The Serpent's Kiss

64

As Derek moved past Calloway, the FBI agent kicked the crutch out from under him. With a curse, Derek slammed into the ground.

Calloway leaned over him. “Derek, stick it up your ass. I’m not letting you in there without a suit. And I doubt you could beat me in a fight without the crutches, so don’t even think about trying all lamed up.”

Derek glared at him, then abruptly burst out laughing. “Dammit, Andy. Help me up, then.”

Calloway shook his head. “Promise me, no screwing around. By the book in there. If this guy’s a booby-trap kind of guy, he might be more happy trying to knock off the agents and firefighters who go in after the so-called false alarm instead of the gamblers. You know the kind.”

“I promise.”

“By the book, Derek.”

“I said I promise.”

Calloway helped Derek to his feet, returned his crutches, and led him over to the tent that had been set up off to one side of the entrance. There was an FBI agent and two Detroit cops guarding it, demanding I.D.

“My suit’s back around the corner,” said Derek.

“Sure,” Calloway said with a grin. “How about I just run on over there and get it and leave you here to twiddle your thumbs. You promise to stay put?”

Derek grinned back at him. “Not buying that, huh?”

“We’ve got spares, as you know. Come on, Derek. Don’t be such a cowboy. You helped write these regs. Try following them from time to time.”

“Rules are meant to be broken,” Derek said, following Calloway into the tent. “That’s why I’m so involved in writing them.”

“I bet.”

Calloway helped him into a suit, then checked that all the seams were sealed. He handed Derek back the crutch. “Z is in charge in there. I replace Fanconi when he comes out.”

“Make sure nobody gets in here without authorization,” Derek said. “You know what happened to McMillan.”

Calloway nodded. “I know. Take care.”

Slowly, even more awkwardly than usual, Derek hobbled in the spacesuit through the doors of the casino. It was large and open, more ornate than he expected, with a kind of quasi-Mediterranean theme going. Greek, he supposed, or at least, the kind of Greek you create in a casino for people that have never been to Greece.

As he moved through the casino, looking for other space-suited figures, he noted the peculiarity of it all. The bright neon of the electronic games, cups of coins and tokens still sitting on the screens. They beeped and burped and whirred, waiting to be fed more money. Someone in a white suit moved toward him. When he got close, he saw it was Agent Mitch Fanconi, Calloway’s replacement. Fanconi approached him. Through his faceplate Derek saw a sweaty, dark-skinned face and dark eyes. Fanconi said, “That you, Derek?”

“It’s me.”

“Missed you at Scott Hall. Could’ve used the extra body.”

“Off chasing leads.”

“Lucky you. I hear you’re behind the call here?”

“Yes. Anything?”

Fanconi shook his head. “I don’t know whether to be thankful or not. Was this a solid lead?”

“Very.”

“Good. Gray probably won’t think so. He’s got it out for you. Any special reason?”

“Now, yes. Before Scott Hall, no. Doesn’t like outsiders, I guess.”

Fanconi laughed. “You’re not an outsider to us, and you know it. You can cover my back anytime. You need help with Gray or those upcoming hearings, you just call me.”

“Thanks. Where is everybody?”

“Zoelig suited up the casino’s head of security. He’s taking Z through all the hiding places for security, you know, the eye-in-the-sky shit.”

“Big Brother’s watching,” Derek said.

“Got that right. Talk to you on the flip side.” Fanconi patted him on the shoulder and moved on.

Derek trudged forward, running into Zoelig and the security guy in what he presumed was the poker room, based on the poker tables, cards and chips scattered across the green felt. The security guy looked one step from a nervous breakdown. Derek wasn’t surprised. The spacesuits were claustrophobic as hell. Newbies always had problems before they adjusted. Sometimes people couldn’t adjust. And sometimes people who worked in hot zones developed claustrophobia and had to quit.

Derek had never had problems with claustrophobia. Fear of death. Fear of his suit springing a leak. Fear of cutting his suit. Fear of opening his suit at the wrong time. Fear of screwing up in a hundred different ways, yes. But fear of the suit, never.

Zoelig shifted awkwardly. “Derek?”

“Yeah. That’s me. Any luck?”

“No. Hear you called this in.”

“Guilty.”

“What’s your lead?”

“I want to know that, too,” said the security chief. He was a doughy-looking guy, bald, his round face pale and slick with sweat through his suit’s faceplate. “But I want to get the fuck out of this suit first.”

“Straight out and to the left,” Zoelig said. “They’ll wash you down first before you can get out of the suit. That’s important.”

“Yeah, sure.” The security director shuffled away.

Zoelig turned to him. “Tell me.”

The two men stood side-by-side, faceplates touching. Derek shouted to be heard over the fan, explaining.

Zoelig nodded. “Good call. Very good call, Derek. Gray’s going to freak if we don’t find anything, though.”

“Not really, he won’t,” Derek said. “He can blame it all on me. He’s been setting me up that way all day.”

Zoelig shrugged. “You noticed that, did you?”

“I’m the perfect sacrificial lamb, Z. If everything goes to hell, it’s not the SAC’s fault, it’s that damn troubleshooter from DHS. He screwed things up.”

“Yeah. You been covering your ass, then?”

Derek laughed.

Zoelig snorted. “Figures. When will you learn?”

“Never, probably. Let’s go see if we can find something that might go boom or hiss around here.”

“Haven’t checked the restaurant yet.”

“Let’s go, then.”