed to herself for relaxation. It wasn’t a song Ian recognized so he assumed it was one of her own compositions.
They reached Las Vegas at 3:00 a.m., cutting across the city to Henderson Executive Airport, a popular hub for corporate and private aircraft. This was where the helicopter and corporate jet used by Blackthorn’s Las Vegas office were based. Ronnie parked the station wagon beside the black Suburban that Pessel had driven to the airport. It was Bowers who’d flown the helicopter.
Ronnie took off his helmet and the three of them got out of the station wagon. Ian pointed Pessel’s key fob at the Suburban and unlocked it. He took a deep breath and tossed the key fob to Ronnie so he could drive.
“Now comes the fun part,” Ian said.
“Good luck,” Margo said.
“They’re the ones who are going to need it,” Ian said.
It was a Straker line, and it made Margo roll her eyes, but Ian liked how it sounded coming from his mouth. He and Ronnie walked toward the Suburban. It was a hero moment. Ronnie, being an actor, instinctively knew it, too, and it showed in his confident stride.
“Wait,” Margo said and both men stopped. She went up to them and yanked the tags that dangled from their right sleeves. “You forgot to take off the price tags.”
That completely deflated the hero moment but it didn’t shake their confidence. Ian and Ronnie got into the Suburban and they drove toward the glittering Las Vegas skyline.
Las Vegas, Nevada. July 21. 3:35 a.m. Pacific Standard Time.
Blackthorn provided enhanced security services for several casinos and operated out of a new six-story building in downtown Las Vegas, a block west of the Plaza Hotel. It was one of the first buildings in an envisioned “world-class” office park, the latest attempt by the city to rejuvenate the heart of Old Town after a $70 million light-show canopy over Fremont Street didn’t generate much of a pulse.
Ronnie stopped in front of the garage gate and next to a camera mounted beside the driveway. He rolled down his window and held up Pessel’s ID to the camera so that it blocked most of his face from being seen by the lone, bored security guard on duty.
The guard was stationed at a desk in the lobby and noted the name on the ID that filled the screen. He glanced at his computer. A scanner at the gate identified the Suburban as a Blackthorn vehicle that had been checked out by Pessel earlier that day. The ID and vehicle matched. Everything checked out. The guard hit the button to raise the gate and went back to watching Game of Thrones on his laptop.
Ronnie drove into the garage. The first floor was filled with a fleet of identical black Suburbans and a few black Audi sedans. He parked in an empty space by the elevator and the two men got out, angling their bodies and faces away from the security cameras. Pessel and Bowers had told them where every camera was positioned. The operatives also assured them that there was little chance of anybody being in the building at that hour besides the guard in the lobby.
The elevator opened and the two men stepped inside. Ian held Bowers’ ID up to the scanner and hit the button for the fifth floor. The doors slid closed, indicating that the ID checked out and they had clearance to enter the building. The elevator went up, fast and smooth, into the belly of the beast.
Margo pulled into the parking lot of the Main Street Station Casino and drove to one of the empty spaces along the far end, facing the office park. She positioned the station wagon at an angle so that the security camera mounted on the nearest light post wouldn’t be able to get a clear look at her face. She got out, opened the door to the back seat, and slid out the rocket-propelled grenade launcher that was under a blanket on the floor.
She crouched on the ground beside the station wagon, which hid her from the camera, balanced the rocket launcher on her shoulder, and aimed at the Blackthorn building. She didn’t have any experience shooting rocket launchers but she wasn’t worried. Ronnie had taught her the basics of using the weapon and she had a very big target. If she didn’t get a signal from Ronnie in five minutes, she’d blow a hole in the sixth floor to draw the authorities and flush out everybody who was inside.