Velocity

“Another good reason to have the stash houses in Clover Creek.”

“What’s that saying? Location, location, location.”

They shared a chuckle.

“Do you know which houses on the reservation the cartel uses?”

Thomson’s smile disappeared like water droplets in the high desert sun. “The houses, they change constantly. And the drugs are rarely there more than a few hours. We try to keep a watch over areas we know have been used in the past, but looking at the past isn’t usually helpful in predicting where they’re going to store them in the future.”

“Kind of like the stock market,” DeSantos said. “Past results aren’t a guarantee of future returns.”

Thomson looked at him a moment, a blank stare indicating he was not familiar with the reference, then said, “Because we’re understaffed, it makes our job harder if not impossible. We pay some informants, but they have to be very careful. Some have been killed. And we can’t pay them enough, not compared to the cash Cortez throws around. A year ago, someone I grew up with told me he saw suspicious activity around a particular house. Next day, I found him nailed to the front door of that house. His heart was cut out and shoved into his mouth.”

“Sorry to hear about your friend,” DeSantos said. “Cortez is among the most ruthless, I know that. Obviously we’re trying to prevent that from happening to our officer.”

“We do have successes. I don’t want you to think we’re totally at the mercy of the cartel. But if you’re with DEA, you probably know all about the seizures we’ve made.”

DeSantos knew nothing of the sort. Despite the crash course they’d been given, he felt more unprepared for this assignment than any he’d previously taken on—which, at this point, spanned several continents and numbered . . . quite a few. “You know who Arturo Figueroa is?”

“Of course. Why, is he involved?”

“We have reason to believe he is. You aware of any pending activity—tonight, in fact?”

Thomson stood up straight. “Do you have any information—”

“Yes and no. Possibly tonight, but we don’t know where.”

“That’s always the question. Not when, or if, but where. Whenever I hear something, I increase patrols out in those parts. But it’s like a needle in a haystack.”

“Is there a general area they like to use?”

“Sure, I can tell you which sector. But—”

“Even if it comprises a hundred houses, that still might help.” Thomson lifted his eyebrows in a “hey, it’s your call” expression, then pushed off the worn arms of his creaky metal chair and limped forward, carrying his overweight torso to the far wall, where an earth-toned map hung. Thomson stabbed a weathered finger at a particular location, then drew a circle. “Twenty square miles. Like I said, not much help.”

“You have the GPS coordinates?”

Thomson drew his head back. “I can get ’em, sure.”

“Get them.” DeSantos pulled his phone, stepped into the hallway, and started dialing.

TURINO AND HIS TEAM had moved their vehicles two blocks away and had extinguished the house’s interior lights while they completed their work. The marijuana plants they had expected to find in the garage were photographed while the smuggled Mexicans were transported to the staging area. Most of the officers and agents had left, except for a strategically placed surveillance team.

Vail, sitting curbside down the block from the drop house, tried reaching DeSantos, but his phone went to voice mail. She sent a text to the task force informing them of their close call, as well as their assumption that Robby had been snatched by a rival cartel.

She had questions about the “intercartel conflicts” Turino had mentioned, but she wanted to give him room to do his job as quickly as possible. If what he said was accurate, they didn’t want to still be there when any Cortez cartel members arrived.

ONE OF THE PHONE CALLS DeSantos made was to “Benny,” his OPSIG tech guru at the Pentagon. DeSantos provided the GPS coordinates he needed to monitor and asked him to angle one of their satellites over that area. When Benny asked what they were looking for, DeSantos’s response brought a brief silence to the line.

“That’s like a needle in a haystack, Hector. You realize that.”

“So I’ve been told. Just get that satellite over those coordinates and I’ll know what I’m looking for when I see it. That’s what I’m good at, remember?”

“I’ve only got one in position.”

“There are nine thousand satellites in orbit and we’ve only got one over that area?”

“Do I really have to answer that, Hector? I’ll have a better angle in about nineteen minutes, if you can wait.”

“I can’t. Give me what you’ve got.”

“Already done. Log in and let me know if it’s to your liking.”

“Thanks, man. See you when I get back.”

DeSantos walked back into Thomson’s office. “I need a PC with broadband. Tell me you’ve got one.”

Thomson led the way into their communications room, a six-square-foot space crammed with a two-way radio console, a shortwave set, two computers, monitors, and a variety of electronic equipment that spanned decades. He motioned to the far left PC. “It’s yours.”

DeSantos texted Mann and Dixon and told them to sit tight, that he hoped to have some info in a matter of minutes. He then opened Internet Explorer, applied the InPrivate Browsing and filtering modes, and navigated to the assigned, covert website. He entered his login information and a moment later was viewing a real-time feed of the reservation land in question. Using onscreen controls, he made a minor adjustment to the zoom, then began scanning in a gridlike pattern.

Ten minutes later, DeSantos leaned forward in his seat. “There.” He yelled through the open door, “Chief, come look at this!”

Thomson came running down the hall. “Found something?”

DeSantos pointed at the monitor. “Where is this?” Onscreen, despite an oddly sharp angle, they saw a light duty flat nose truck backed up to what looked like a double wide mobile home, and five men loading what appeared to be rectangular plastic-wrapped bricks into the vehicle. A smaller SUV-size vehicle sat beside it.

Thomson leaned both hands on DeSantos’s seatback and squinted at the monitor. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Cocaine, yes. And a big freaking load at that. Where is this?”

Thomson pushed away from the back of DeSantos’s chair. “I’ll take you there. Too hard to describe if you don’t know the terrain. And I want this bust, Mr. DeSantos. They’re not getting away on my watch.”

THEY RAN OUTSIDE. DeSantos jumped into the task force SUV and Thomson into a battered Ford pickup with Tribal Police black-and-white decals. DeSantos told Mann, who was behind the wheel, to follow Thomson’s vehicle, then briefed them all on what he had seen.

“So this is a handoff of coke,” Mann said.

The vehicle swung left and they all leaned right. Dixon grabbed the handrail above the door. “So there are drugs. That’s great. Any connection to Robby?”

“If Figueroa and several other cartel members are on-site, maybe we can grab one or more and sweat ’em. See what we get.”

“But,” Mann added, “you said these cartels are like terrorist groups; they operate in cells, where one group doesn’t know what the other’s doing. So sweating one or more of these guys may not get us anywhere.”

“Figueroa’s the real prize. He’s responsible for some of the cartel’s drug distribution agreements. He’s the one we really need to grab because he’s gonna know more than most.”

Mann slammed on the brakes and the SUV slid to a stop on the pot-holed, gravel-strewn road. Ahead, barely caught in the reaches of the headlights, were a group of animals crossing the street.

DeSantos leaned forward in his seat. “Dogs?”

“Wild dogs,” Mann said as his gaze followed them into the darkness.

“Common on reservations.” He waited for the last dog to pass, then accelerated to catch up with Thomson.

“Did you get Karen’s text?” Dixon asked DeSantos. “She and Turino missed Robby by minutes.”

DeSantos checked his phone, trying to navigate the joystick despite the car’s rocking and lurching jerks. “What the f—” he muttered beneath his breath. “So Cortez no longer has him.”

“Probably not,” Mann said.

DeSantos bit his lower lip, then dropped his head back onto the seat cushion.

Ten minutes later, Thomson tapped his brakes and cut his headlights. Mann reached for his controls and likewise went dark. “I think we’re getting close.”

Everyone sat up tall in their seats and instinctively pulled their pistols.

AFTER LEAVING THE REMAINING two DEA agents on-site to monitor the drop house, Turino and Vail climbed into their SUV and headed back to the DEA field division office.

“You mentioned intercartel conflicts,” Vail said. “What were you talking about?”

“There are a lot of turf battles, power struggles between the cartels. You’ve got traffickers snatching up members of rival cartels and demanding ransom or using hit men to kill enemy lieutenants to settle debts. Messages are being sent—violent ones. Lots of collateral damage to civilians and uninvolved parties. It only used to happen in Mexico, but now it’s going on in the U.S.”

“How does this tie in to Robby?”

“I think I know what happened back there,” Turino said as he navigated a turn.

Vail looked around. She did not recognize the area. “And that was?”

“Cortez is a brazen SOB. He’s gotten where he’s gotten by being excessively violent and aggressive. He’s killed a lot of his competitors. Those who are left are tough in their own right, and either they’ve agreed to leave each other’s turf alone, or for some other reason he’s let them be. But there’s an unspoken rule—since the Kiki Camarena murder, the cartels don’t kill federal agents.”

Vail was familiar with the Enrique Camarena incident—all federal agents were. Her memory didn’t need refreshing by the field division’s wall of remembrance. Back in 1985, a decorated DEA undercover, “Kiki” Camarena, had successfully infiltrated and brought down a number of drug trafficking organizations. But when his cover was blown, he was tortured and then bludgeoned to death. A physician who worked for the cartel repeatedly prolonged his life so the torture could continue. In response, the DEA effectively closed down the border and halted all drug shipments. The cartels realized the price they paid by murdering a federal agent was far too great. They weren’t going to make that mistake again.

“So let’s say for a minute,” Vail said, “that Cortez has decided he lives and dies by his own rules and he has intentions of killing Robby after he extracts information from him. Maybe he’s gotten wind of Velocity and he wants to know when it’s going to go down. And maybe he thinks Robby knows that answer.”

Turino considered that, then slowly nodded. “Cortez has a big ego—they all do—but his is particularly large.”

“I’ve had some experience with narcissists,” Vail said. “They think they make their own rules, that the laws of the land don’t apply to them. Or it could be his way of saying to everyone else, ‘I’ve got a big set of balls, and I’m going to prove it to you.’ If that’s what we’re dealing with here, it’s very possible Cortez gave orders to kill Robby.

“Another problem is that they probably discovered Robby’s a state detective. Even though he was given task force officer status, they may not know, or even understand, what that means. Bottom line is, they probably don’t consider him a federal agent. So in their mind, killing him—”

“Would have no consequences.” Turino turned and a Montgomery Field placard whipped past them. He slowed and brought the SUV to a stop at a light. “If the rival cartel knows he’s a TFO, they’re well aware of the heat it’ll bring if they let Cortez kill Hernandez. They’re not willing to give up their business because of Cortez’s reckless behavior. So they find out where Hernandez is being held and snatch him up.”

“So what is this rival cartel?” Vail asked as her BlackBerry began ringing.

“I can probably narrow it down to a precious few,” Turino said. “Soon as we get back to the office, I’ll show you what we’ve got.”

75

The stars popped above like white dust blown skyward. Regardless, DeSantos wished he had night vision goggles. In the darkness of this rural land, their SUV running with its lights off, he couldn’t see much of anything.

But like a rat sensing a predator, their target picked up their approach. And that’s when it all went to hell.

The traffickers ran for the truck cab, then revved the engine. Another got into the adjacent Land Rover and peeled away in a cloud of loose dirt.

Thomson made a neat maneuver with his pickup—cutting off the truck and pinning it against a cinderblock fire wall. Two other cruisers appeared—Thomson must have radioed them while en route—and surrounded the vehicle.

“Go for that Land Rover,” DeSantos yelled, pointing at the windshield, as if Mann did not see the fleeing vehicle.

As DeSantos spoke, another police vehicle was approaching, its lightbar flashing and its siren blaring. Mann stole a look in his sideview mirror. “I think they’ve got the situation back there under control.”

“That’ll make the police chief happy,” Dixon said, watching the scene unfold through the rear window. “Snagging all those drugs, gotta be a feather in his cap, for sure.”

“That wasn’t a joke,” Mann said, “was it?”

The Land Rover’s brake lights tapped once, then it hung a sharp left. A fog of dense haze kicked up behind it.

DeSantos leaned forward, squinting through the windshield. “Did he just go off road?”

“Hell yeah,” Mann said. “Smart move. He’s got a four-wheeler, we got shit.”

“We gonna lose him?” Dixon asked.

“Very possible,” Mann said as he accelerated and remained on the paved road as long as he could.

DeSantos pulled his phone, hit a key, and waited as it dialed. Vail answered on the first ring. “Where are you?”

“Passing Montgomery Field, about a half mile from the division office. Why?”

“Pull into the airport,” DeSantos said. He waited while Vail issued the instructions to Turino.

“On our way in,” Vail said. “What’s going on?”

“Put me on speaker.”

Vail pressed the button on her BlackBerry and said, “Go ahead.”

“Turino, does DEA have access to choppers?”

“Of course.”

“Get the largest, fastest motherfucker and fly it out to Clover Creek. How soon can you be here?”

“For what?”

“We just intercepted a handoff—kilos of coke. One of the Cortez lieutenants—I’m guessing it’s Arturo Figueroa—”

“No shit?” Turino said. “Figueroa?”

“He’s in a four-wheeler and we can’t off-road. He’s a smart shit. If we can corral him, we might be able to sweat him, get info on Hernandez.”

“Division has a Super Huey on loan from the Marines, tops out at 185. Best we can do. We can be there in . . . I don’t know, about ten to twelve minutes if I push her.”

“Push her. Before we lose this guy.” DeSantos peered into the darkness, where the dust cloud from Figueroa’s four-wheel drive continued to impair his view.

“Coming up on the hangar,” Turino said. “But I’m gonna need to get permission—”

“No,” Vail said, “You won’t.” She apparently took the phone off speaker, because her tinny voice was instantly clearer. “See you guys in a few minutes.”

TURINO WATCHED as Vail grabbed Robby’s leather jacket and got out of the SUV.

“Really,” he said, following her. “I need permission. I can’t just fly off with a $10 million aircraft.”

Vail headed for the Huey, which sat atop a wheeled dolly outside the hangar. “We’ll call from the air. But we can’t let this guy get away. If he knows something about Robby—”

“It’s not likely, Karen.”

She spun and faced him. “Hell with ‘not likely.’ You’ve been reluctant to take action since you took over the task force, and it’s really beginning to piss me off.” Vail pulled her Glock but kept it angled at the floor. “Now get in that goddamn helicopter or I’ll fly it there myself.”

Turino squinted at her, cursed loudly, then trudged ahead toward the Super Huey that sat outside the hangar in quiet repose, on its mark. He climbed inside, got the engines spooled up and the rotor system online, then slipped on the headset. He radioed the tower and requested takeoff clearance for an “emergency departure”—terminology used to signify a life-threatening or urgent tactical situation requiring quick takeoff and traffic priority. With the Huey vibrating and the rotors thrumping, he turned to Vail, who had also placed the bulky radio over her ears.

“Would you have really taken the chopper if I refused?”

Vail looked at him with a clenched jaw, one of those looks that conveyed that she was damn serious. “What the hell do you think?”

They were interrupted by the tower providing clearance. When the helicopter lifted into the air, Vail watched as the lights of San Diego appeared to move away from them.

Turino swung the craft to the left and headed toward Clover Creek. “I think,” he said, “that you absolutely would’ve done it. Anything to find Hernandez. That’s why I got in. Ultimately, as task force commander, I’m responsible for the actions you take.”

“You’re goddamn right,” Vail said. “That’s exactly what I would’ve done.” If I knew how to fly a helicopter.

76

The car pulled abruptly off the freeway. Robby had to force his feet against the door to keep himself from rolling off the backseat. The vehicle’s gentle rocking and the drone of the road’s white noise, combined with his weakened condition, had dropped him into a light, fitful sleep.

As he woke, he began to key in on the conversation. They were stopping to refuel, and the driver needed to use the bathroom.

The interior dome light popped on and Robby squinted and jerked his head away to shield his eyes. The door slammed shut, rocking the car.

“So, you’re awake, my friend.”

Robby slowly loosened his squint and turned to face the passenger. He couldn’t help himself. In his current state, his defenses were not as sharp. A thought formed in his mind, and he spoke it without a moment’s hesitation to process it. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

The man turned away slowly, looked out the side window. After a long moment, he said, “You are a lucky man. If it were not for me, you would probably be dead about now. And if not today, then tomorrow. Or the day after.”

“Why would you help me?”

The man shifted his body in the seat but kept his gaze focused on the windshield, occasionally rotating his head or shifting his eyes between the front and side windows. “Does the name Sandiego Ortega mean anything to you?” he finally said.

Robby grinned. “Diego Ortega was my friend, when I was young.” “He was, I know. He thought a lot of you.”

“And how would you know that?”

The man reached into his pocket and removed a protein bar. He tore it open and handed it across the seatback to Robby, who struggled to maneuver it in his handcuffed grip. He brought it toward his mouth and hungrily attacked the food.

“Easy, easy. When you haven’t eaten in days, you can throw up. And I don’t feel like driving the rest of the way with vomit in my car.”

“Why are you helping me?” Robby asked again, his voice muffled as he chewed on the food.

“Diego told me you moved, after your uncle was killed. He said he missed you. He was angry at first, because he didn’t understand why you would leave him.”

“Wasn’t my idea. When my uncle was murdered, I didn’t have a choice. I went to live with my mother back east.” He took another bite of the bar, chewing quickly in case the man changed his mind and yanked it away.

“It changed his life, your leaving. Not for the better.”

“Why would anything I did change his life?”

“Your uncle was like a father to him, his house a sanctuary. When Diego was there, he could escape.”

“How do you know all this?”

The man reached up and clicked the overhead light, then turned toward Robby. His face was now partially visible, exposed in muted hues with dark shadows exaggerating his features.

Robby stopped chewing and stared.

“Because, Robby, I am Diego.”

Robby fought to sit upright, but his efforts failed. “Diego—”

“It is good to see you, Robby. We have much to talk about, but we can’t do it with Willie here.”

“Willie?”

“Willie Quintero, one of Villarreal’s inside guys. He doesn’t know our relationship. If he finds out, we will both be killed.” Diego turned off the dome light, then craned his neck to look outside. “Finish your bar before he comes back. I’ve gotta get us some gas.” He climbed out and moved around to the pump, sorted it out and shoved the hose into the tank. The front door popped open and Diego stuck his head inside. “I think you know you were being held by the Cortez drug cartel. And I think you know they were going to kill you.”

“That was becoming clear, yeah.”

“Word of your cover being blown spread. Cortez made no secret that he had a federal agent and that he was going to make an example of you. He said it was time to stop fearing the U.S. federales, that he was going to change our thinking. Just like he did in Mexico. He has plans, big plans for the U.S.”

“That doesn’t explain your involvement.”

“I’m with the Villarreal cartel. You asked how your leaving could’ve changed my life. When you left, I had nowhere to go that was safe. My father . . . I never told you this, but he used to . . . ” Diego took a deep breath, his gaze wandering around the interior. “Let’s just say I couldn’t stay there.”

“What did he do to you?”

“Do you really want to know?”

Robby pushed himself up onto his left elbow. “If you feel comfortable telling me.”

The pump clicked off. Diego stepped away, handled the gas hose, then got back into the passenger seat and closed the door. “He abused me, Robby. Sexual stuff. That’s all I want to say about it.”

Robby knew admitting that took a lot of courage on his friend’s part, and he let the issue drop. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t want you to know. Hard for a boy to admit that shit. I couldn’t tell anyone. But that’s why staying at your place was so important. It was the only way I could escape that fucker. When you moved, I went to Mexico. Ran away. I had nothing, no clothes, no money. I joined a gang to survive. Eventually I graduated to the cartel. Paid good, gave me a life I could be proud of.”

“You’re proud of what you do?”

“I was.”

“I came back,” Robby said. “To LA. I lived in Burbank, joined the LAPD. Because of my uncle.”

Diego nodded, thought a moment, then said, “Have you ever told anyone? About your uncle? About what you did?”

Robby looked away.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Diego said.

“I couldn’t. Just like you couldn’t tell anyone about your father.”

Diego turned to face him. “It’s not the same. And the sooner you can admit that, the sooner your soul will be cleansed.”

Robby chuckled. “You’re telling me about cleansing my soul?”

“I found God, Robby. I’m a changed person.”

Robby studied his friend’s face. “You’re serious.”

“The Sandiego Ortega that Willie Quintero and the rest of the cartel members know is no longer. He’s dead to me.”

“Bullshit. Didn’t you just hose those guys in that yard, back at the house?”

“That was Willie. I was shooting, yeah, but I was aiming low and wide.”

“Come on, man. How long do you think you can survive in this cartel with your newfound religion?”

“I can’t.” Diego turned away. “The minute they ask me to blow somebody away, I’m going to have to refuse, and they will then kill me. I won’t just be useless to them, I’ll be a liability. I know too much. I know a lot.”

“Then we’ve both gotta get out of here.” Robby tried again to sit up but couldn’t negotiate the maneuver in the small backseat. He held up his cuffed wrists. “Unhook me. Now.”

“It’s too dangerous. I sold the idea to my boss that you’re worth more to him in credits with the DEA. But the real reason is that if I get you out, you have to take me with you. I will confess to one killing. They will probably want to send me to prison, I understand that.”

“You’ll be killed. The cartel, they’ll find you.”

Diego leaned close, across the backseat. In a hushed voice, he said, “I’ll be in witness protection, hermano. I will testify, give them money launderers here in the U.S., tell them how the cartel moves their product. Who helps, what businesses and individuals clean the money. I know a lot of shit about Cortez, too.”

“Witness protection or not, I’m sure you realize the danger inv—”

“I can take care of myself, hermano, no worries. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“Me?”

“If we’re going to do this, you need to confess, too. Make right with the Lord.”

Robby jolted backward, as if burned by a stove. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” His gaze turned dark and hard. “Don’t insult me.” He waited and when Robby did not respond, Diego tightened his lips. “If you’re going to play games, the deal’s off. I’ll find my own way into custody. I’m giving you a way out, Robby—for both of us.”

Robby ground his molars. He knew what Diego was referring to. Fourteen years ago, Robby’s uncle was shaken down by a Los Angeles gang running a protection ring. That his uncle would land on their radar was something Robby never understood. His convenience store made, at best, a modest profit. Regardless, his uncle made the payment for several years, until the store fell on hard times. He then faced a choice: feed his family or cover the monthly protection fee. He chose to buy food.

After a month of warnings, one day after school when Robby was in the store, Gerardo Soto grabbed Robby around the neck and threatened to kill him unless his uncle paid up—with interest. His uncle told Soto he was done, that he didn’t have the money—and that no one threatened his family. Soto and his two thugs pulled weapons. Robby broke free and fled, but in the reflection of the Coke refrigeration unit, he saw Soto riddle his uncle’s body with hollow point rounds. It was an image Robby had never been able to wipe from his brain.

Robby blinked away tears. “That’s no one’s business, Diego.”

Diego wagged a finger at him. “The Lord is judging you, Robby. Here and now. Do not lie. When you went after Soto, when you hunted him down, and then pulled the trigger, you broke the law. You murdered him. In cold blood.”

“C’mon man. I was a kid.”

“I’m sure that’s what you’ve told yourself all these years. But you were a teenager. Doesn’t matter. Are you saying that excuses it? If you see a teen murder someone now as a cop, do you let him go because he was young, or do you arrest him?”

Robby’s hands were fisted knuckle-white. “What do you want me to say, Diego?”

“Say, ‘I accept responsibility for what I’ve done. And I will pay the price and I will ask the Lord’s forgiveness.’”

“Soto was scum, you know that. He killed my uncle, and I’m sure he’d killed others. He deserved it.”

“Not your decision, was it? That’s what you would tell the guys you hook up in handcuffs now, no?”

Robby did not answer. Ahead, out the window, he saw Willie Quintero—Diego’s partner—approaching.

“Willie will be back any second. This ain’t up for discussion, hermano. You’re in or you’re out. I need to know.”

Robby watched Quintero’s shuffling gait as he moved closer. Less than fifty feet away. “Get us out of here, man. Now—he’s got no way to follow us. Turn around and drive right into the roadblock—”

“Willie doesn’t trust anyone, Robby. He took the keys with him. But I got us a plan.” Diego covered his mouth, turned, and looked toward the minimart. “He’s got a bad prostate, so he has to pee a lot. Next time he pulls over, I’m gonna make a call. You got someone we can trust?”

“Hell yeah. Someone I trust with my life.”

“Next stop. I’ll call.” Diego turned back to Robby. “I need your answer. In or out? Give the word, hermano, and we’ll be on our way.”

Robby’s eyes scanned the car’s interior, came to rest on the dark gray grease-stained carpet. He had no choice. He had to confront the matter at hand. And that was finding a way to escape. If that meant agreeing to Diego’s demand to repent and turn himself in, so be it. But was Diego right? Was that the right thing to do?

Diego craned his neck around and then swung back. “He’s coming. Well?”

“I ask the Lord’s forgiveness for having sinned.” Despite the protein bar, the only thing he had eaten in days, he still felt weak. The stress of his confession did not help. He let his torso lie back on the seat. “I ask forgiveness for taking the life of Gerardo Soto.”

“Very good. But make no mistake, hermano. If we get away, and you do not confess—if you do not tell them what you did—I will.”

Robby nodded slowly. “Okay.”

The door flung open and Quintero got in the car. He threw a glance at Robby, then faced Diego. “How is he?”

Diego locked eyes with Robby. “I think he’s doing much better now.” He swung around in his seat. “Let’s get going. We’re behind schedule.”

77

Mann did an admirable job of keeping the DEA’s Chevrolet SUV lined up with the Land Rover, but they were falling dangerously far behind. The road was rough and their vehicle had bottomed out several times. Their heads were slamming into the roof and their shoulders into the doors, despite their seat restraints.

Without night vision equipment to allow him to see in the dark, DeSantos was beginning to think they were going to lose their target into the darkness of a rural, hilly countryside. Then his phone rang. Vail.

“We’re approaching your position,” she said. “I see you, in a cloud of dust, about a thousand yards ahead.”

“Do you see the asshole we’re chasing? We’re losing visual.”

With her headset off, Vail had to strain to hear him. “He’s about three-quarters of a mile ahead of you.”

“You see him?”

“Affirmative,” Vail said. “I’m wearing a set of NVGs.”

DeSantos looked skyward—and a lurch smashed his forehead against the windshield trim of the roof. He winced, picked up the phone that had dropped in his lap, then said, “I love you, Karen. Go get that sucker. Take him down, hard.”

“Will do,” Vail said. “Follow us in.”

TURINO, ALSO WEARING night vision goggles, banked the Huey and brought them a few hundred yards above the Land Rover.

“You see what I see?” Vail asked.

“That huge body of water up ahead?”

“I don’t think he can see where he’s going,” Vail said. “No headlights, running dark. Unless he knows this rough terrain intimately—”

“We should force him straight into the lake, end this chase sooner rather than later.” Turino jutted his head forward, concentrating on the landscape.

“Can you do that?”

“I’ve landed a Huey at night in a Bolivian jungle. Ended up clipping the rotor tips because the clearing wasn’t very clear at all. Thick foliage all around us. But if I can do that, I can do this.”

“Yeah,” Vail said, “I was thinking the same thing.” Not really. I know nothing about landing in jungles and clipped rotor tips. Gotta admit, though, it sounded damn good.

“I’m going to drop us down low, take us in alongside him. If you see anything ahead we don’t want to hit—trees, wires, poles, whatever—speak up. Anything like that’d seriously fuck us up.”

Vail leaned forward and peered out the window, concentrating on the approaching terrain. “How long till he reaches that lake?”

“Approximately half a mile. He’s moving about sixty. He’ll hit it in about thirty seconds.”

“So the plan is to steer him into the water.”

“Unless you come up with something better, yeah, that’s the plan.”

Twenty-five seconds later, the Land Rover braked hard in a dramatic up-churn of dirt, then veered sharply right, executing the maneuver they had anticipated.

Turino dropped lower and lined up the chopper along the right side of the Land Rover, keeping a few dozen yards above the vehicle. He leaned forward and brought his face closer to the windshield. “Just thought of something. Hang on, I think I can pull this off.”

Hang on? You think?

Turino glanced over his left shoulder at the vehicle below. He clenched his jaw, then dropped hard and fast. He tightened his grip on the control stick and moved the Huey just ahead of the Land Rover.

Vail didn’t know a whole lot about helicopters, but she had seen videos of them catching a skid or rotor blade and jackknifing into the ground in a spectacular and deadly crash.

Jesus Christ. What the hell is he doing?

As Vail opened her mouth to ask that very question, a dense, billowing cloud of dust rose and swirled in front of the SUV.

“This baby’s big enough to cause a brownout,” Turino said. “Main rotor downwash. Blown up dust and debris, driver can’t see where he’s going.”

The Land Rover slowed. “Okay, this is it!” Turino rapidly swung the Huey alongside the SUV. “Here’s the ‘hang on’ part—”

He shoved the chopper’s skids against the roof of the Land Rover, and the SUV swung sharply left, down the graded embankment, skirting the water’s edge. With a sudden jolt, its right fender glanced off a boulder, sending the vehicle into the lake.

Turino banked hard right and upward, moving away from the Land Rover as it splashed against the water and stopped abruptly, as if caught in a giant spider web.

“He’s down!” Turino said.

Vail phoned DeSantos. “Target’s in the water. Repeat. Target is in the water. We’re circling back to get a light on him.”

Turino and Vail removed their NVGs. Turino switched on the Huey’s spotlight and trained it on the Land Rover. Vail moved it around in a sweeping left to right manner, attempting to locate the vehicle’s occupant.

“There,” Turino said, pointing at a spot below. “Swimming back toward shore.”

“Got him.” Vail angled the light onto his position. The man was splashing desperately toward the lake’s edge. As soon as the area around him became illuminated, he stopped and looked skyward, the downdraft of the rotors flapping his hair and rippling the water’s surface.

Vail pulled her BlackBerry back to her face and shoved it beneath the earpiece of her headset. “Your game now. When you’ve got him in custody, we’ll join you on the ground.”

DESANTOS WAS FIRST to make it to the lake’s edge. He drew down on his target and waited for the man to approach. DeSantos could’ve jumped in after the suspect, but he didn’t have a change of clothes, and he reasoned that due to the temperature of the water, the man had no choice but to return to shore.

And a moment later, that’s exactly what happened. A thin man with what appeared to be a gold front tooth slogged onto the rock-strewn edge, then placed his hands behind his head.

DeSantos knew that having him provide answers might be a more difficult task. “Search him,” he said to Dixon, who was closest. While DeSantos covered her, Dixon holstered her pistol, then moved to the prisoner and shoved him facedown on the ground. She pulled a long switchblade from his back pocket, a cell phone, and ID that DeSantos was sure would turn out to be bogus.

As Mann stood guard, watching the area behind them, Dixon read the suspect his rights, then placed a set of flex cuffs around his wrists.

Fifty yards to the east, Turino set the Huey down. Vail deplaned and ran toward the knot of task force teammates.

Dixon yanked the prisoner to his feet and DeSantos stepped up to him, remaining far enough away that the man would not be able to land a kick.

“You speak English?” DeSantos asked.

“Yeah,” the man said.

“Your name?”

The suspect turned and looked off into the darkness. Vail tried to recall the photo she had taken from Cortez’s house, but whether or not it was the stress of the moment—of the past few weeks—she couldn’t retrieve the image from the recesses of her memory. She was not sure if this man was Arturo Figueroa.

“Silent treatment ain’t gonna work with us,” DeSantos said. “Believe me, you don’t want to know what I do for a living.”

The man lifted his face and turned it toward DeSantos. “And you don’t want to know what I do for a living.”

“We already know,” Vail said, Robby’s jacket flapping in the breeze. She walked past DeSantos and stopped a foot from the man’s face. “And I’m in no fucking mood to play games. You can either cooperate and answer a few simple questions, or we push you back into that water and hold your head down till your lungs fill up. We cut your cuffs and let you sink. No one would question it. You drove into the water and drowned. And in case you didn’t notice, it’s pitch black and we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere. You see any witnesses? Because I sure don’t.” Vail tilted her head back and observed. The man tensed his brow and narrowed his eyes.

The wind whipped up, sending a shiver shuddering through her body. She gathered the jacket tighter around her torso. “I get it,” she said. “You don’t believe me. Federal agents don’t kill innocent suspects. Well, you got that right, asshole. But you’re not an innocent suspect. And I need the answers now. So the rules aren’t what you think they are.” She stopped and waited for him to process that. “Let’s start with your name.”

The man did not respond.

“All right, fine. We don’t have time for this shit. Drown him,” she said, then turned to walk away. Dixon and DeSantos each grabbed an arm and dragged him backward. He fought them, kicking his legs and twisting his torso.

But as they approached the water’s edge, he yelled, “Arturo. Arturo Figueroa.”

DeSantos and Dixon stopped but maintained their hold on either side.

Vail walked up to him. “Very good. I’ve got a few other questions, Arturo. Answer, and we may let you go. If you don’t answer, I think you know what’ll happen.” She waited a beat, then said, “We’re looking for a federal agent by the name of Hernandez. He was running an undercover op against your cartel. We know his cover was blown and we know you brought him to San Diego.”

“Then you know a lot,” Figueroa said.

Vail waited, but he offered nothing further. “You’re pushing me, Arturo, and I’ve reached my end. Last chance. Where’s Hernandez?”

Figueroa struggled against DeSantos and Dixon. When he apparently realized his efforts were futile, he said, “I don’t know. He was being held at a house with smuggled illegals near Palm and the 805. Someone came and busted him out a little while ago.”

“Who? Who busted him out?” Figueroa set his jaw. “I don’t know. Information like that isn’t shared. We work in groups, so one doesn’t know what the other’s doing.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got the boss’s ear. We know that.”

“I’m telling you, I haven’t spoken to Carlos. I don’t know who took him.”

“If you had to guess,” Vail said. “Who?”

Figueroa glanced around, shuffled his feet. Licked his lips. Clearly uncomfortable. “We had some discussions with a guy repping Alejandro Villarreal. Know who that is?”

“Yeah,” Turino said. For his task force colleagues, he said, “Villarreal runs a rival cartel. Smaller—much, much smaller than Cortez. But they make plenty of noise—and money—in their own right.” To Figueroa, Turino said, “What kind of discussions did Villarreal’s man have with Cortez?”

“I wasn’t there. I only know what my friend told me.”

“Who’s your friend?” Vail asked.

Figueroa again wind-milled his arms against the grip of DeSantos and Dixon. It was a fruitless effort that nevertheless reminded them to remain attentive.

“Your friend, Arturo. We want a name,” Vail said.

“Grunge. Ernesto Escobar.”

Turino stepped forward. “Cortez’s right-hand man? He’s your buddy?”

DeSantos knew what Turino was thinking: Arturo Figueroa was obviously an important catch, but possibly a bigger fish than they had anticipated. If he was close to Cortez’s second in command, regardless of their compartmentalized structure, he might hold key information regarding the cartel’s inner workings.

With his free hand, DeSantos pulled his phone and typed a short message to Jack Jordan telling him they had Figueroa in custody—and asking him to get Thomson over here with some of his men as soon as possible.

“So what did Escobar tell you about these discussions with Villarreal’s rep?” Vail asked.

“That’s it,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t rat on my friends.”

“You haven’t ratted on your friends,” DeSantos said. “Only on Villarreal. Unless Villarreal is one of your friends.”

“I’d like to see Villarreal rot in hell.”

“Help us out, and maybe that’ll happen.”

Figueroa’s face contorted into a crooked smile. “We’ll take care of it. Our own way. We don’t need your help. El jefe knows how to deal with it.”

“El jefe,” Vail said. “What do you think of el jefe’s plans to kill Hernandez? That doesn’t seem like such a good idea to me.”

Figueroa tightened his jaw. “Big mistake.”

Vail nodded. “So help us find Hernandez before your boss does. No one will know you told us.”

Figueroa chewed on that a moment, then shook his head again. “I’m done here. I’ve told you what I know.”

“That’s bullshit, and we both know it,” DeSantos said. “What did Villarreal want with Hernandez?”

The man looked around into the darkness. He sighed deeply and said, “He wanted us to release him.”

“To keep DEA off your backs.” Vail nodded slowly. “So Villarreal and his men had something to do with busting Hernandez out. Because if Cortez killed him, they knew it’d bring big time heat, destroy their business.”

“Like I was saying,” Figueroa replied. “You already knew what I know. So cut me loose.”

“Where’s Villarreal taking Hernandez?” Vail asked.

Figueroa forced his chin back. “How should I fucking know?”

Vail tilted her head and studied Figueroa. “Because you do. Even if you don’t know for sure, you’ve got an idea.”

Figueroa looked down, struggled once more against DeSantos and Dixon.

“You’re not hurting yourself here, Arturo. You’re helping yourself. And you’re helping el jefe.”

“Las Vegas. They’re taking your friend to Las Vegas.”

“Vegas?” Dixon asked. “Why Vegas?”

“Villarreal has a place there. Now, can I go?”

DeSantos checked his phone and played with the joystick. Jordan was attempting to pinpoint their position using their cell signals. Thomson was on his way over and would be there shortly. But when DeSantos flipped to the next text, what he saw surprised him. He reread the message to be sure he’d gotten it right.

Turino stepped forward with a set of standard handcuffs. “Dixon, secure our prisoner to the bumper.”

“No fucking way!” Figueroa said. “You said you’d let me go if I answered your questions.”

Vail shook her head. “First of all, I said we may let you go. We decided not to.”

Turino tossed Dixon the cuffs, which she caught with her free hand. “Why me?”

“Because I’m in charge and I don’t like what you said back in Napa about my name.”

Dixon frowned, then kicked off her shoes and rolled up her pant legs. She pulled and dragged Figueroa to the Land Rover’s rear bumper, located the undercarriage tow bracket, and fastened the handcuffs to it. Figueroa continued to resist, but Roxxann “Buff Barbie” Dixon easily controlled the slightly built prisoner. Once the restraint was in place, Dixon backed away and headed toward shore.

VAIL PULLED HER PHONE to call Gifford. She knew he was asleep by now, but she felt he would want to be informed about Robby’s whereabouts. He answered immediately, which surprised her.

“Sorry for calling at this hour,” Vail said.

“I’m not sleeping. What have you got?”

“A lead on Robby, sir.” She explained what they knew, and provided the information they’d gleaned from Figueroa.

“I’m with Agent Sebastiani de Medina and ASAC Yardley, on a plane en route to San Diego. I’ll see if Mr. Yardley can make a few calls, get us some info on Alejandro Villarreal. I’ll text you anything I find out.”

Wind gusted into Vail’s face. “You’re on your way out here?”

“Mr. Yardley felt it was looking increasingly likely that Robby was somewhere out west, so he invited me to join him on one of DEA’s confiscated jets.”

“Sounds like they have a whole fleet.”

“And semis and even a yacht or two. They come in useful. Maybe we can strike a deal, get a private jet just for the BAU, like on TV. All kidding aside, good work, Karen. No, stellar work.”

“I’ll consider it stellar when I’m holding Robby in my arms. We were so damn close. We literally missed him by seconds.”

“You’ll find him. I’ve got confidence in you.”

Another blast of wind slammed against Vail’s body. She turned her back to block it. “Given our intel, sir, you might want to divert to Vegas.”

“Concentrate on finding him. I’ll discuss it with Mr. Yardley and determine our course of action. Gifford out.”

Vail joined Mann, DeSantos, and Dixon, who was drying off her legs and feet with a rag from the SUV’s trunk.

“We’ve got a problem with Turino,” DeSantos said. “I was just told he’s—”

“My ears are burning,” Turino said with a chuckle, coming up from behind. “Must be talking about me behind my back.”

DeSantos drew his Desert Eagle and, in one motion, shoved his pistol into Turino’s right ear. The agent’s eyes bulged. “What the h—”

DeSantos wrapped his forearm around Turino’s neck. “Why don’t we start from the top, Agent Turino, and tell us what the fuck you’re really up to.”

78

Whoa—” Vail said, holding out her hand. “Hector, what the hell’s going on?”

Keeping the Desert Eagle firmly against Turino’s head, DeSantos removed the agent’s Glock and shoved it into his own waistband. “Seems that Agent Turino has been working against us. Isn’t that right, agent?”

Turino was arching backward against DeSantos’s torso. “Lower that fucking gun. Are you out of your mind?”

“Answer my question.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

DeSantos twisted to face Mann, Vail, and Dixon. “The shit’s hitting the fan on Cortez in two days. Agent Turino here has taken it upon himself to keep us busy. Specifically, to keep our noses away from Operation Velocity.”

“Why?” Vail asked.

Turino ground his molars. “I told you, Karen. This is bigger than one person. Going after Hernandez, I understand it. But you’re being selfish. The stakes are much greater. A lot more lives are at stake.”

“Son of a bitch,” Vail said.

“Look at the big picture.”

“We could’ve done both,” Vail said. “I told you that.”

“Is that right?” Turino said. “Look what happened when Hernandez disappeared. You went searching for him, blew his cover, damn near fucked up an operation that’d been years in the making, and jeopardized several agents we’ve got undercover. Sometimes you have to work with the team and not take matters into your own hands.”

Vail chewed on her lip. She couldn’t argue with Turino—but, damn it, what was she supposed to do when Robby went missing? Did they think she’d just go wine tasting and sightseeing?

“Working with the team’s exactly the point,” DeSantos said. “If we’d known, if you’d shared your concerns with us, we could’ve worked with you, maybe run a fake op to throw them off, a decoy, so it didn’t jeopardize Velocity. There are ways to preserve the overall op but still get things done under the radar.”

“I didn’t think you’d listen. I did a little research on you people. Karen in particular. Following rules and working for the greater good doesn’t seem to be in her DNA.”

Vail stepped back. Jesus. What website did he find that on? Even worse, is it true?

“Now what?” Dixon asked.

“Nothing to worry about,” Turino said. “Cortez no longer has Hernandez, so you’re no longer a threat to Velocity. Once Villarreal broke him loose, I had no reason to stand in your way anymore.” Turino brought a hand to his neck and pried away DeSantos’s arm to free up the flow of oxygen. “Look, I want to see Hernandez brought home, no question about that. A LEO in the hands of a cartel burns at me. I lived through Camarena. I knew the guy, worked with him. When we found out what happened to Kiki, it killed me, affected me deeper than I could ever admit. I wanted to track down those fuckers and do to them what they did to him.

“It’s what drove me to request assignment on Velocity. I wanna see these bastards taken down. Badly. If there’s one thing I have left to accomplish in my career, it’s bringing ’em to their knees. Devastate their ability to bring drugs into our country.”

“If Camarena affected you so deeply,” Mann said, “you’d be busting your ass to find Hernandez.”

Turino shook his head. “Not at the expense of blowing a years-long operation that’ll save hundreds—shit, thousands of lives. And not at the expense of the other UCs whose cover’d be blown if you’d fucked things up. They’d be tortured and killed, too. I couldn’t take that risk.”

“Is there anything you’ve kept from us,” Vail asked, “that we should know?”

Turino rolled his eyes. “You people’ve been a goddamn handful. Trying to keep you in check has been damn near impossible. At this point, I think you know everything I know. In the grand scheme of things, I don’t think I’ve slowed you down that much.”

“When seconds count, ‘that much’ may’ve been too much,” Vail said, lacing her voice with contempt. “If we’d gotten to that drop house thirty seconds earlier, it might’ve made the difference.”

“That one you can’t pin on me.”

DeSantos released his hold and pushed Turino away. “Lie down. On your stomach.”

Turino twisted around and faced DeSantos, whose Desert Eagle was trained at Turino’s center mass. “Why?”

“Because I want to talk with my colleagues and I wanna be sure you’re not going to do something stupid.”

Turino complied with DeSantos’s request. DeSantos patted him down and removed a smaller Glock that was tucked into Turino’s ankle holster. He then backed away and huddled with Vail, Dixon, and Mann.

“All due respect to Karen,” Mann said, “Turino’s not wrong. I wanna get Hernandez back, you know that. But I think we have to take a breath and look at this objectively. One life against hundreds, if not more. A serious blow to Mexico’s most violent cartel. Shutting down their money laundering operations. All those drugs and weapons off the streets.” He scraped at his forehead with the prosthesis. “I can’t fault the guy. In a way, I respect him. It took balls to do what he did.”

DeSantos nodded at Dixon. “Roxxann?”

Dixon puffed her cheeks and blew a mouthful of air through her lips. “Tough call. I see your logic, but seems like the guy’s been acting on his own. I can’t imagine the DEA ordering one of its agents to purposely screw us over.”

“They wouldn’t,” Mann said. “Every DEA agent I’ve ever worked with is a class act. Professional. Committed. But don’t be so quick to judge the man. We got caught up in the Crush Killer case and we cut corners. Lots of ’em. We did shit we shouldn’t have done. Right?” He got a nod from Dixon and a conciliatory dip of the chin from Vail. “When you’re dealing with a case like that, especially a huge one like Velocity, it’s hard not to let emotions get the best of you. We all know that’s true.”

They turned to Vail. She shoved her hands into the pockets of Robby’s leather jacket. “I can’t be one to judge him. I’m certainly no angel. The past couple weeks I’ve . . . crossed the line plenty of times. Too many times.”

DeSantos said, “So, what do we do with him?”

“Let’s back up a second.” Dixon ran her hands through her hair. “What if he’s got a broad mandate to run the task force as he sees fit? Bottom line, we’re pissed because he’s looking at the big picture and we’re focused on getting Robby home safe. Who’s right? Who’s wrong? Is there a right or wrong here?”

They were silent as they chewed on that.

“So what are our options?” Mann said. “We leave him here or we take him with us.”

Vail said, “Trust is everything. Way I see it, question is, Can we trust him?”

“Our goals are no longer conflicting,” Dixon said. “It’s a moot point.” Vail pulled up the collar on Robby’s jacket. “Trust is never a moot point, Roxx.”

“Who tipped you off?” Mann asked DeSantos.

He held up his phone. “Text.”

“From?”

DeSantos rotated his body, checking out the area. Lowering his voice, he said, “Turino admitted it. Source is irrelevant.”

Vail figured it had to be Sammy. But it no longer mattered.

“If it helps any,” DeSantos said, “we all understand one another now. And I think we woke him up.”

“I’d say grinding your Desert Eagle into his ear definitely got his attention,” Dixon said.

Mann cracked a smile. “I kinda liked that. Old-school stuff. Settle it out in the field.”

“Fine,” Vail said. “We handle this in-house. But I’m done working with him, not until I can be sure we can trust him. If shit goes down and he has to choose between Robby and Velocity . . . ” She shrugged. “We can’t take that chance. I can’t take that chance.” She looked around and everyone indicated agreement.

DeSantos checked his watch. “Time to rock and roll.”

They released Turino, returned his side arms, and then headed back to the helicopter as the chief pulled up. They handed over custody of Arturo Figueroa and told Thomson to expect a visit from Agent Jordan.

Then, with DeSantos piloting the Huey, they went skids up and disappeared into the black San Diego sky.

PART 4

CRASH AND BURN

2300 Paseo Verde

Henderson, Nevada

Hector DeSantos peered out the window, then made an adjustment with the cyclic and collective controls and guided the helicopter into a gentle descent toward the Las Vegas countryside. He hovered fifty feet above his target, then slowly dropped onto the center of a grassy knoll. The helipad was encircled by a decomposed granite path, bordered by wooden benches and decorative lamps.

The Green Valley Ranch Station Casino was a resort in every sense—but it also served law enforcement as a staging area when the need arose. The helipad, composed of well-tended and close-cropped putting green grass, sat at the far end of the complex’s recreation quad.

Upon liftoff from Clover Creek, Vail had explained the task force’s decision to Turino. Turino absorbed her comments without reply, but his face conveyed a look she was unable to read—other than that it wasn’t full of warm fuzzies.

DeSantos powered down the Huey, then followed Vail, Dixon, Mann, and Turino as they met up with an individual who identified himself as DEA Special Agent Mark Clar. The agent ushered them away from the helipad, briskly walking past a hand-laid rock retaining wall and down a tan gravel path.

After passing the spa building on the right, Vail looked ahead—and all around them in a semicircle, for that matter—and took in the splendor of the Spanish tiled six-story resort, highlighted by strategic and dramatic lighting.

To her left, a security booth was manned by a heavyset guard dressed in a lime green shirt and black pants. He nodded as they passed, then spoke into his handheld radio.

The group ran up the two flights of stairs and entered the hotel. They followed Clar to a generous central hallway with a black and gold lighted sign suspended from the ceiling that directed guests to their desired conference room. They passed El Viento, La Cascada, and La Sirena, then stopped beside a room with a wood-framed sign that read “La Luna.” Below the name, an embedded LCD screen displayed images of the room and of the Green Valley Ranch property.

Clar pulled open the right wooden door and motioned them inside.

“Not bad,” Dixon said. “Nice job, Clar.”

“They take good care of us. Fortunately we don’t need to impose too often. But when we do,” he let the door close behind him and shrugged, “we get amenities like this.”

In the center of the room—which shared the design scheme of the corridors—sat a large rectangular table, a red tablecloth spread across it, with gold ruffled sides that stopped just above the carpet. Burgundy chairs stood lined up alongside, and overturned crystal glasses rested in front of each seat, accompanied by notepads and pens.

Suspended above the table was a candelabra with two dozen lamp-shaded bulbs. Against the far wall of the square room was a retractable ceiling-mounted projection screen. A white board on a wood stand rested off to the side. Various pieces of AV equipment sat nearby, at the ready, like a standing army.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Vail said. “Can we get started?”

“The ASAC of the DEA Vegas district office is due any minute,” Clar said. “ASACs Yardley and Gifford are en route, as well. I can touch on a few things, but I’d rather wait for—”

Before he could finish his thought, the doors swung open and in walked a dark-suited woman and man.

The woman’s eyes raked the room, taking in each member of the task force. “I’m Deborah Ruth, Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge, Vegas district office. I take it you’ve already met Special Agent Clar,” she said with a flick of her head toward the man. “Which one of you is Agent Turino?”

“That’d be me.” Turino made introductions to the other individuals. They exchanged nods and stares and half waves.

“Okay,” Ruth said. “I have information for you—for all of you. While you were en route, Agent Sebastiani de Medina received a phone call. Sebastiani—” The door swung open again and in walked Sebastian, followed by Thomas Gifford and Peter Yardley. Ruth pursed her lips. “Excellent timing.” She made sure Gifford, Yardley, and Sebastian were acquainted with the others.

Sebastian looked healthier and stronger than the last time Vail had seen him. From his demeanor, he seemed fully recovered from his ordeal.

“If I may,” Sebastian said to Ruth. He received a nod of approval and said, “About an hour ago, I got a call from a man identifying himself as Sandiego Ortega. Ortega is a lieutenant in the Villarreal cartel. He was talking quickly, said he only had a minute before his partner returned.” Sebastian turned to Vail. “He tried calling you, but it went to voice mail.”

Vail’s hand went to her BlackBerry. “I was in the air.” She pulled the phone and saw the missed call. Shit. But she realized she now had the man’s phone number, so all was not lost.

“Gist was that he had Robby, and that he was safe. He wanted to broker a deal for his return.”

“A deal?” Turino asked. “Cartels don’t make deals for—”

“He wants witness protection. Says he has valuable information for us on Villarreal and Cortez. If we agree to WITSEC, he’ll give us what he’s got and testify against his boss. And he’ll guarantee Robby’s safe return.”

“Why the hell would he do that?” Dixon asked. “He’s gotta know it’s a death sentence.”

“I asked the same question,” Sebastian said. “He said he’s found God and he’s no longer able to live the life. They’d kill him anyway if they discovered he wanted out. He also happens to be a childhood friend of Robby’s. He was the one who convinced Villarreal to break him free.”

“So Villarreal’s behind this?”

“Apparently, from what I was able to get from Ortega, Villarreal was concerned about the blowback from Cortez killing a federal agent. Ortega sold him on the idea of grabbing up Robby, then exchanging him for the DEA giving him some passes.”

Dixon spread her arms. “So we don’t need Ortega. Villarreal will ensure Hernandez’s safety.”

“If he can be trusted,” Sebastian said. “Ortega had his doubts. He said that since no one knew they’d broken out Robby, Cortez would be blamed for his death no matter what happens. And no matter who kills him. Could be that’s Villarreal’s play: kill Robby, blame it on Cortez. Serious heat comes down on Cortez. When the dust settles and Cortez is arrested, his organization weakened, Villarreal steps in and takes his territory.”

“So we’re back to having to trust Ortega,” Mann said.

“Is this true?” DeSantos asked. “Ortega is a buddy of Robby’s?”

“I’ve never heard him mention a Sandiego Ortega,” Vail said. “You?”

Sebastian shook his head.

“How do we know we can trust this guy?” Mann asked.

Yardley stepped forward. “We don’t. But he’s left open his cell signal to let us track him. They’re headed here, to Vegas.”

“Where in Vegas?”

“Ortega didn’t have time to say. But we got an address for Villarreal’s place. And we’ve been monitoring Ortega’s call, listening in on the conversation.”

“Did you hear Robby?” Vail asked.

Gifford cleared his throat. “No. When we stopped listening a few minutes ago, it’d just been a bunch of nonsense bullshit between two guys on the road. Occasionally they’d mention an awareness of Highway Patrol, keeping to the speed limit, that sort of thing. There’s also some muffled talk, but we couldn’t make it out. The lab’s working on it, but I don’t know when, or if, they’ll have anything for us.”

“Of course,” Yardley said, “before we get our hopes up, it’s important to point out we’ve got no idea how long Ortega’s battery will last. Right now, until we find we can trust Villarreal, that cell’s our lifeline to Hernandez. If we lose it, he’ll be on his own unless we can find—” He stopped and looked down at his phone, then pulled a pair of small reading glasses from his suit pocket. “Excuse me a minute.”

Ruth, standing beside Yardley, glanced at her colleague, then picked up the discussion. “Agent Clar’s a man of many talents. In addition to his fieldwork, he’s got a Ph.D. in digital signal processing and did some terrific work redesigning our wire room capabilities. I’ve asked him to have certain things ready for us.” Ruth nodded at Clar. “Are they?”

Clar, who’d been leaning a shoulder against the wall near the AV control panel, straightened up. “Yes ma’am, ready to go.” He walked to the wall beside the entry doors and fingered a touchpad LCD. The lights dimmed to half strength and a projector splashed light onto the screen.

“Hang on a minute,” Yardley said, his reading glasses perched low on his nose. The glow of his phone reflected off the lenses. “Just got a text from my office. Sandiego Ortega is an American citizen—actually, he’s got dual citizenship. Born and raised in Los Angeles. Mexican citizenship granted in ’95. No record while in the U.S.”

“Robby grew up in LA,” Vail said.

Gifford nodded. “So there’s potential validity in Ortega’s claim. Where in LA did Ortega live?”

Yardley scrolled down the screen on his phone. “Fullerton.”

Gifford nodded. “That’s where R—Officer Hernandez—lived.”

Yardley slipped his phone into a pocket, then motioned to Clar. “Continue.”

“Right. This is what we’ve got.” Clar struck a button on his laptop and an aerial image of the Las Vegas strip appeared. He pulled a laser pointer and a brilliant green pinpoint light circled a specific area, in tandem with the agent’s hand movements. “The cell signal we’ve been tracking entered Vegas twenty minutes ago. They were driving here, in a seemingly random pattern, as if taking evasive maneuvers to make sure they weren’t being followed. Then they went stationary at a point just off South Las Vegas Boulevard, in an area that appears to be a parking garage. Right here.” The green light stopped moving. “The signal keeps cutting in and out, probably because of the steel and concrete in the structure. But it hasn’t moved in about five minutes.”

Vail was starting to perspire, and realized she probably looked ridiculous wearing Robby’s jacket. She pulled it off and said, “They may be waiting for something. Is that garage anywhere near Villarreal’s place?”

“Yes,” Ruth said. “So here’s the plan. The task force will go airborne and assist the search. There’s a helicopter tour business at the airport, right off the strip. They do evening tours of the casinos, so you won’t raise any red flags. You don’t have any identifying markers on that Huey, correct?”

Turino, sitting at the end of the table, a symbolic banishment from the rest of the task force, said, “It’s Marine green. Nothing that says DEA. Against the black sky, we’ll be fine.”

Vail had doubts about the “we’ll” in Turino’s comment, but she let it pass.

“Very good. From there,” Ruth said, “it depends where Hernandez is, where the cartel members are. We can’t formulate a viable tactical plan until we’re sure of where they’re going to be when we move in. We’ve got a SWAT unit on standby, deployed one mile out. I don’t want any cartel spotters catching a glimpse of our rigs hanging around the strip. Even if we move in with their bread truck plastered with fake magnetic plumbing or electrical signs on the side, there’s a chance they’ll be made. I don’t wanna blow this before we have a chance to get close to Hernandez.”

“We’ve got no valid intel whether or not Villarreal truly intends to hand over Hernandez,” Gifford said. “So we’re treating this as a hostile hostage situation until or unless we find convincing proof otherwise.”

“You’ll coordinate with SWAT,” Ruth continued. “When you’ve gotten eyes on the layout of the area and have an estimate of how many there are and where they’re holed up, take up your positions and turn the show over to SWAT. Set down on that helicopter tour business’s landing pad and stay out of the way until the area is secured and Hernandez is safely in custody. Let’s do this right.”

Vail tried not to squirm in her seat. She expects me to sit on the sidelines while they go after Robby? Is this woman serious?

Clar stepped up to the white board. He pulled a cap off the red marker and wrote in abbreviated strokes as he spoke: “First objective. Locate and secure Roberto Hernandez. Second. Identify, locate, and take down members of the Cortez cartel. Now, for those of you who aren’t familiar with Vegas, the strip is almost always densely packed with tourists. If we pull our side arms and start blasting away, it’ll be near impossible to avoid striking innocents. So third objective. Minimize collateral damage.”

“The order of objectives,” Ruth said, “depends on logic, not priority. Clearly it’s of paramount importance to rescue our man. SWAT has been briefed on Velocity, so they understand our challenges. But I want there to be no confusion: given a choice of securing Hernandez or preserving the success of Velocity, we save the life.”

Vail, Dixon, and DeSantos shared a look. They then turned to Turino in unison, who looked away. Vail’s gaze was particularly harsh.

“It’s our assessment,” Clar said, “that Velocity will not be adversely affected by this op. Cortez knows we’d be looking for Hernandez, so any action we initiate will be seen in that light.”

Exactly. Vail kept an unforgiving gaze on Turino until he turned back in her direction. After a long second of silent anger between them, he looked away.

Clar capped the marker and tossed it down. “I’ve brought along an electronic tracking device that’ll assist us in triangulating Officer Hernandez’s position using Sandiego Ortega’s cell signal.” He rooted around inside a charcoal gray rucksack and pulled out a black PDA-size unit. Its top consisted of a dark, shiny glass display, with brushed aluminum sides. He held it up and said, “Meet LOWIS.”

“Lois, as in Lois Lane?” DeSantos asked.

“As in low output wave imaging sensor. L-O-W-I-S. She’s tuned to the quantized discrete-time signal emanating from the ESN—the electronic serial number—of that phone.”

“I’m no physics major,” Mann said, “but it sounds like a similar kind of technology that allows cell towers to identify particular phones on a network.”

“It does utilize that technology, but it takes it a step further. Mobile phones are like two-way radios. They regularly send out bits of data signals, called ‘pings,’ to the nearest cell tower every two or three minutes. It’s a way for the phone and the tower to know where each other is so they can communicate when a call is initiated. The towers forward the location of that phone back to the network. LOWIS uses a smart ping, a unique identifier that we’ve captured and that she’s now tuned for. Which means she’s like a hound dog on a scent.”

“I’ve never seen one of those,” DeSantos said. “And I tend to come across a lot of fancy technoelectronics the government’s got.”

“This won’t show up in any government agency. Not yet. It’s totally experimental. This is the prototype. I built it myself. Well, myself and a buddy of mine in Russia.”

“One other thing,” Gifford said. “The FBI is in the process of remotely turning off the ringer on Ortega’s phone. Once that’s done they’re going to switch on the microphone. That way, if the phone is powered off, we’ll still be able to listen in.”

“A roving bug,” Dixon said. “Very useful.”

“Very. No fancy hardware required. If need be, they can just call the phone and listen in to what’s being said by anyone in the vicinity.”

Clar held up LOWIS. “Who wants it?”

“I’ll take it,” Vail said.

“Take care of her,” Clar said. “We’ve grown attached.”

Vail took the device. “I think you need to get a life, Clar. But no worries. We’ll treat her just fine.”

Clar ignored Vail’s dig. “Keep in mind that even though she did well in our simulations, that’s far from being battle-tested. I can’t say for sure she’ll work like we want her to.” He looked hard at Vail and said, “You know how women can be sometimes.”

“But,” Mann said, “she—it—LOWIS has got a lock on that cell, and it’s tracking it. Right?”

“Affirmative.” Clar flung open a flap on his bag. He dug his hand inside and began pulling out black handhelds. “I’ve got two-ways for all of you. They’re set to channel 9. It’s encrypted.”

The task force stepped forward and took their radios—Turino included.

“The Huey’s still hot,” Ruth said. “Another of Agent Clar’s many talents is he’s a certified pilot. Since he’s the only one who knows the intimate workings of LOWIS, he’ll be your escort.”

Gifford waited a beat, then said, “Okay, let’s do it. Let’s bring our man home. And round up the bastards who took him.”

As Vail huddled with Clar, Mann, and DeSantos, Gifford cleared his throat and caught Vail’s attention. She moved over to the huddled suits, who were gathered at the back of the room.

“What’s going on?” Gifford asked.

“Sir?”

“Agent Vail, cut the crap. I know you better than your own father.” He winced, no doubt realizing the insensitivity of his comment and the reference to Vail’s sadistic parent. “Strike that. Point is, I saw the looks you and the task force were exchanging with Agent Turino during the briefing. So I’ll ask you again. What’s going on?”

Vail scanned the faces of Yardley, Ruth, and Gifford. She hesitated a long moment. She did not want to get into this—certainly not now. And she definitely didn’t want Turino leading them on this op. Still, she shook her head and said, “Nothing’s going on, sir.”

“You’re about to embark on a critically important op,” Ruth said. “What the hell is the problem?”

“That’s not a friendly request,” Gifford added. “It’s an order.”

Vail looked off at the wall. Realizing she was losing valuable time, she acquiesced. “Agent Turino.”

“What about him?”

Vail glanced over her shoulder. Sebastian and Turino were huddled in the far corner. Vail turned back and proceeded to outline what she knew. She stressed that they were unfamiliar with DEA policy, and that they were unsure whether or not his actions were above board. When she was done, Gifford, Yardley, and Ruth all wore variations of agitation and disgust.

“DEA policy,” Ruth said firmly, “is that a human life is always priority. Everything we do is based on officer safety. No operation’s worth a life—no amount of drugs is worth a life. It’s not written in any manual, but it’s built into everything we do, every op and takedown we plan.” She turned to Yardley.

Yardley threw a strained look across the room at Turino. “Agent Turino.”

Turino set his jaw and then walked over, gait confident, shoulders back, chin above level. “Yes sir?”

Yardley said, “We’ve been made aware of your actions as leader of the task force.”

Turino threw a hard, cold stare at Vail. “I’m sure you have.”

“Agent Vail was ordered to do so,” Gifford said. “And she did so reluctantly.”

Turino set both hands on his hips. “Whatever.”

Dixon called out from across the room. “Karen, let’s go. We’re ready to roll.”

“The issue,” Yardley said, “is you. Not her. I’m looking forward to sitting down and listening. You’re a decorated, veteran agent and you’ll be afforded all due process. And given the benefit of the doubt. But later. We’ve got a man out there depending on us and some really bad assholes ripe for arrest. That’s where our energies need to be focused. There’s no time to adequately evaluate this—and I don’t even have the authority to put you on administrative leave. But I do have the perfect assignment for you. I want you to rendezvous with SWAT and work out of their command post. I’ll radio the tactical commander and clear it.”

Through a clenched jaw, Turino said, “Yes sir.”

Yardley turned to Vail and said, “Even though this is a DEA task force, I’ve got no one who’s as fully briefed on all aspects of this operation as you are. I’m placing you in charge. Now get the hell out of here and find Hernandez.”

“Yes sir.” Vail stole a look at Gifford. He was uncommonly quiet. More than concerned, she decided. Worried. Not worried because she was now running the task force, but worried like a father who’s dealing with a son who’s gotten himself into a heap of trouble. Vail gave him a slight nod of assurance, then led her team back toward the Huey.

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—”

“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.”

Vail watched as the plume of water danced left, then right, then straight up toward them.

“Approaching CityCenter,” Clar said. “Vdara’s that flat semicircular high-rise coming up ahead. I’m betting this is where your cell is located. I’m taking us lower. You should see a brown LED on LOWIS.”

The chopper descended abruptly, then came to a stop and hovered above the tall, narrow building.

“Yeah,” DeSantos said, consulting LOWIS’s console. “Vdara’s the ticket. Directly below us. How’d you know?”

“This is where Villarreal’s condo is,” Clar said. “Fifty-seventh floor, number 5711.”

“That roof,” DeSantos said. “It’s so freaking narrow.”

“I can’t stay this low,” Clar said as he struggled with the control stick. “Too much wind. Can’t risk hitting the antennas down there. I’m taking us up.”

As the Huey rose, Vail looked down at the CityCenter complex and saw a concentration of oddly shaped, stylish buildings, architecturally angled, twisted, and curved, dramatically lit from above and below. Colors and landscape like nothing she had seen before. “Impressive,” she said.

“Actually,” Clar said, “the impressive part is gonna come from you people.”

“Us?” Vail asked.

“There’s no place to set down,” DeSantos’s voice said in her ears.

“Robby’s in that building directly below us. But the roof’s not large enough for us to land on, and there’s no flat ground that can accommodate us, unless we’re far off the property.”

“No, no. There’s no time. Robby’s down there,” Vail said, thrusting a finger toward the floor. “Get us down there.”

“Only way is to drop one of you in,” Clar said. “Onto the roof.”

Vail looked out the window. Robby was somewhere directly below her. “I’ll go.”

“Have you ever rappelled before?” Clar asked.

Vail pulled her eyes from the airscape and looked at the pilot. “Rappelled? Yeah, from a training tower, lots of times. From a moving helicopter? Twice. But it’s been about six or seven years.”

“It’s like riding a bicycle,” Mann said. “Comes right back to you.” He rapped DeSantos on the shoulder with his artificial hand. “I think she should go Aussie.”

Vail pressed her headset against her ear. “Aussie?”

“Head first,” Mann said. He gave her a thumbs-up. “Big freaking rush.”

Dixon grabbed Vail’s shoulder. “You sure you want to do this?”

“I’ll go,” DeSantos said. “I used to be a jump master with SRT. Last time was a couple months ago in the Ukraine.”

Vail looked at him. The Ukraine? Is he serious? But she knew by now not to ask such questions of Hector DeSantos. “No. I’m the team leader. I’m going.” Did I just say that aloud?

Clar peered ahead, at the brilliantly lit landscape. “I can drop the rest of you by rope onto the boulevard, about 100, 150 yards from Vdara’s entrance.”

“Think about this, Karen,” DeSantos said.

I don’t want to think about this, thank you very much.

DeSantos looked down at Vdara. “Rappelling onto a narrow roof isn’t easy. It’d be a first for me, too.”

“I can’t stay here,” Clar said. “Not with this wind. Now or never.”

Vail thought of Jonathan, of Robby. She glanced at LOWIS, which was nestled in DeSantos’s hand. “All right, let’s do it.” She reached forward and snatched the electronic device. “And none of that macho Aussie shit. I’m going down feet first.”

Dixon looked at Vail and their eyes met. Dixon understood that she needed to do this.

Clar tightened his grip on the control stick as another wind gust slapped the chopper. “Behind the seat you’ll find a harness, gloves, and carabiner. Someone help her get that shit on, will you?”

“You got a tactical helmet?” Vail asked.

Dixon located the equipment and held up a black shell. “Affirmative on the helmet.”

“Okay,” Clar said. “There’s a donut in the floor of the Huey.” He kept his eyes ahead while he spoke into his headset mike. “Attach that thick wire to the donut ring. Karen, you’ll step into the harness and clip the carabiner on the front. The rope goes through the carabiner.”

Mann slid open the side door. A rush of air blew into the cabin. “Got it,” DeSantos said as he helped prepare her harness and then rigged the carabiner to the clasp. “You’re going back first, butt first.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Good. I’m still gonna tell you. I don’t want to overlook anything.” He wrapped the rope around to her front. “You’re gonna lower your feet onto the skids outside the chopper. Form an L-shape with your torso—”

“With my ass hanging out the window, I know.”

“Right. And the rope that’s wrapped around you—that’s your brake.”

Vail, still wearing her headset, nodded. With DeSantos guiding her, she moved onto the skids. The downdraft from the rotors rhythmically slapped her back. As she positioned her feet, she caught a glimpse of the buildings and lights below. I’ve got the best view in Las Vegas.

She felt a surge of adrenaline as the wind rippled through her clothing.

“The brake is wrapped around you,” DeSantos said. “When you’re ready, move your right arm out to the side, a couple inches at a time, and that’ll release the brake.”

“Got it. Then I kick off, away from the Huey.”

“Yes, and then you’ll be in freefall. If you do it right, you’ll only brake once, about ten feet before you hit the ground. At about ten feet, pull the rope back toward you, into the top of your ass—the small of your back. That’ll bring you to a stop.”

Vail looked at the rope, at her hand, and then at DeSantos. “Check.” She glanced down again. Robby’s down there. Okay, let’s do it. I’m ready. She nodded.

“Remember, it’ll be a pretty fast descent. “We’re about seventy-five feet above the high-rise now.” He looked her square in the eyes. “You still with me?”

“I’m with you,” she said.

“What are you going to do once you’re down?” DeSantos asked.

“Unclip the carabiner from the rope.”

“Good. Expect some sway from the wind.” He set a hand on her shoulder. “Last chance to back out. No one will think any less of you.”

Vail narrowed her eyes. “Am I the kind of person who backs out of anything?”

DeSantos smiled. “Hell no. But in case all goes to shit, I had to know I tried.” He wiggled his fingers and Vail removed the headset and slipped on the helmet.

The pounding bleat of the rotors was intense without the noise-suppressing effect of the headphones. Vail gave him a thumbs-up. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she could’ve sworn his lips mouthed, “Bombs away.”

He smiled and gave her a playful thump on the top of her helmet. Vail took a deep breath, flexed her gloved hands on the rope, then squatted into an L-shape. The downdraft was strong, slamming against the back of her neck like a persistent drumbeat.

With a gloved hand, Vail pushed down on top of the helmet to seat it, shifted her feet on the skids, then kicked away.

She slid down the rope—feeling the burn in her palms, despite the gloves—then moved her right hand back to slow her fall. But the cable swayed more than she’d thought it would, and she was concentrating on the trajectory of the windblown arc.

She started to brake but not fast enough.

The wind blew her past the edge of the roof, and she missed the building’s edge. Fuck! She yanked her arm behind her and braked, hard, now hanging in midair.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. She was now below the top of the tower, which shielded her from the wind. She swung back hard, and the last thing she saw as she hurtled through the air was the thick, black panes of the Vdara’s penthouse glass windows.

ROBBY KNELT ON THE FLOOR beside Diego Ortega’s body. His friend’s cell phone was open, to the left of his ankle. Robby was reaching out to snag it when suddenly something slammed into the living room window.

“What the hell—” Villarreal flinched and hit the floor as the image of a black-jacketed individual scraped across the glass, then disappeared from view.

“Federales!” Escobar said. He turned and headed out the door.

Robby, realizing he might never have another chance, lowered his shoulder and ran forward, ramming into Villarreal’s abdomen. Villarreal’s hip struck the bottom window sill and his neck snapped back violently, cracking his head against the glass. The expansive pane rattled but did not break.

The black figure again slammed against the window fifteen feet to their left, then disappeared into the darkness.

Villarreal, stunned and disoriented, clumsily threw a punch that connected with air. Robby kneed him hard in the groin then searched the writhing Villareal and the surrounding area for a handgun.

Moans from Villarreal.

Get out now, Robby.

No weapon—but he found Diego’s cell phone a few feet away. Robby scooped it up, then scrabbled over to Quintero to search his pockets for a handcuff key. He found one in the man’s jacket and, after a quick check of Villarreal—still in pain but fighting to get to his feet—Robby ran out of the condo’s open door before another of the man’s lieutenants appeared. Two or three mercenaries against an unarmed cop were worse odds than what he had now.

Down the hall, he pressed the elevator button, then went about removing the handcuffs. He had some difficulty, but slowed his efforts and finally freed his wrists.

He tossed the cuffs to the floor as the doors slid apart.

VAIL BOUNCED OFF, then slapped back against the windows, scraping along the surface when suddenly she was pulled up. Clar must’ve brought the Huey higher.

She spun in a dizzying twirl, holding on and hoping she did not slam against the building again. It didn’t feel good the first two times, it sure as hell would not feel any better a third.

Vail rose above the rooftop, then swung back over it. That was her cue—before the wind blew her away again. She brought her arm out slowly, lowered her body to the surface, then braked. Unhooked the carabiner and undid the cable. It retracted and the helicopter moved off, presumably to drop Dixon, Mann, and DeSantos onto the grounds somewhere below.

Vail found the roof exit and pulled open the metal door. Clanked down the stairs and came out on the fifty-seventh floor.

Glock in hand, she moved down the hall toward one of the condos, where light splashed out into the corridor. When she arrived, she saw a man of about Robby’s age, lying still on the floor. Pooled blood around his head.

She felt a pang in her stomach—but as she approached, she could tell the body type was significantly smaller and slighter. Gunshot wound to the head. No need to check for a pulse.

Vail rapidly cleared the rooms and found them empty. “Robby! You in here?” Listened. Nothing, not a grumble, a moan, a kick against a closet door. She moved back out toward the hallway and pulled LOWIS from her pocket. The signal appeared to be strong, glowing green and yellow.

She pulled her two-way and raised Clar on channel 9. “Mark, LOWIS has two lights: green and yellow. What does that mean?”

“Where are you?”

“Fifty-seventh floor of Vdara. Outside what I’m guessing is Villarreal’s condo. There’s a DB, GSW to the forehead.”

“We’ll call it in. Meantime, go down to a lower floor. Here’s the key. Green and brown are your friends: they mean you’re within fifty yards on the x-axis for green and within fifty yards in the y-axis for brown. Yellow or amber are bad: you’re out of range in the y-axis. But blue is the worst. You see blue, you’re cold—she’s totally lost the signal. They’ve moved beyond about a hundred yards in all directions.”

“Jesus, could you have made it more confusing?” Vail ran toward the staircase. No—the elevator. It was a risk, particularly if they were on a middle floor and she went down too far, she’d pass them by—but walking down dozens of flights would take too long if they were headed out of the building. How high is a floor in this building? How many yards?

Vail looked down at LOWIS and stopped. “Wait a minute—the signal. Mark, the display, LOWIS went black!”

“Stand by,” Clar said.

Vail stood there, heart pounding, emotion flooding her body, tears forming in her eyes. She stared at LOWIS’s blank screen. “C’mon, god-dammit, work! What’s wrong with you?”

“Okay, okay—” Clar’s voice boomed over the radio. “She’s fine. She’ll come back online. The signal from Ortega’s phone cut out. Either it was shut off or the battery came dislodged. But the FBI techs got it back and they’re using it as that roving bug we discussed. So here’s what you need to do. See that flat button on the right side?”

Vail fumbled with LOWIS and found the slight protrusion. “Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

“Push and hold it for five seconds. She’ll reboot and then she should pick up the new signal.”

“Reboot? I don’t have time for that. C’mon, Clar, what kind of piece of shit did you build?”

“Karen, another time I’d take offense to that.” His voice was calm and measured. “But I know you’re under tremendous stress. Take a breath. She’ll be up in a few more seconds.”

As Clar promised, the device had begun loading its operating system. “Okay—it’s scrolling through some red computer code.” She closed her eyes and took a breath. “Sorry about what I said.”

“Already forgotten. Now pay attention, she’s almost ready. She’ll reacquire the signal automatically. Nothing for you to do.”

Vail moved forward and pressed the elevator button. “What am I looking for?”

“Green and brown are good, remember? They mean you’re within fifty yards on the x- or y-axes. If you see amber or yellow, you’re out of the fifty yard range.”

The elevator door opened and Vail got in. “What about purple?”

“Oh, right. If she’s purple, turn left or right. Don’t know which. That’ll be in version 2.0. Like all of us, LOWIS has her limitations.”

Vail kept her eyes on the glowing green, yellow, and purple lights as the elevator descended rapidly. She pressed the button for 38, and would thereafter stop at 28, then every ten floors—and assess LOWIS’s color, because her target would be moving as well.

At 38, the display went blue—and a cold sweat broke out across her forehead. Her gaze flicked over to the numerical floor level display—to hell with the ten-floor plan. She hit L and watched LOWIS’s screen. As she approached Lobby, the light changed to green.

Bingo.

The doors slid apart and she ran forward, watching the LED display. Brown, amber—and purple. She could only turn left, which led her down the hall, toward the garage and the back of the building. A moment later, she sighed relief: LOWIS sported green and brown lights.

Vail left Vdara and followed the signs into the walkway that led to the Bellagio’s Spa Tower, a separate, though connected, high-rise that housed a glass-ceilinged conservatory, convention rooms, and luxury facilities for pampering hotel guests.

According to the placards she had seen, above her was the monorail that ferried guests from CityCenter directly into the Bellagio. She rotated her head left and right, Vegas’s unmatched nightscape partially visible through the glass walls. Halfway through the tunnel, she glanced down at the tracking device.

Brown and amber lights stared back at her. They were on the same level as she was, but more than fifty yards away.

Shit! She quickened her pace, then sprinted out of the walkway and into the Spa Tower. Ahead was a large, glass-enclosed storefront, “News-stand” emblazoned on the sign above the door. She ran past it and continued down the hall. The green LED came on, but the purple light once again flicked to life. She looked ahead, through the throng of passing people, but couldn’t see Robby—or anyone else who appeared to be moving at a pretty good clip. But as LOWIS had indicated, about a hundred feet ahead there was a turn in the corridor.

Vail pressed forward, pushing through the masses, weaving in and out, down a slight incline, then past Sensi, a futuristic bar with a water fountain cascading down the wall, its countertop a mirror of black liquid.

LOWIS went dark—then the green and purple LEDs popped on. Vail looked up and swung right, her only choice. Shorter corridor. Dominating the wall to her left—the Jean Philippe Patisserie—the coolest pastry shop she’d ever seen. Multilevel, furrowed blown glass troughs formed what was surely the most unique chocolate fountain ever created.

Vail elevated onto her toes and peered over the heads of the people milling about the wide hallway, but despite Robby’s height, she did not see him. She was beginning to think that LOWIS, with her high-tech proximity sensors and smart ping digital signal processing abilities—or whatever the hell Clar had called it—was leading her on an old-fashioned, low-tech wild goose chase.

THE CHOPPER HOVERED over the main artery, South Las Vegas Boulevard, southeast of the Bellagio’s main entrance. A tree-studded grass-carpeted knoll stood nearby that separated twin three-lane drives leading up to the property, where the bellmen worked feverishly to unload new arrivals.

Slow-moving traffic came to a stop to watch—and steer clear of—the hovering helicopter. Dixon and DeSantos dropped to the ground, then Clar retracted the rope and took the chopper higher, away from the roadway.

DeSantos slapped Dixon on the arm. “Let’s go!”

VAIL FOLLOWED THE CORRIDORS past the conservatory on the left, then ahead into the bright and expansive Bellagio lobby. Decorative molding-edged squares checkerboarded the ceiling. At its center sprouted an oblong bouquet of blown glass flowers bursting with colorful hues, from blood red to lime green.

Her rubber soled shoes gripped the cream-and-brown granite tile as she ran toward the location LOWIS directed her: the front entrance. The LED glowed green and brown, which meant she was close. And headed in the right direction.

Vail exploded through the doors into darkness—her eyes had to adjust from the brilliant lights of the lobby—and she emerged in the carport. Doormen and bellhops were moving about, ferrying new arrivals into the hotel, and departing guests into waiting taxis.

The screen added purple to its array of colors—they had turned. But which way? If I lose them now, they’ll blend into the crowd. Even with the homing device, there’d be myriad places they could go. It’d be near impossible for her alone to search all the buildings, alleyways, ancillary roads, and casinos. And how long will that cell battery last? What if it wasn’t Robby she was pursuing?

Directly in front of her stood a curving roadway that slanted down and away, to the left and to the right, split by a central tree-covered island where people seemed to be gathering to watch something ahead of them.

Vail climbed atop a short cement column—and saw two men running along the roadway to her right.

She jumped down and took off in that direction.

ROBBY BURST THROUGH a crowd in the Bellagio’s lobby. Two men, who had engaged him as he exited the Vdara elevator, remained in close pursuit.

He’d knocked down three women a hundred yards or so back, but it couldn’t be helped. If those pursuing him pulled a weapon, there’d be a lot of people permanently on the floor. And he didn’t want that to happen.

Robby pulled Diego’s phone and once again pressed various buttons, but in brief glances as he ran, it didn’t appear as if the keypad was working. He had already removed and reseated the battery, but it had no effect. He flipped the lid closed and shoved the cell back into his pocket in time to stiff-arm a door with a large brass B on the handle.

He exited the hotel and ran through the carport, then angled right onto a walkway beside a dense row of privet hedges. To his left, throngs of people lined a cement retaining wall that bordered a large man-made lake. Loud music began blaring from the speakers. Jets of water spewed forth into the night sky.

Robby chanced a quick glance over his right shoulder and saw the two men paralleling him on the other side of the tall, wide row of hedges. If he could get to the end of the road before they did, he’d be on the main strip, where, despite his height, it’d be easier for him to get lost in the throng of milling tourists—or find a circulating Vegas police cruiser.

He pushed forward and began picking his way through the crowd.

VAIL RAN TOWARD the cement walkway that snaked along the periphery of the manmade lake she had seen from the Huey.

There—bobbing up and down, the unmistakable form of the head and shoulders of a six-foot-seven man as he twisted and bumped his way through the dense mass of humanity.

Vail felt a swell of excitement—Robby was alive, and he was only a few dozen yards away.

But off to the right, two large Hispanic men ran alongside the hedges, one slightly behind Robby and the other considerably ahead.

As Vail opened her mouth to scream his name, the roar of bass-booming music blared from the large, camouflaged speakers, followed almost immediately by the spurting of high-powered water jets. As if vacuumed away, her shout was swallowed by the noise.

Vail pushed forward, forcing her way through the crowd, twisting sideways and using her shoulder to part the masses.

Robby’s only fifty yards away.

And an armed hit squad was in pursuit.

Either Robby or one of the two men pursuing him was carrying the cell phone she’d been tracking. As long as she could maintain eye contact with Robby, it didn’t matter. The dense wall of privets was, for the moment, preventing the men from reaching him. But in the distance, the hedge—and the path—came to an end.

She had to get to the pursuing assassins before they could get to Robby—or risk firing off a few rounds into the lake. The gunshots would hopefully cause a stir and be reported to Vegas Metro Police, which she figured maintained a respectable presence on the strip. Problem was, she didn’t see any cops where and when she needed them: here. And now.

The water jets blasted and the music boomed, sounding like a twenty-one-gun salute.

And up ahead, a glimpse of Robby’s head. So close—and yet unreachable.

She yelled—knowing he couldn’t hear her—but she didn’t know what else to do. She grabbed her radio. “This is Vail. Anyone on Las Vegas Boulevard, near the Bellagio entrance?”

She brought the radio to her ear, uncertain she would be able to even hear the response above the noise.

“Negative.” DeSantos’s voice? Clar’s? Mann’s? Vail couldn’t tell.

“I’ve got eyes on Robby,” Vail said. “Being pursued through the crowd by two armed mercenaries. Need assistance.”

“In pursuit—”

Dixon’s voice. But she couldn’t make out the rest of her transmission.

Vail looked skyward. Where the hell’s the Huey?

As Robby approached the boulevard—amid the intense glare of Planet Hollywood’s turquoise lights and Paris’s neon-striped hot air balloon—she saw Robby’s head and shoulders stop abruptly.

He turned back in her direction, took a step, stopped again, then looked around.

Other armed men must’ve appeared ahead of him, blocking his way. Shit—

Robby was now moving. Climbing. Standing on something.

Facing the expansive lake, his body was silhouetted against the pluming, brightly lit white wall of water.

She pushed forward. “No!”

But her voice was swallowed by the spouting jets, the booming horns, and masses of people in front of her.

Vail figured she was the only one who saw the two men raise hand-guns. Not even she heard them fire their suppressed rounds. But the buck of the barrel was unmistakable.

AS ROBBY NEARED the strip ahead, the high-def billboards and neon glow of Las Vegas excess reflecting off glass everywhere, his mind sifted through various scenarios. A substantial obstacle remained: the two men assigned to kill him, held at bay by a natural barrier of hedges.

And coming up ahead, from the boulevard, another two sicarios, fighting their way toward him.

He turned and looked in the direction from which he had just come. Go back? He took a step, then stopped. No—even if he could fight his way through the crowd, the men on the other side of the hedges would arrive ahead of him.

He had mere seconds to figure a way out.

There was only one unblocked path: the water. He pushed a man and two women aside, then hoisted himself to the top of the cement wall—and felt the hot sting of a bullet slam into his left arm.

With no further thought required, he jumped.

It was a ten foot drop, and he hit the lake’s surface sharply, feet first. That wasn’t the problem—it was the cold water and the spray of the jets raining down on him as the show built in intensity. He no longer felt the sting of the gunshot wound. The chilled water had numbed it, and his urgent need to avoid any more lead spinning through his flesh pushed him to move forward.

He paddled his right arm and legs through the water, slamming into something rock hard and immobile. Pipes. When he’d jumped, he had apparently come dangerously close to landing on a portion of the extensive network of plumbing that spidered off into the distance, as far as he could see.

He hadn’t appreciated how expansive this body of water was until he was in it, enveloped in its cold grasp, no reachable land in sight. Swimming ahead would only take him into the middle of the lake, and make him an easy target for another gunshot—one that might find center mass. He pulled his body around and faced a series of arched aqueducts, which appeared to lead under the roadway he’d just traversed.

Wherever they led didn’t matter—it meant he would be out of the line of sight of the hunters who were determined to notch him onto their bloody cartel belts. He thrust his legs and right arm outward and pushed on, beneath the nearest stone archway, into the pitch darkness.

VAIL SHOVED AND PUSHED her way to the edge of the lake’s retaining wall. The rockets’ red glare was booming from the speakers. The nozzles were blowing tight streams of water fifteen stories into the air, and smaller walls of synchronized spray cascaded across her field of sight. And— what the hell?—a fog began spreading rapidly across the lake. You’ve gotta be kidding me. Fog?

She stood there, looking for Robby—for any sign of life.

She saw nothing. No blood. No floating body. No flailing arms. And the dense cloud enveloping the lake was making it nearly impossible to see.

What to do. How—where—

Along the lower end of the right side wall of the lake, arched aqueducts. The water flowed into them. But where did they lead? Had Robby swum through one of them?

Vail pulled out the tracking device, hoping it was Robby who’d been carrying the phone. A black screen stared back at her. If Robby had the cell, it would be underwater now, shorted out, no longer transmitting a digital or electronic signal.

It was clear the device would bring her no closer to locating him. She shoved LOWIS into her pocket and headed back the way she had come, into the hotel.

ROXXANN DIXON STOOD on the pedestrian overpass that connected the Via Bellagio shops to the walkway that led to Caesars Palace. On a lower level directly ahead, a permanent tented structure arced over a plaza that housed tables catering to the adjacent Serendipity3 eatery.

As she descended the steps, off to her left, her eye caught a flash of movement and the glimpse of a man who looked familiar.

César Guevara.

Looming over the immediate vicinity was one of the towering rectangular Roman-themed buildings sporting a red neon Caesars Palace sign at its upper periphery. Keeping her focus on Guevara’s last known location, she ran through the well-lit tented area, then along a narrow passageway that led to the hotel.

Tall, slender evergreens rose to her right, which bordered the intensely lit main entrance to the Caesars complex. Limousines and luxury sedans were parked beneath the long and broad overhang, where bellmen awaited the next approaching vehicle ferrying a tip-bearing arrival.

There! Beneath the bright lights of the hotel’s brick plaza.

Dixon took off in Guevara’s direction, pulling her Glock with her right hand and fumbling for her badge with the left. It did not say “federal task force officer,” and would thus carry no jurisdiction in Nevada. But it would have the intended effect. Those in the vicinity would know she had a legitimate reason for brandishing a pistol and running through the crowds.

Yet no one seemed to notice. Some glanced in her direction, but the density of people provided adequate cover.

Seconds later, Dixon burst through the crowd. Guevara was nowhere nearby. She turned in a circle, looking, hoping—and then saw him behind the dark glass of the main entry doors. She scaled the steps and shoulder-slammed her way into the lobby. She almost froze, taken by the grandeur before her: dramatic ceiling lighting and frescoes, rose quartz columns, blown glass chandeliers, black and ivory marble everywhere—and a central fountain that spouted water into a basin below three scantily clad limestone women.

Images of lavish, elegant opulence plowed through her brain, but she didn’t have time to process any of it because the lobby was more expansive than the eye could immediately comprehend. César Guevara was not stopping to take in the surroundings, nor was he evaluating its magnificence. He was moving at a rapid pace into the casino. And now, so was Dixon.

A violet, gold, black, and burgundy carpet extended throughout semiprivate and public gambling areas.

“Can I help you?” a security guard asked, eyeing first her badge, then the Glock.

“I’m following a suspect. Outta my way,” Dixon said as she edged around him.

“Hey—hold on a second—”

Dixon held up her badge. “Get the fuck out of my way!”

“You got a warrant? You can’t just walk in here with a gun—” he said, then maneuvered himself in front of her.

“I’m a federal agent,” she said, moving her head to see around him in hopes of catching a visual of Guevara. “Move!”

“That’s not what your badge says,” he said, then grabbed her arm. She was about to do something nasty to his closely held male compadres when she broke free, then shoved him hard into a crowd of youths passing by. He tripped backward and sprawled to the floor.

But as she moved on, she heard him key his two-way. Reinforcements would be en route—very shortly, she surmised.

Dixon moved deeper into the gambling areas, thick with people and the pungent smell of perfume and cigarette smoke. Guevara had to be around here somewhere. As her eyes roamed the large room, beeps and whirls sounding in her head off in the distance, she felt a creeping sense of anxiety. Had he gotten away?

Had she blown it?

VAIL PUSHED HER WAY through the crowd, then sprinted across the carport and into the Bellagio’s lobby. People of all ages milled about in seemingly haphazard activity. She needed to find someone who knew about the hotel.

To her left, a suited man with a brass nametag.

She dug out her creds and held them as she ran left, toward the bellman’s station, an ivory and gold counter that stood in front of a wall-size floral mural. “The fountains, the water—” She stopped, collected herself. Be coherent. “The water outside—the lake. There are arches, aqueducts that go under the roadway. Where do they lead?”

The bellman leaned back slightly and swung his head toward the front of the building. Apparently the answers weren’t there, because he turned back to Vail and shrugged. “I—I don’t know. I’ve never been asked that question. People usually want to know how often the fountains go off, how many stories into the air the water reaches—”

Vail swung her head around the lobby. “Anyone who might know?”

“You can ask at registration. They might be able to call a manager—”

With five long strides, Vail covered the distance to the nearby desk, which stretched across the cavernous room as far as she could see into the distance. She slapped a hand on the tan granite countertop in front of a woman who was checking in a guest, shoved her badge forward, and said, “The goddamn fountain—I need someone who can tell me where the water goes.”

The guest gave her a dirty look for being so rude—but the eyes of the hotel service worker were wide with shock and glued to Vail’s credentials case. She seemed to be reading every word.

Vail flicked it closed and snagged her attention. “A manager. Call a goddamn manager.”

The woman stumbled over some words, then reached for a phone and dialed. She spoke into the handset, then lowered it and said, “He’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“I don’t have a few minutes.” Vail pulled her radio. “Vail to Mann. Over.”

A second later, her two-way crackled. “Mann.”

“Where the hell are you?”

“We swung around to assist SWAT, why?”

“Those fountains at the Bellagio. Where do they lead? I mean, there’s gotta be pipes, right? Some kind of plumbing, machinery and computers or something that plays and synchronizes the jets to the music. Right?”

“Affirmative. One of the designers once showed me around. He took me down to ‘the back of the house,’ which runs underneath the entire property. Catering tunnels, a massive kitchen, the pump rooms and maintenance shop for the fountain, all sorts of shit like that.”

“Okay, listen to me. Robby jumped into the lake. He may’ve been shot but I don’t know. There are arches, aqueducts that look like they go under the roadway that leads up to the hotel.”

“Affirmative. Bellagio Drive, south area of the lake. But those aqueducts are fake. They don’t lead anywhere. Do you see him on the lake?”

“I’m in the lobby. There’s some kind of fog hanging over the water. I couldn’t see shit.”

“Part of the show. It’ll lift in a few minutes.”

“There were assholes shooting at him. If I’m Robby, I’m swimming like Michael Phelps trying to get away. The drop from the roadway is about a dozen feet; I don’t think there’s a way to climb up out of the water. Is there any outlet into the hotel? Any way in?”

“North side of the lake,” Mann said. “There’s an opening in the fake rock that leads into the maintenance shop for the fountain. I think they called it the Bat Cave. From what I remember, there’s a boat launching ramp that leads into the cave. It’s the only place he can go. Find that and you’ll find Robby.”

“How do I get there?”

“Ask how to get down to ‘the back of the house.’ The corridor will lead to the north end of the complex.”

“Got it. Over.” Vail shoved the radio in her back pocket and pivoted in a circle. Signs for everything except “the back of the house.”

She stopped herself from thinking like a woman looking for a hotel room and thought like a cop. She was in a casino, a place filled with surveillance cameras. And security guards. Security guards would know more about the layout of the hotel’s underbelly and hidden locations than a bellman.

She reached into her holster and pulled out her Glock, held it up in one hand and her creds in the other. Then she started yelling. “FBI! Everyone down!”

Screams. Movement. People hitting the floor. Now that’s more like it. Security should be here any second. Damn, I should’ve thought of this sooner.

Sure enough, two guards dressed in red blazers and black pants approached on the run, from the direction of the casino that fed into the lobby.

They were yelling at her, but that was a game Vail always won.

“FBI! Federal agent!” She made sure they saw her badge and credentials—because she had no idea if casino security guards were armed and she couldn’t afford any misunderstandings.

As they neared, Vail saw they were not packing. One was chattering on his radio and the other appeared to be unsure of what to do. She couldn’t blame him. This probably wasn’t something they’d ever encountered.

“I need one of you to take me to the Bat Cave. And I need someone to lock the place down. Tight.”

They looked at one another.

“Now!” She advanced on them.

That got them moving. The man to her left stepped forward and said, “Did you say the Bat Cave?” He asked it as if she had lost touch with reality.

“Yes, the Bat Cave. The back of the house. The maintenance area for the fountains.”

“Yeah—okay, The Shop. I can show you where it is.”

Vail swiveled to the other guard. “No one out, any exit. Only federal agents in. Got it?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Tell your boss we’ve got an emergency.”

The guard keyed up his radio.

Vail and the other man moved off, toward the lower reaches of the complex.

THE ARCHED AQUEDUCTS turned out to be dead ends. The lake was too far below ground level to even attempt to climb out, so Robby moved off into the framework of piping and water jets. He swam as best he could with one arm, following the plumbing as it led toward the other end, into a blue-tinted darkness.

Pipes meant a water supply—and that hopefully translated into some kind of apparatus that he might be able to use to climb out of the lake.

He was not sure where or how he had summoned the energy to go on, but thinking about seeing Karen again, holding her, caressing her, kept his arms and feet moving through the chilled waters.

At least the sicarios were not shooting at him. The fog that had provided him cover had evaporated from the lake’s surface. Was he out of range? Were they moving to a better perch? He couldn’t worry about any of that—he had to get out of the cold water. Not only was he feeling the effects, but he did not want to still be in the lake when the immensely powerful fountain jets rumbled to life again.

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.

He felt the heat from the dancing fire warm his skin as Villarreal darted right, across the street. The traffic light had changed, and there was a break in the flow of cars.

“Freeze!” DeSantos said. “Federal agent!”

Villarreal didn’t respond but DeSantos did. He dropped to a knee, squared up low, and brought Villarreal into his Trijicon night sights. He knew he’d be violating protocol—but it was akin to a white lie. Roughly stated, if you pull your gun, you’re planning to use it, and if you’re planning to use it, you’re planning to kill—that is, aim at center mass to take down the target.

DeSantos was many things, but model soldier was not one of them. He was an exceptionally good shot with a sniper rifle and nearly as good with the less accurate handgun. But he didn’t need pinpoint accuracy. He just needed to bring down the fleeing suspect without hitting innocent bystanders.

And at this very moment, Villarreal was in the clear—that is, by Vegas standards. No innocents within twenty feet, no cars in the immediate vicinity. And a low trajectory shot.

One more warning. “Freeze!” Then he fired. Villarreal grabbed his right thigh, tried hopping forward a couple steps, then crumpled to the pavement, draping himself across the curb.

DeSantos ignored a screaming bystander as he approached his writhing prey, Desert Eagle out in front of him, not taking any chances that Villarreal could bring his own weapon to bear.

“Where do you think you’re going?” DeSantos said, now standing five feet away, his pistol aimed squarely at Villarreal’s face. “I mean, really? Do you want me to put a .44 in your head? Or are you gonna interlock your fingers behind your neck and make nice?”

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Villarreal said between clenched teeth.

“Since you don’t know what I’m thinking, there’s a good chance you’re wrong.”

“You think I had something to do with kidnapping your agent. But I didn’t. I was trying to help, I was trying to get him back to you.”

DeSantos pursed his lips. “What do you know? You were right about what I was thinking. But I’m in a good goddamn mood right now, so I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt. Thing is, you still need to get your hands behind your neck. Otherwise, my gun might go off and you’d never get the chance to prove you’re telling the truth.” DeSantos cocked his head toward his right shoulder. “Fair enough?”

Villarreal did not reply but slowly interlocked his bloody fingers behind his neck. DeSantos approached and rested his knee in Villarreal’s back as he cuffed the man’s wrists, then patted him down.

“By the way, I really like your suit,” DeSantos said. “Sorry about the hole I made.” He pulled his two-way and keyed it. “DeSantos to Mann. You there?”

A moment’s hesitation, then, “Affirmative.”

“Suspect Villarreal in custody. Needs a bus. GSW to the leg.” As he was speaking, a young Vegas Metro PD officer pulled up on a white motorcycle. The man got off the bike and quickly squared up.

“Let me see your hands!”

“What’s happening?” Mann asked.

“Ah, shit. Nothing. Stand by.” DeSantos lifted his hands and said, “I’m a federal agent. ID’s in my back pocket. I’m gonna take it out, okay?”

“Slowly,” the cop said.

“I wouldn’t think of doing it any other way.” He removed his creds and tossed them at the cop’s feet. The man bent at the knees, keeping his weapon trained on DeSantos, inspected the ID, and then nodded.

DeSantos keyed his mike. “Mann. I’m turning over custody of Alejandro Villarreal to VPD.” DeSantos retrieved his credentials from the officer. Stole a look at his tag, then said into the two-way, “Suspect now in custody of Officer David Rambo.” DeSantos shoved the radio back in his pocket. “Serious? Rambo?”

“Was Rambowski. Rambo’s cooler. I shortened it.”

DeSantos nodded thoughtfully. “I probably would’ve done the same thing.” He pointed a finger at Villarreal. “Look after this scumbag. Very dangerous felon. Make sure you get a photo with him in cuffs. Never know, it could make your career.” He gave the officer a wink.

DeSantos walked off, back toward the Bellagio. Into the radio, he said, “Mann, you got a status on Vail and Dixon?”

“Vail is headed to the basement of the Bellagio,” Mann replied. “Hernandez may be shot. Last seen in the lake, possibly heading toward the fountain’s maintenance facility. Dixon’s in Caesar’s. Due for a SIT REP. Clar and I are headed to the Bellagio to drop off SWAT.”

“Roger that. On my way to Vail’s twenty. Over.”

DeSantos shoved the radio into his pocket and took off, sprinting back the way he came.

ROBBY SWAM THROUGH the opening in the wall of rock, which led to what appeared to be a launch ramp for boats. Off to the right, a secured dingy bobbed alongside a barge—necessary equipment, he figured, for repair and/or maintenance of the fountain.

As the canted concrete floor rose, the lake’s depth gradually decreased from four feet to a few inches. Robby followed the ramp as it doglegged left, then right. There he stopped moving and lay facedown, the water lapping against his cheeks.

Two ducks started quacking and flapping their wings. They went airborne and flew past his head. Had he had more energy, he would have flinched.

When he had gathered sufficient strength, he struggled to his knees, but even lifting his soaked pant legs required effort. He crawled forward onto the cement floor and lay down again. He’d lost blood, he was sure of that.

He gathered the wet shirt sleeve in his right hand and yanked. The cotton fibers gave in and tore, slowly, along the shoulder seam. He twisted the cloth into a thin band, then tied it above the wound, tightening it as best he could.

He’d made it this far, through beatings and drug dealers and hired killers. He wasn’t about to let a piece of lead kill him.

VAIL FOLLOWED THE GUARD, whose name tag read “Pryor,” through the hotel’s ground floor to the room service elevator.

“Aren’t there stairs?”

Pryor, who sported a belly that had likely played host to many a six-pack evening, sighed audibly. “You didn’t say you wanted to walk it. What are you, some exercise nut?”

“No, I’m a federal agent in a goddamn hurry.”

“Faster to take the elevator,” Pryor said as he reached out and poked the button again with a stubby finger. “By the time we’d gotten to the staircase over by the retail shops, elevator would’ve been here twice over.”

Vail keyed her radio. “This is Vail. En route to the lower level of the Bellagio. Waiting for the elevator.”

Mann’s voice boomed over the two-way. “You kidding me? Take the fucking stairs!”

Vail brought the radio to her mouth and faced Pryor as she spoke. “Now there’s a brilliant idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Pryor looked up at the ceiling and rocked back on his heels. Not a worry in the world.

Vail thought of Robby and grabbed her temples. I can’t believe this.

The elevator doors slid open and she practically leaped inside.

ROXXANN DIXON HAD LOCATED César Guevara attempting to circle back and exit Caesars Palace through its front entrance. She was determined not to lose him again, but he appeared to be moving urgently—and he had a cell phone to his ear. If he had spotted her, bodyguards would not be far off. Armed bodyguards.

“This is Dixon,” she said into her radio. “In foot pursuit of suspect Guevara. Leaving Caesars’ main entrance. Request available backup.”

Dixon followed him as he ran across the pedestrian overpass that arced above South Las Vegas Boulevard at Flamingo Way. To her left, building-size pictures of Donnie and Marie Osmond smiled back at her.

Ahead, amid people moving in both directions across the bridge, César Guevara was thirty feet from the down escalator and staircase.

“Hold it right there,” Dixon yelled. “Agents are coming right at you, there’s nowhere to go.” Not true, but what the hell.

The tourists who saw her SIG veered away, but those who were oblivious bumped her from behind or weaved around her. Guevara slowed and glanced through the clear Lexan walls, no doubt attempting to verify Dixon’s claims of nearby reinforcements.

But Guevara apparently felt that if there were federal agents approaching, he would be no worse off than if he were to surrender. And he surely knew she wouldn’t discharge her weapon with innocents in such close proximity.

Down the stairs they both went. Dixon keyed her radio.

Guevara negotiated a sharp left at the bottom of the staircase, passing Bill’s Gambling Hall and Saloon and moving toward the Flamingo Hotel.

“Guevara headed north at the intersection of Las Vegas Boulevard and Flamingo Way,” Dixon said into her two-way.

Guevara sidestepped the open casino entrance, where two scantily clad women were dancing atop a raised pedestal. Dixon struggled to stay in visual contact with Guevara, as the crowd was now considerably thicker than it had been on the bridge.

Guevara fended off Latino workers shoving porn trading cards into the hands of passersby. He looked right, at the raucous college students pulling on neon green drinks in Margaritaville, then glanced left at the thick, slowly moving traffic.

Dixon made up ground and was only thirty feet behind him when Guevara stopped suddenly, shoved a man aside, drew his handgun, and—

Before Dixon could reach him, his weapon bucked, followed by his body.

He’d been hit—but by whom?

As Guevara slumped back into the trunk of a streetside palm tree—he’d taken a round but was not incapacitated—Hector DeSantos stepped off the planted median in the center of the boulevard, his gold Desert Eagle out in front of him, approaching Guevara with caution.

Cars stopped, drivers gawking at the man in front of them advancing across the roadway with a handgun—and making no attempt to hide it.

“Don’t make me shoot you again,” DeSantos said. “Drop the gun or you’ll be joining all your dead cartel brothers.”

Guevara, his face contorted in pain, did not acquiesce.

But Dixon came up behind him and pressed her SIG against the man’s temple. “Does this make the decision easier?”

Guevara dropped the handgun. He was bleeding from the abdomen—a notoriously painful wound—but Dixon showed him no mercy as she grabbed his hands and yanked them behind him, then fastened her set of cuffs to his wrists.

“That’s for Eddie,” Dixon said of her deceased ex-boyfriend.

Guevara winced. “Don’t know who that is.”

“John Mayfield killed him.”

“Don’t know who that is, either.”

“Lying pisses me off, César. And that’s not something you want to do.”

“I don’t know—”

Dixon slapped him on the head. “Just shut up, asshole.” She turned to DeSantos. “Robby?”

“Haven’t heard anything,” DeSantos said as he holstered his weapon. “Call this in. I’ll go see if Karen needs help.”

ROBBY TRIED TO GET TO HIS FEET, to right himself. But he was still dizzy from the punches he took and the head butt he meted out. After all he’d endured lately, his tank was running dry.

He sat back down on the cold floor, water dripping from his face. His clothing was thick and heavy, and his arm throbbed.

And he couldn’t shake the image of holding the man’s head down as his lungs filled with water. He had killed him. But it was different from the time as a teen when he had murdered the man who had done the same to his uncle. Here it was a matter of survival. Before . . . it was as Diego had said: revenge. Raw, inexcusable, premeditated revenge.

He’d repressed those memories, those thoughts and feelings, for so long that he’d gotten skilled at it. Too skilled. He now realized he had been cheating. He had broken the law and never paid the price.

But was the price too expensive now, given that he had dedicated his life to catching those who would harm others? Did that balance out the scales of justice? Did it tip them in his favor?

Robby shivered. He had to get to his feet, find help, dry clothing, some food, and medical attention for his gunshot wound.

He rolled left and pushed himself up.

VAIL FELT THE ELEVATOR bottom out, then leaned forward as the doors slid apart. She side-slithered through, Glock in her hands, and swept into the hallway.

“Which way?” she called back to Pryor.

He remained behind her and silently pointed ahead, no doubt realizing that, with the handgun clenched in both hands, out in front of her, Vail’s frenzied demeanor wasn’t an act. He was probably beginning to wonder what he’d gotten himself into.

Pryor directed her through the seemingly endless, curving corridor.

“How much farther?”

Pryor slowed, then looked back over his shoulder. “I don’t know. The back of the house isn’t my patrol area. I’ve only been down here once.” He pursed his lips, stopped walking, then again glanced behind him. “There’s no elevator at the north end of the property. I’m pretty sure the room service elevator was the best way to get there.”

“But you’re not really sure where ‘there’ is.”

“I think if we keep going, we’ll eventually get to the maintenance shop.”

Vail tightened her grip on the Glock. Great. Robby could be in trouble—if he’s still alive—and I get the tour guide with no sense of direction.

“Don’t think,” Vail said. “Use your radio, find out, and get me there. Fast.”

82

After struggling with the soaked, clinging material, Robby stripped off his shirt. There was a gentle flow of oil-scented air swirling through the dimly lit area, which helped evaporate the dampness from his skin.

The breeze made him shiver. His shoes sloshed with each step. And his waterlogged pants rubbed against his thighs.

But none of it mattered. Because he was free—no one with high-powered ammunition or bloodstained machetes was threatening, beating, or chasing him. In a few minutes, he’d reach safety. Dry clothing. Medical attention. And, hopefully, Karen.

But before he’d gone twenty feet, something struck him in the head. Hard. And he went down.

Two arms pulled him upright and a dark figure approached.

A few steps more and the glow of a nearby incandescent bulb shadowed across the hard features of Antonio Sebastiani de Medina.

“Sebastian—”

“You had to fuck everything up, Robby. Everything came together the way it was supposed to. I just needed a few more days, a few more goddamn days.” Sebastian shook his head. “A $3 million payoff. And everyone would’ve won. DEA, me, you, all of us would’ve gotten what we wanted.”

“Is that right?” Robby asked weakly.

Sebastian’s men struggled to force Robby erect. One of them yanked up on his injured arm, eliciting a cringe. But Robby was still dazed and had difficulty keeping himself steady.

Sebastian sighed and stepped closer. “DEA would get Guevara, and if we were lucky, maybe even Cortez. You get your special agent creds. And me—I get my cut. A million big ones and a shot at a comfortable retirement when the time comes.”

“I always thought you were a smart guy, Sebastian. Until this. Then you got really stupid. And greedy. But greed can be so intoxicating it can blind you to what’s going on.” Robby tried to bring his shoulders back, to give him some sense of authority. “You never saw it coming.”

Sebastian’s face stiffened. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Yardley. He suspected something wasn’t right. That’s really why he agreed to bring me on. When your partner got into that accident, it turned out to be a dream come true for you. Too good a dream.”

“You’re the one who’s dreaming, buddy.”

Robby shifted his weight to lessen the strain on his shoulder. “You figured you could convince Yardley to bring me onboard because of my street cred. And you knew I’d drool over the chance—and that Gifford would do what he could to help get me signed on.”

“Nice story, but—”

“Best part is you thought you’d be able to control me better than a veteran agent who’d adhere to procedure and would be all over anything that smelled like shit. And to a seasoned nose, you were reeking. That’s what got your partner killed, isn’t it?”

“I don’t need to listen to this crap.”

“Worst part is that I was your friend, so you knew I’d give you the benefit of the doubt.”

Sebastian laughed weakly. “You think you’ve got it all figured out.” “You’d work the op and help bring down the cartel, but at the same time you were angling to score a last big payoff. Skimmed off that huge black tar heroin shipment coming in. You’d then collar Guevara, maybe Cortez, too, and no one would know about the missing money.” Robby cricked his head to the side. “Does that sound about right?”

Sebastian reached back into the darkness and thrust a fist into Robby’s abdomen. He doubled over and dropped to his knees.

Robby sucked in his breath, then tried to sooth the abdominal spasm that prevented him from speaking. He lifted his head, anger spilling forth like the saliva that dripped from the corner of his mouth. “You’re a fucking disgrace to the badge, Sebastian. You’ve shit on all the honest DEA agents who put their lives on the line every fucking day.”

“Like I did for nine years. Years of deep cover.” He spit in Robby’s face. “No fucking way to live.”

“That’s the life you chose. And now . . . you’re living on the wrong side of the law. You’re a huge disappointment. As a federal agent. And as a friend.”

Sebastian looked at him—and for a second, Robby thought he saw sorrow. An apology? For all the fun times they’d had. For a friendship that was now forever tainted. Dead with no hope of resuscitation.

But maybe Robby was projecting what he’d like to see . . . an admission that what Sebastian had done was wrong.

“We don’t have a lotta time,” Sebastian said to his two lieutenants. “Take care of him, then meet me where we discussed.” Sebastian slipped past them out of the light’s reach, his footfalls going suddenly silent as he disappeared.

Robby heard the slide of a semiautomatic pistol, dangerously close to his left ear.

“I’ll make this quick,” the man said.

Robby threw up a hand. “No. Wait—”

The gunshot echoed loudly.

83

When Pryor radioed his supervisor for the exact location of the maintenance shop, he was told they had another hundred feet to go, around the bend—but he was informed that SWAT and Vegas Metro PD were on their way. They were to stop and await their arrival.

“Bullshit,” Vail said to Pryor as he reholstered his two-way. “I’m not waiting.”

Pryor pulled a ring from a clip on his uniform and sifted through the various keys before making his choice. “The engineers are all gone for the night.”

Vail took the key and said, “Stay here. No one goes past unless they’re law enforcement. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Vail jogged down the curving corridor until she reached a gray metal door that bore a red and black sign:FOUNTAIN MAINTENANCE SHOP

AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

Vail slid the key into the lock and entered the room. She quietly shut the heavy door and proceeded forward. A network of pipes extended the length of the ceiling—as best she could see in the room’s low light. Machinery lined both walls: what looked like a welding apparatus, a band saw, a large pipe cutter, a circular saw.

Because it was dimly lit, she had to move slowly to make sure she didn’t trip on a spike or fastener bolted into the ground.

Vail pointed her BlackBerry’s lit display at the floor and used it as a flashlight. She followed the machinery until she heard voices nearby. Workers? Pryor said they’d all gone home for the night. She stopped and listened. I know that voice. Where’ve I heard it before?

“ . . . skimmed off that huge black tar heroin shipment coming in. You’d then collar Guevara, maybe Cortez, too, and no one would know about the missing money. Does that sound about right?”

That voice she knew. Robby. Who’s he talking to? Vail edged forward another few steps.

“You’re a fucking disgrace to the badge, Sebastian . . . ”

Sebastian? What the hell’s going on?

She turned her head left, then right, trying to triangulate on the echoing voices.

“We don’t have a lotta time. Take care of him, then meet me where we discussed.”

Vail advanced forward, Glock out in front of her. To her left, the room opened up into a larger space. Two men were standing by Robby.

And one of them had a pistol pointed at his head.

84

Robby, no!

The gunshot was deafening. And it was followed by a second, equally as loud—but Vail’s hearing was blown from the close-quarters echo of the first, so she more or less felt, rather than heard, the latter round.

The dead man to Robby’s left hung in the air, but the one to his right was heavier—and he hit the ground with a thud, that sickening hollow thrump when a skull strikes cement with significant force. His colleague followed a split second later, dropping to his knees before falling forward onto his face.

Robby’s eyes caught Vail’s and she merely stood there, emotion welling in her chest, threatening to erupt. She found herself unable to move, her feet still planted in a Weaver stance, both hands squeezing the Glock. The smell of cordite stinging her nose.

Robby, on his knees, was crying—she could see that much in the dim light from the overhead bulb. Tears streaked his cheeks.

She dropped her arms to her sides, took a tentative step forward, then ran. Ran into his arms, and joined him on the floor. Hugged him tight.

Neither said a word.

85

Outside in the carport, an ambulance sat idling in front of the Terrazza di Sogno—the Terrace of Dreams—an Italian balcony overlooking the Bellagio fountains. Peter Yardley and Thomas Gifford had just arrived from the Green Valley Ranch Resort and were jogging toward them, accompanied by three men in black windbreakers with light gray DEA block letters on the back, chest, and arms. Two men in suits, presumably FBI, took up the rear.

Robby lay on a gurney, his torso elevated and an IV snaking from his arm. Roxxann Dixon and Hector DeSantos stood at his side, shoulder to shoulder with Vail, who had her phone pressed to her ear.

“How’s he doing?” Gifford asked the medic.

“I’m doing fine,” Robby said.

The medic frowned in annoyance. “Vitals are stable. It was a through and through. The constricting effects of the cold water helped. Some blood loss, but I’ve stopped the bleeding. Motor and sensation are intact. We’ll transport and give him a good look-see in the ER.”

“That really necessary?” Robby asked.

Vail, having ended her call with Jonathan—she’d woken him, but needed to hear his voice and couldn’t wait till morning—said, “Yeah, Robby, it’s really necessary. Not up for discussion.”

“For once,” Gifford said, “I agree with you.” He looked at Robby. “Anything we can get you? Something to eat?”

“Someone already brought me a fancy chili burger—”

“Yeah, that’d be me,” Dixon said, playfully raising her hand.

Vail chuckled. “Which he downed in two bites.”

“You earned it,” Gifford said. “That and a whole lot more.” He nodded at DeSantos. “Status.”

“Escobar’s in the wind. BOLO’s been issued and checkpoints have been set up. Lots of places in Vegas to get lost, so I’m not overly confident we’re gonna find him.”

“Villarreal and Guevara are in custody and being treated for GSWs,” Vail added.

A black Chevy SUV pulled up beside them, drawing their attention. Turino stepped out and faced Yardley. “I’ve got something for you, sir.” He pulled open the rear door, where Sebastian sat restrained in silver handcuffs and leg irons.

Sebastian and Robby locked eyes, then Turino slammed the door closed. “Apparently someone placed a tracking device in his phone.”

Yardley grinned. “How rude. I wonder who’d do something like that. And those blanks in his gun. Definitely not standard issue.”

“My pleasure to bring him in, sir,” Turino said.

“I thought you’d appreciate it.” Yardley’s face turned serious. “We’re due for a chat. Half hour, back at the office?”

Turino pulled open his door. “Yes sir. Looking forward to it.”

As Turino drove off, Yardley took a deep, relieved breath, then said, “Fine work, agent.”

“Thank you, sir,” Vail and DeSantos answered in unison.

“No offense.” Yardley motioned to Robby. “I was talking to my agent.”

Vail couldn’t suppress her smile. Robby had earned that. She glanced at Gifford, who seemed to be sporting a proud, though subtle grin.

“Given Agent Turino’s concern over Velocity,” Yardley said, “I thought you’d like to know that DEA moved up its timetable. We figured that with Cortez and Villarreal busy sparring over Robby, the distraction would make our jobs easier. We launched Velocity—” he consulted his watch—“sixty-five minutes ago. Early reports are very encouraging. Arrests in five states. More to come through the night.”

“Cortez?” Robby asked.

“Nothing yet. So far he’s slipped the net. But if not tonight, we’ll get him some other time. Our job’s not done till guys like him are out of business.”

Gifford extended a hand toward DeSantos. “Hector, you’ve been a godsend. Next time I see Detective Bledsoe, I’ll have to thank him for bringing you into the fold.”

“Yeah.” Vail gave DeSantos’s shoulder a playful shove. “Thank you.”

He looked at her a long moment, then said, “This case ended up meaning more to me than you could know. If my wife were here, she’d thank you, too.”

Vail tilted her head in confusion but let it go. DeSantos gave her a quick hug, then motioned to Dixon.

“We’ll let you rest,” Dixon said to Robby. “We’re gonna grab something to eat.”

Gifford caught Vail’s attention with a jerk of his head. “Can I have a word with you?”

“Sure—I just need a moment. Roxx,” she called after Dixon. “Hang on a sec.”

Vail walked with Dixon back toward the Bellagio entrance, away from the knot of personnel.

They stopped beside a large conical planter at the edge of the carport. Vail stood there looking at Dixon, not speaking, unsure of what to say.

Finally Dixon broke the silence. “It’s been incredibly . . . exciting. You make things interesting, Karen.”

Vail hiked her eyebrows. “So I’ve been told. Look, I—I can’t tell you what you’ve meant to me these past couple weeks. It sounds trite, but I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.” She leaned forward and gave her partner a warm embrace.

A moment later, they pushed away from each other, both wiping tears from their eyes.

“So let’s not let this be good-bye,” Dixon said. “Okay? Email, phone. Facebook?”

Vail chuckled. “Jonathan’ll have to show me how to set up an account. But, yeah. Of course. And when you make it out to D.C.—”

“Lunch, dinner, whatever. And a tour of the academy.”

Vail’s face broadened into a grin. “It’s a date. And—do me a favor. Thank everyone for me. Brix, Mann, Gordon . . . except, well, Matt Aaron.”

Dixon laughed. “I’m going to miss you, Karen.”

They hugged again, and then Vail walked off to join her boss.

VAIL’S TIRED, SORE LEGS felt heavy as she ascended the gentle incline of the Tarrazza balcony. Gifford was silent until she reached the railing. The police were in the process of clearing the vicinity, though onlookers lined the boulevard along the periphery, outside the barricades.

Gifford leaned both forearms on the concrete balustrade and looked out at the lake. “Karen, nice job with all of this. I—well . . . thank you.”

Vail extended her arms beside him and took in the view of the lake. “Don’t take this the wrong way, sir, but I didn’t do it for you.” She grinned and noticed he had cracked a smile, too.

They stood there another silent moment. Then Gifford said, “You were right. About Robby being my son.”

“I know.”

He turned to Vail. “But I need you to keep that between us.”

Her eyes widened. “Sir, that’s your personal matter. But to ask me to keep it from him, to lie—”

“I’m not asking you to lie. I’m asking you to give me a chance to tell him. I want to do it the right way. It’s not an easy thing to admit to your son you’ve been absent from his life.”

“But you will tell him,” she said.

He looked back out over the water, then nodded. “Yes.”

YARDLEY WAVED A FINGER at Robby’s bandaged shoulder. “When you’re healthy, I’ll make a few calls, get you enrolled at the academy.” He paused, then said, “That is, if you still want to be an elite agent with the Drug Enforcement Administration.”

“I do, sir. Very much.”

Yardley nodded slowly. “Good. We need people like you.” He gave Robby’s uninjured shoulder a pat, then walked off with his entourage.

As Robby watched him leave, he noticed Vail standing beside Gifford thirty yards away, near the edge of the lake.

His discussion with Diego played back in his thoughts. He had killed a man—and he’d done it for revenge. That was something he would have to come to terms with. Was it the right thing to do? No. He could answer that without deep thought. But now, given who he was and what he did for a living—and what he was about to do—who would be served by his paying the price for his past transgressions?

But what gave him the right to serve as judge and jury? How many rehabilitated criminals could say they were devoting their life to catching other violent criminals?

Am I a criminal?

He looked over at the clear IV bag hanging near his head. Too much to consider for now. As Yardley said, he had to get healthy.

“Hey.”

He turned and saw Vail and Gifford heading for him. Will she read my face? My mind? She and Robby often had an idea about what the other was thinking. She’ll know something is bothering me. Can I keep it from her? Lie to her, again?

As they approached, music started blaring from the speakers, followed by the fountain’s jets shooting skyward. He recognized the song: Andrea Bocelli’s “Con Te Partiro.”

Time to say good-bye.

86

Gifford stood a little behind Vail, as if he didn’t want to intrude. “Do you—you have any plans for lunch tomorrow?” Gifford said above the din of the fountain show.

Robby laughed. “I think it’s safe to say my calendar’s pretty clear.”

“Good. Assuming you’re up to it, want to grab a bite with me? Before I head back home?”

“With you, sir? And Karen?”

“No. Just us.”

Robby pursed his lips, glanced at Vail, then said, “Yeah, sure.”

Gifford nodded and then walked off.

Robby extended his bent elbow and Vail took it. She maneuvered the gurney toward the lake so they could watch the rest of the show.

“What was that about? Gifford asking me to lunch.”

Vail kept her gaze on the fountain. “You’ll have to ask him.”

The paramedic called to them from the open rig. “You ready? Gotta transport—”

“Give us a minute,” Vail said. “Till the end of the song.” She turned to Robby and studied his face, then leaned in close. “What’s wrong?”

He did not look at her. He was staring ahead, not following the arcing path of the fountain’s surging jets as they rapidly spread from left to right, across the expanse of the lake.

After a long moment, he said, “Just mentally and physically drained.” He lay there. Music blasted. Water sprayed. But none of it registered, not really.

Vail’s eyes narrowed. “But something’s on your mind.”

Here it was . . . the choice Robby had been dreading. What did it say about a man who can’t be honest with the woman he loves? What kind of relationship would that be?

But this is . . . different. I murdered my uncle’s killer. I hunted him down and shot him. Once that simple sentence left his lips, his life would change forever. Would she be able to overlook the admission? Would I lose her? Would she turn me in?

He bit his upper lip. Don’t say anything. But I have to. Can I face her if I don’t? “I’m sorry,” he started. “I guess I owe you an explanation.”

The music stopped playing and the fountain’s water jets went dry. Vail pulled back her arm and rested both hands on the side of the gurney. “Trust is important to me, Robby. Coming off my failed marriage with Deacon, trust is all I’ve got.”

How could she know? How? Had Diego told her somehow?

Robby rubbed the back of his neck. He didn’t know what to say. “I know. I’d say I’m sorry, but that wouldn’t really mean much. It doesn’t even come close, does it? What’s done is done.”

“But are you sorry?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment.

“Look,” she said, “I realize it’s not a black-and-white thing. I understand it’s complicated. But if you love me, like you’ve said you do, then we have to be able to tell each other things like that. We can’t keep secrets.”

Robby rubbed his face with his free hand.

“I’ll make this easy,” she said. “You apologize for not telling me about your undercover op, and I’ll apologize for blowing your cover. I showed your picture to Guevara, I leaned on him. He made the connection, and . . . well, I just plain blew it.”

Robby’s head snapped so quickly toward her his neck popped. “Apologize for—” She doesn’t know. He sighed relief—then had to think fast before she read him. “Look,” he said, reaching out and taking her hand. “You don’t need to apologize. I disappeared. I—with a serial killer on the loose, threatening Jonathan, you must’ve assumed the worst. I’m the one who needs to apologize. So yes, I am sorry. Very sorry. I thought I was doing the right thing, but . . . I now know it—I should’ve just told you the truth.”

She looked at him, into his eyes, deeply. What was she thinking? He couldn’t tell. He was tired—no, exhausted.

“Will you accept my apology?” she said.

“For what?”

Vail appeared irritated she had to repeat her transgression. “For endangering your life, for nearly getting you killed.”

Normally she had a sense of what he was thinking. But right now, she apparently wasn’t getting a clear read.

“Tell you what,” he finally said. “Let’s forgive each other. Start with a clean slate.”

VAIL STUDIED HIS FACE. She loved this man. Was the trust issue something she could overlook? For now, yes. He apologized—and it seemed like he genuinely meant it. That was all she needed, to be able to relax her defenses and know there were no secrets between them. At least, that would be the case after Robby’s lunch tomorrow with Gifford.

Vail gently leaned her head against his. The emotional release of having Robby back, of touching him again, was like a river overrunning its banks. Tears spontaneously flooded her eyes and flowed down her cheeks. Whatever issues they still had to deal with were unimportant; they would work themselves out.

Robby wiped at her cheek with a thumb. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

But he fell silent, and as the seconds passed and he failed to elaborate, Vail pulled back and looked into his eyes. “What is it?”

“I . . . I . . . ” He looked down, hesitated, then brought his eyes up to hers and said, “I killed a man.”

She jutted her chin back. “The guy in the lake? C’mon, we’ve both killed people in the course of—”

“This wasn’t in the course of work. It happened a long time ago. When I was a teenager.”

Vail looked at him a long moment, searching his face. This is a confession . Certainly not something she was expecting. She cleared her throat and said, “Why?”

“Because he was a murderer, a gang banger, and a drug dealer.” Robby bit his bottom lip, teared up, and then looked down. “And because he killed my uncle.”

Vail chewed on that, looked off into the darkness, then brought her eyes back to Robby’s. She took his hand and squeezed.

“I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to lose you, I didn’t know what you’d think of me, I didn’t—”

Vail placed a finger on his mouth. “You already know what I think of you.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No buts. I study human behavior for a living, remember?” She moved her hand to his chest, over his heart. It beat fast and hard. “I know what’s in here, and that’s what matters.”

Robby took a deep breath, then wiped a tear from his eye.

“Truth is,” Vail said, “when I thought Mayfield was in Virginia, going after Jonathan . . . ” She stopped. What would I have done if he’d harmed my son? “Robby, if he’d—if Jonathan . . . I honestly don’t think I could’ve let the bastard live. Even spending the rest of his days in a prison cell, that’d have been too good for him.”

“What does that make us?”

She didn’t take long to answer. Given all she knew and had observed about behavior, this was a question that went back to the beginning of time. “It makes us human.”

“Human.” He seemed to ponder that a moment.

Vail stroked his forearm. “Now . . . soon as you’re released from the ER, we’ll get a room. I think we’re long overdue for a vacation.”

He looked up at her. “You’ve used up all your vacation time.”

Vail took his face in her hands. “I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.” Robby leaned forward and gently touched his lips to hers. “You know what they say. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

THIS WAS MY FIRST EXPERIENCE working with the Drug Enforcement Administration, and it was a tremendously positive one. My research opened my eyes to the enormity of the illicit drug trade and its pervasive role in our society, our neighborhoods, and our schools. Much of the profit from the drugs sold in the United States goes directly into funding terrorist activities at home and abroad.

Surprisingly, mainstream media and the political establishment haven’t kept the illicit drug problem at the forefront of our consciousness. Or perhaps it’s the other way around: we need to let our elected officials know that we’re aware of the damage drug trafficking causes, and we want them to use their powers to hamstring it. Unfortunately, the long-running nature of the “war on drugs” allows apathy to set in, forcing it to the background in the face of pressing economic, job, and security issues that demand our attention.

But there’s one group that does not shrug these issues aside. Ask any DEA agent, whose job it is to catch those involved in the illicit drug trade, and you’ll learn that these agents see their role as crusaders, tackling one battle at a time. We owe them a debt of gratitude for the dangerous work they perform, on our behalf, on a daily basis.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I RELY ON PROFESSIONALS in the real world for their knowledge base, perspective, and expertise that give my stories depth and credibility. For Velocity, I’d like to thank the following individuals:

At the Drug Enforcement Administration, I’ve had the good fortune to work with the following professionals: Paul Knierim, Supervisory Special Agent, whose real-world and undercover experience and explanations of the illicit drug trade, cartels, and DEA procedures were integral to my telling of the story. Agent Knierim’s review of the manuscript helped immensely in ensuring I had all my DEA i’s dotted and t’s crossed.

Steve Parinello, Special Agent, for his overview of the world of illicit drug trafficking, border enforcement, and DTOs; Rusty Payne, acting section chief of DEA Public Affairs Office, and Mary Irene Cooper, chief of Congressional and Public Affairs, for working with me to obtain DEA access; Meghan McCalla, public affairs, for facilitating my resource list; Amy Roderick, Special Agent, San Diego field division office, for San Diego area illicit drug information and a tour of the field division facility.

Dr. Sandra Rodriguez-Cruz, DEA senior forensic chemist, for information on the chemistry behind illicit drug trafficking and covert smuggling; for helping me understand the facts and realities that formed the underpinning of my ideas involving Superior Mobile Bottling; and for her thorough tour of the Southwest Laboratory. Scott R. Oulton, DEA laboratory director, Southwest Laboratory, for helping me obtain the information I needed and for the time he spent with me at the lab. Fracia Martinez, DEA forensic chemist, for making the initial introductions and setting me on the right path.

Greg Brenholdt, DEA Special Agent Pilot, for sharing his helicopter experiences and flying expertise with me, for his creative input, and for providing an easy-to-comprehend primer on piloting a helicopter.

John France, U.S. Border Patrol assistant chief patrol agent, former jump master for BORTAC (the Border Patrol’s special response team), who counseled me in the finer points of jumping from a helicopter. If Karen Vail knew John was responsible for that, she’d hunt him down and . . . well, it wouldn’t be pretty.

Jean Donaldson, captain, Napa County Sheriff’s Department, for once again serving as my Sheriff’s Department “knowledge base,” for expeditiously answering my technical questions, and for granting access to all areas of the department.

Mark Safarik, senior FBI profiler and Supervisory Special Agent (ret). I never tire of thanking Mark for his contributions to my novels. Mark’s attention to detail ensures that Vail’s behavioral analysis, FBI and law enforcement procedure, and terminology are correct. I treasure not only his nearly two decades of BAU tutelage but his special friendship.

Joe Ramos, lieutenant, San Diego Police Department, SWAT unit, for acquainting me with the SWAT training facility and tactical vehicles, and for reviewing SWAT procedure in detail with me. Thanks to Monica Munoz, PIO, for obtaining clearance for me. As with the DEA, I was extremely impressed with the tactical unit’s professionalism, dedication, and level of training. These officers do a very tough job, very well.

Carl Caulk, deputy assistant director, U.S. Marshals Service, Judicial Security Division, for his assistance with the WITSEC program.

Micheal Weinhaus, Special Agent, Immigration and Customs Enforcement, for information on warrants and proper search procedures (Karen Vail could learn a thing or two from Mike).

Jeffrey Jacobson. Yes, Velocity is dedicated to him, but he deserves to be acknowledged here, too. As the associate general counsel for the Federal Law Enforcement Officers Association and a former assistant U.S. attorney, he’s eminently qualified to answer questions about Border Patrol, ports of entry, canine handling, and search and seizure issues. One might say Jeff is “a jack of all federal law enforcement trades.” (I wouldn’t say that, but someone might.)

Keely Dodd, senior probation officer, Napa County Probation, for her assistance with selecting certain settings and locations in downtown Napa.

Gary Hyde, associate director, process engineering, at Mannkind Corporation, for his explanation of, and assistance with, the drug delivery method described in Velocity. Though BetaSomnol was fictitious, the concept behind it was not. Gary was a senior process engineer at a major pharmaceutical company that produced such (legal) “transdermals.”

At the Bellagio Hotel, Keith Fels, show control engineer in fountain control, was enormously helpful in walking me through the intricacies of the exquisite Bellagio fountains, the pump room, and fountain operation and maintenance; Mary Cabral and Kristen Lacer assisted me in attempting to gain access to restricted areas; Jason Harrison, Bellagio executive chef, and Mark Szczepanski, general manager of Jasmine Restaurant, for their descriptions and explanations regarding the “back of the house” and associated areas.

At CityCenter, I was assisted by Mariksa Quintana and Carolyn Leveque, who acquainted me with all aspects of the complex, its features, amenities, access roads, and connections.

David Pearson, CEO of Opus One, for assistance with establishing the legal timeline of wineries relative to Herndon Vineyards.

Ariana Peju of Peju Vineyards for information regarding TTB and California’s Alcohol and Beverage Control’s application process for starting a winery. I can’t say enough about the fine people (and fine wine) at Peju. In particular, a special acknowledgment goes to Herta and Tony Peju, Peter Verdin, Katie Vandermause, Alan Arnopole, Caroline King, Scott Neumann, and Robert Sherman for their assistance.

Tómas Palmer, software security consultant, for his technical musings and information pertaining to the workings of the LOWIS device.

Samantha McManus, communications manager, Microsoft Digital Crime Unit, for information on COFEE and PhotoDNA (yes, both are real).

Maury Gloster, M.D., for his medical counsel on the injuries sustained by John Mayfield, James Cannon, and Robby, including associated terminology and treatment outcomes.

Lisa Black, fellow author, who also happens to be a forensic scientist, for her assistance with Sandiego Ortega’s gunshot wound.

My old friend Steve Kitnick (okay, so he’s not that old), for shuttling me to/from, through and around the Green Valley Ranch Resort, and serving as my personal Las Vegas sidekick. Jeff Ayers, friend and author, for once again going way beyond the call of duty while ferrying me around Seattle.

The exceptional people at Vanguard Press: Roger Cooper, publisher, Georgina Levitt, associate publisher, and Amanda Ferber, publishing manager. It’s a pleasure to work with three very professional and talented individuals; Peter Costanzo, and the entire Vanguard sales force and production staff, whose tireless efforts behind the scenes are responsible for getting my novels into the hands of my readers; Jennifer Ballot, my publicist, who worked her tail off to make my Crush tour a success—no small effort in today’s bookselling climate.

Kevin Smith, my editor. Working with Kevin is like applying a coat of Meguiar’s premium wax to a Bentley: when you’re done, the car sparkles and looks damn fine. Michael Connelly said “Alan Jacobson is my kind of writer”; Kevin Smith is Alan Jacobson’s kind of editor.

Chrisona Schmidt, my copy editor. Having a skilled copy editor is invaluable, and Chrisona is one of the best I’ve ever worked with. Cisca Schreefel and Renee Caputo, my project editors. Cisca and Renee made sure all parts of the production puzzle came together in an orderly fashion. It’s a huge undertaking, and I appreciate all their efforts.

C. J. Snow, for his thorough review of the manuscript. Although it’s not his profession, C. J. is a skilled copy editor with an exceptional eye. His markup is first-rate and much appreciated.

My agents, Joel Gotler and Frank Curtis, Esq. There is no substitute for their decades of experience. Their guidance, opinions, and input mean a great deal to me.

My wife, Jill, who also serves as my sounding board, first-line editor, and brutally honest critic. Jill is an avid reader of the genre, but because she approaches characters and situations differently than I do, she gives me a perspective I may not always see. Writing aside, she means the world to me.

Thanks, as well, to those who went above and beyond to help sell my books:

Jane Willoughby and Ingram Losner for their extraordinary work in San Diego, and Wayne and Julia Rudnick for their Herculean efforts in Arizona. Samantha McManus and James Patton at Microsoft for all their efforts in helping me launch Crush.

Len Rudnick, my uncle, for ushering me to and around Phoenix like no other media escort could. Between the tours for The 7th Victim, Crush, and Velocity, we’ve amassed some great memories. I’ll always cherish the time we spent together. Melodie Hilton, director of marketing and public relations, Napa Valley Wine Train, for making the Wine Train available to us for filming, and for arranging our Wine Train book signing event. K. R. Rombauer for his hospitality and for allowing us to film in Rhombauer’s extensive wine cave.

Gretchen Pahia, Larry Comacho, Bill Thompson; Tom Hedtke, Beth O’Connor, Vicky Lorini; Colleen Holcombe; Douglas Thompson; Russell Ilg; John Hutchinson, Virginia Lenneville; Jean Coggan, Kristine Williams; Alex Telander; Jeff Bobby; Donna Powers, Pamela Ervin; Covahgin Van Dyk; J. Paul Deason, Betsy Ostrow; Marlee Soulard; Chris Acevedo (and Sophie), Daniel Piel; Maryelizabeth Hart, Terry Louchheim Gilman, Patrick Heffernan, Lori Burns, Linda Tonnesen; Barbara Peters, Lorri Amsden, Patrick Millikin; Bobby McCue, Linda Brown, Pam Woods, Kirk Pasich; J. B. Dickey, Fran Fuller; Joan Hansen; April Lilley, Christine Hilferty; Marc Hernandez and Ronny Peskin; Kara Schneider, Dena Roy, Valerie Burnside; Greg Hill; Lisa Haynes; Teresa McClatchy; Laura Sylvia, Marisa Ferche; Jessie Portlock; Joe Wilder; Mandi Holstrom; Tracy Puhl; Marsha Toy Engstrom and her “Hoodies”; Michael Troyan; Deborah Lee; Keith Kilby, John Keese, Nathan Spradlin; Marc Stiles; Patrick Malloy.

Marvin Kamras; John Hartman; Andrea Ragan; Russell and Marion Weis; Corey Jacobson; Mikel London, Andrew Gulli; Lindsay Preston, Brendan Twardy, Geof Pelaia, Stephen Mlinarcik, Virginia Matri, and the College of Art and Design in Cleveland, Ohio.

To my readers . . . As always, thanks for your support, for spreading the word about Alan Jacobson’s novels to friends, family members, neighbors, colleagues, book clubs, and bloggers. I promise to always try my best to entertain you with unique characters and interesting stories. Come out and see me sometime at one of my signings, or check out my Web site and Facebook fan page. I’m here for you.

As always, I conducted exhaustive research in an attempt to ensure accuracy. If I’ve blown some fact, it’s my responsibility, not that of the individuals mentioned above. Likewise, if I’ve accidentally omitted someone, please forgive me (and let me know, so I can correct it).

Due to its sensitive nature, certain aspects of SWAT procedure may or may not have been altered to protect those in the field. Likewise, certain DEA operational procedures and capabilities or locations may have been modified to protect those who are risking their lives to keep us safe. However, all other information, including that regarding drug-related statistics, methods of transportation and subterfuge used by the cartels, the pervasiveness of illicit drugs, and other such information included in Velocity are accurate to my knowledge at the time of this writing.

In a few instances of hotel/casino layout, I’ve taken some minor literary license for both security and dramatic reasons.

About Margot, Roxxann Dixon’s white standard poodle . . . My wife and I are proud owners of two standards, one of which came from a local rescue organization and one from a breeder in North Carolina. The latter’s mother, Margot, recently passed away unexpectedly. She was not just a champion on the show circuit, but a special dog with tremendous intellect and personality, which she passed on to our big guy. Margot has been, and will be, missed. Dixon’s fictitious poodle is named in the real Margot’s honor.

Copyright © 2010 by Alan Jacobson