A Chip and a Chair (Seven of Spades, #5)(81)

Levi removed his earpiece, dialed Dominic’s phone, and listened to it ring.

“Mr. Russo?” Stanton answered, his voice tense. “What’s wrong? Did something happen to Levi?”

“No, it’s me. I mean, it’s Levi. My own phones keep getting, uh . . . messed up.”

Stanton’s relieved sigh came across loud and clear. “Levi, thank God. I’ve been so worried since I heard about the bounty Utopia put on you, but then I saw on the news that you’d managed to get out of Nevada. You’re safe now?”

Levi glanced out the window. This was a working-class area, a far cry from the glitz of the city center. They were speeding down a desolate highway, passing gas stations, fast food joints, half-empty RV parks, and one dreary strip mall after another. Even those businesses meant to be open twenty-four hours were closed and dark, and everyone with any sense had retreated to their homes.

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I was actually calling you for the same reason. I know it’s late, but I wanted to make sure you’re not in Vegas.”

“I’m not. When the Strip was evacuated, I came out to Mother’s property in Newport Beach.”

Levi closed his eyes, a bit of the tightness in his chest easing. “Good. That’s good.”

After a long beat, Stanton said, “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“What? No, there’s not.”

“Levi-”

A sudden rustling sounded on the other end of the line, followed by an indistinct murmur. Stanton responded, his own voice muffled as if he were covering the phone with his hand.

Startled, Levi asked, “Is there someone else there?”

“Um . . .”

The second person spoke again, still too low for Levi to make out the words, but they were undoubtedly male-and annoyed.

“Well, yes,” Stanton said. “It’s Caleb. He’s my, ah, occupational therapist. You know, to help me adjust to having monocular vision.”

Levi would have thought he was lying-it wasn’t like Stanton to be dishonest, but what would his occupational therapist be doing with him at this time of night in Newport Beach? Before Levi could call him out, though, Caleb’s distant voice said, “Former.”

“Yes, all right.” Stanton cleared his throat. “Former occupational therapist, I should say. I had to start seeing a different one, because . . .”

Levi heard the familiar blush in Stanton’s tone, and his lips twitched. “Because you and Caleb started dating?”

“Yes.” There was a soft whisper and more rustling on Stanton’s end. Then Stanton yelped and hissed, “Stop it,” sounding incredibly flustered.

Levi’s smile broke free. This was the first truly good news he’d had in-well, he couldn’t remember how long. “That’s great. I’ll let you go, then. I just wanted to make sure you were somewhere safe.”

“I can still tell you’re hiding something.” When Levi didn’t answer, Stanton chuckled. “But knowing you, it’s for a good reason. Stay safe yourself.”

“Thanks. And Stanton?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really happy for you.” Levi infused the words with warmth, needing Stanton to understand how much he meant them.

He ended the call and returned Dominic’s phone before popping his earpiece in. But without the distraction, his relief at knowing Stanton was happy and safe faded quickly, his thoughts drawn inexorably back to what they were about to do.

He stroked his restless fingers through Rebel’s fur, his heart heavy with dread. He didn’t doubt the justness of their plan. They had to take action, and they couldn’t trust anyone else-for God’s sake, trusting the wrong cop had gotten Gibbs killed this morning. With an entire city at risk, he would do what needed to be done, and worry about the personal consequences later.

No, it was himself he doubted. A battle like the one they were facing would bring out the parts of himself he feared the most: his savage delight in violence, his exhilarated bloodlust. He’d lost himself in that darkness before. What if he did the same-but couldn’t find his way back this time?

He caught Dominic watching him, mustered a weak smile, and turned away. Dominic probably knew what he was thinking, and he didn’t want to see his worries reflected on Dominic’s face.

As they transitioned to a better-kept neighborhood-indicated by the gradual proliferation of parks, small museums, and more attractive landscaping-Carmen spoke through their earpieces.

“Bad news, guys. The riots in the city are spreading, and you’re heading right for them. The Fremont Street Experience is swarmed with looters.”

Shit. One of the FSE’s entrances was a block from the Whitby.

“Things are deteriorating by the minute,” Carmen said. “The law enforcement response is going to be massive.”

Martine’s voice crackled over the connection. “That’s what Utopia wants. The more the cops and FBI are distracted by the riots, the less prepared they’ll be for the bomb.”

“I’ll try to steer you around the worst of it, but the streets are such a mess that you may have to go the last bit on foot. Leila’s bike might be able to get through, though.”

The neon skyline of Downtown Las Vegas came into sharper view as they approached the freeway exchange. For the first time, there were other cars on the road-all heading in the opposite direction, gunning it out of the city, tires squealing as they fishtailed onto the freeway’s entrance ramps like birds fleeing a forest fire.