“This brings back memories,” he said, adjusting the Velcro straps on the vest. “I wore one of these in my starring role in Taken 3.”
“I don’t remember seeing you in that movie,” Tom said. “Who did you play?”
“Thug number twenty-seven,” Boyd said. “I was shot five times by Liam Neeson, but most of my performance was lost due to the director’s terrible staging.”
“In other words,” Kate said, “the camera was on Neeson instead of you.”
“The man is a camera hog,” Boyd said. “Everybody in the business knows that. He robbed the audience of my indelible performance.”
“That won’t be an issue tomorrow,” Kate said. “I guarantee you’ll have everyone’s attention.”
“But it won’t be on camera,” Boyd said. “From my professional prospective it’s unfortunate that we have to come at the casino from angles that will obscure our faces from security cameras.”
“Not unless you’d like to be doing dinner theater in a prison cafeteria for the next five to ten years.”
“The long run and captive audience is appealing to me,” Boyd said. “But the venue leaves a lot to be desired.”
Kate moved on to Jake, who was cleaning an M16, one of a half dozen rifles laid out on a table in front of him.
“That’s more weapons than we’re going to need,” Kate said.
“You can never have too many weapons,” Jake said.
“Does that mean you brought your rocket launcher?”
“It’s in the trunk of my car in case of a roadside emergency.”
“What kind of roadside emergency would require a rocket launcher?” she asked.
“You don’t want to find out and not have one handy,” Jake said. “It’s also why you should always have a paper clip in your pocket. You can do just about anything with a paper clip.”
She gave her dad a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t ever change.”
“That’s a given,” Jake said.
Willie popped the hood on a beige panel van parked behind them and examined the engine. Kate joined Willie at the front of the van.
“What are you looking for?” Kate asked.
“I’m checking the belts, fluids, and plugs one more time. I’d hate to have this barge crap out on me when we need to make our fast getaway. I don’t see why we couldn’t use a Mercedes G500 AMG or a 7 Series BMW 760Li M Sport instead.”
“Because we wanted a vehicle that would blend in,” Kate said. “Not stand out.”
“When Boyd, Chet, and Jake start shooting from the van with M16s, we’re going to stand out anyway,” Willie said. “We might as well be cradled in soft, Veneto Beige Nappa leather with a raging V-12 twin turbo under the hood when we do the drive-by.”
“Look at the upside,” Kate said. “You get to drive recklessly at blazing speed through gunfire and flames.”
“That is my favorite kind of driving,” she said. “But it goes much better with a sexy ride.”
“You can’t have it all,” Kate said.
“At least I won’t be the one driving with a corpse,” Willie said.
Everyone looked at Nick, who stood facing three whiteboards on easels. The boards were covered with photos of the VIP entrance at the back of the Côte d’Argent casino and street maps of the surrounding area.
Kate walked up beside him. “Going over the choreography in your mind one more time?”
“Trace put the VIP entrance to Côte d’Argent behind the building to provide some privacy for high rollers and celebrities. It’s on the southwest side of the building facing this industrial park. There’s almost no vehicle or pedestrian traffic on the two side streets that intersect at that corner. He also built an eight-foot-high wall of black marble and cascading water that curves along the corner for additional privacy. All of that gives me confidence that we can control the situation.”
As he spoke, he pointed on the map to South Merton Street, which ran along the west end of the Côte d’Argent property and continued down through the industrial area where they were now. South Merton Street intersected with West Norbert, which ended in a cul-de-sac a block east of Côte d’Argent.
Nick tapped the cul-de-sac. “That’s where the van will be waiting.” He pointed to the southwest corner of the intersection, where he’d taped a photograph to the map. The picture showed the storm drain at the corner, and the low cinder block wall that bordered a parking lot. “And that’s where the action ends.”
“For you,” Kate said. “I’ve still got to talk Trace into turning himself in to the FBI. I wish you and I could switch roles.”
“You make a much more convincing FBI agent than I do.”
“That might be true, but smooth talking people is your specialty, not mine.”
“You’re not smooth talking him,” Nick said. “You’re tough talking him. That won’t be too hard after what he’s going to see.”
“What if he still doesn’t fold?”
“He will as soon as he hears that the Yakuza is coming for him. Worst-case scenario, it takes another day or two for him to run to the FBI for protection.”
“If the Yakuza doesn’t kill him first,” Kate said.
Nick shrugged. “At least he won’t be in business anymore.”
Trace had been back in Las Vegas for almost a week. During that time, he’d often studied the four puncture marks on the back of his hand and thought about Kate Porter. She was smart, beautiful, cunning, devious, and violent. She could take a beating and inflict one with gusto. He’d found women who possessed some of those qualities before, but never one who embodied them all so spectacularly. Thinking about her had him practically bursting out of his Calvins.
So as he sat at his million-dollar desk in his high-rise office that morning, he thought about stabbing his hand with his letter opener. He thought a fresh wound might be just the thing to match the ache in his privates.
That’s when he saw Kate’s face appear in one of the dozens of live security camera images that flitted across his touch-screen tabletop. It was as if she’d been conjured up by his desire.
Trace immediately expanded her image with his fingertips so it filled half the desk. Kate had just entered the high-limit room, where a few Japanese gamblers were bleeding yen at poker. He zoomed in on her. She wore a long charcoal-colored linen blazer, a loose-fitting white blouse, skinny blue jeans, and leather lace-up combat boots. It was a good look for her that projected sensuality, professionalism, and just a hint of aggression.
Trace watched Niles Goodwell waddle up to Kate to greet her. Trace tapped the “Goodwell” icon on his tabletop and Goodwell immediately reached inside his coat pocket to answer his vibrating cellphone. Before Goodwell could say a word, Trace told him to send her up…alone.
“Right away, sir,” Goodwell replied.
Goodwell pocketed his phone and led Kate toward the door to Trace’s private dining room. Inside was a private elevator that would take her up to his office.
Kate glanced at the security camera as they passed under it and she gave it a sly smile. Trace felt an instant buzz of erotic anticipation. Amazing things were about to happen, he was sure of that. She hadn’t traveled to Las Vegas to reject him.
He got up and went to the elevator, timing his arrival so he got to the doors as they slid open.
“Kate,” he said. “This is a surprise.”
“I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“You’ve disturbed me ever since you pointed a gun in my face,” he said.
“But you like it.”
“I do,” he said.
Kate walked past him into the vast office, her eyes roaming over the sunken conversation area, the long bar, and the two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows behind his high-tech desk. Trace thought she was like a soldier identifying potential threats and escape routes. Spring-coiled for violence. And for Trace, that was a mating call.
“You’re accepting my offer?” he asked.
“I came to discuss it. You didn�
��t mention salary or benefits.”
“Name your price.”
“I won’t negotiate with myself. Hold out your hand.”
She drew a lighter from her pocket, flicked it on, and held the flame about an inch below his palm.
“This stays lit until we agree on a price,” she said. “And benefits.”
“I’d think the benefits would be obvious.”
“If you want to play it that way your hand is going to get cooked. If you move your hand away from the flame before we have a deal, I’m gone.”
He smiled. The flame was like Viagra. “Half a million dollars a year, an apartment in Macau, and a car allowance.”
“That isn’t even minimum wage for me. Try harder.”
He couldn’t get any harder.
“One million dollars, the apartment, the car, free use of the private jet.”
Dear Lord, she wished he would negotiate faster. If this went on much longer, she’d throw up.
“I don’t want to be just an employee,” she said, holding the flame steady and looking right into his eyes. “I want to share in the success of the enterprise.”
A blister was forming on his palm, but the only sensations he was feeling were in his pants.
“I’ll throw in a hundred-thousand-dollar bonus for each percentage point increase in Monde d’Argent’s annual revenue. Plus full medical coverage, with no deductible, and an annual contribution of eight and a half percent of your salary, including bonuses, to your pension plan.”
She flicked off the lighter. “You have a deal.”
Trace wanted her more in that moment than he’d ever wanted any woman in his life. The only reason he didn’t grab her was that he was afraid she’d break his jaw out of reflex.
“Don’t you want to hear about the benefits?” he asked.
“I thought you already outlined the benefits.”
“I left the big one out,” he said.
Before he could demonstrate, a buzzer went off on his desk. It wasn’t a sound he could ignore. It was the red alert. Even his desk was blinking red, indicating the severity of the situation. Trace hurried over and touched the tabletop, deactivating the sound and light and simultaneously answering a call on the speaker from the VIP lobby.
It was Tara, the red-haired VIP desk hostess. “Nick Sweet is down here, sir,” she said, her voice quavering with fear and from the effort of trying not to show it.
“Damn,” Kate said, coming up beside Trace. “He’s smarter than I thought.”
“He’s quite agitated,” Tara said. “He’s disarmed Guido, the doorman, and he’s threatening to shoot the ice sculpture unless you and Ms. Porter come down here.”
Trace tapped a button on his table, bringing up the security camera feed from the VIP lobby. Kate leaned over his shoulder as Nick came up onscreen, aiming Guido’s Smith & Wesson .38 at the ice sculpture of a hawk grabbing a rabbit in its talons. With his free hand, Nick helped himself to a cheesy canapé from the tray beside the sculpture.
Nick’s behavior made no sense to Trace. “Doesn’t he know the sculpture is going to melt anyway?”
“It’s a stunt, Evan. He wants our attention. Don’t send any security men down there, it will just escalate the situation. I’ll handle it. Besides, it’s my job now.”
“I can’t tell you how much it pleases me to hear you say that.”
Great, Kate thought. And it would please me if he didn’t have such an obvious boner.
“Good grief,” she said, losing the fight not to glare at it.
Trace was glad she’d noticed.
—
Kate was relieved that Nick had successfully disarmed the doorman. As far as they knew, Guido was the only person packing a gun in the VIP lobby. If another weapon was stashed somewhere in the lobby, Kate could deal with it.
She and Trace rode the small private elevator down to his dining room. As the two of them hurried out of the dining room, through the high-roller salon, and past the Japanese poker players, Jake gave Kate an update on her earbud. He was outside monitoring the police band from the van.
“No one has reported any trouble at Côte d’Argent to the police. Somebody has stolen a Las Vegas tour chopper, there’s a car accident on the Strip, and there’s a liquor store robbery in progress downtown, so the police have their hands full anyway,” Jake said. “We’re in position and ready to go. Good luck, everyone.”
Kate and Trace crossed the casino floor and paused for a moment at the door leading to the VIP lobby. It was all riding on her now.
“Keep it casual and friendly,” Kate told Trace. “Pretend the gun isn’t there.”
—
Trace strolled in first, trying hard to appear completely relaxed. The truth was his sphincters were so tight, he feared it might take the Jaws of Life to open them again.
Tara, Guido, the bellman, and two other hostesses stood to his right with their backs against the wall. Their eyes were on Nick, who stood in the center of the lobby with his right arm outstretched, holding the gun on the sculpture. There was a tray on the floor and several broken crystal flutes in a puddle of spilled champagne.
“Hello, Nick,” Trace said as jovially as he could. Kate stepped up beside Trace.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said.
“I’m disappointed in you, Kate,” Nick said. “I didn’t think you’d jump ship like this. I couldn’t believe it when I got your note saying you were coming here to hook up with this jerk.”
“It’s not a hook-up,” Trace said. “I’ve offered her a position with my company.”
“That doesn’t make it any better,” Nick said.
“C’mon, Nick,” Trace said. “We’ve had much worse misunderstandings than this and moved past them.”
“Do you really want to remind me of that while I have a gun in my hand?” Nick asked.
Yes, he did. Trace wanted to show Nick that he could be forgiving, too, though the truth was that he wasn’t forgiving at all. Very soon, Mr. Garver would be taking a mallet to Nick’s hands for this insult. Trace might even invite Kate to watch. Maybe he’d even encourage Garver to take the mallet to a second, even more sensitive body part. That would be strictly for Kate’s watching pleasure. And, of course, it would keep Nick permanently out of the bedroom competition.
“Evan is right, it’s nothing personal,” Kate said. “I saw a career opportunity and I took it.”
“You betrayed me,” Nick said.
“I’m tired of living like a gypsy,” Kate said. “I wanted something steady and lucrative. That wasn’t ever going to happen with you.”
“I know you’re upset,” Trace said to Nick. “But nothing has really changed in the grand scheme of things. Your junket business is still welcome here. You’ll still work closely with Kate. The only difference is that you won’t have to split your take with a partner anymore.”
“You haven’t just taken my partner,” Nick said.
I’ve taken your lover, Trace thought. Trace tried not to smirk. Yes, he definitely would have Garver take a mallet to Nick’s nuts. He might even do it himself.
Nick took a step closer to him, so they were almost nose to nose. “You’ve also taken the money that Shane Blackmore, Lou Ould-Abdallah, and Lono Alika would have run through my junket and convinced them instead to secretly invest in Monde d’Argent with their gambling losses.”
If Trace had a smirk, it was gone now. It was as if Nick had slapped it right off his face.
“How do you know about that?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” Nick flipped open the cylinder of the .38, emptied the bullets out on the floor, and set the gun beside the sculpture. “I’d wish you two a happy life together, but I know that it’s not in the cards.”
Nick smiled, helped himself to another canapé, and walked outside to a black Audi A8 that was parked at the door.
Nick’s words were ringing in Trace’s ears. Who had talked? Surely, not all three of them. Why would they do that?
Kate followed Nick outside and Trace followed Kate, watching as Nick got into his car and drove around the motor court toward the street. A beige panel van screeched out in front of the driveway. The van’s side door slid open and three men with M16s began shooting. One of the men was Shane Blackmore…and he was aiming his M16 at Trace.
Kate shoved Trace to the ground just as a spray of bullets raked Nick’s car. The Audi was positioned between them and the street. If it hadn’t been, Trace knew he would have been killed. Kate had saved his life, instantly earning her pay for the year.
Nick sped out of the driveway and into the intersection, fishtailing in front of the van, bullets riddling his car, shattering his windows, and blowing out one of his tires. He lost control of the Audi, jumped the next curb, and slammed into a low cinder block wall, the trunk of the car popping open on impact.
To Trace’s astonishment, Kate reached under her jacket, whipped out a Glock, and began firing at the speeding van. The three shooters continued to pummel the disabled Audi with bullets.
Her steady fire drew Blackmore’s attention. The enraged mobster whirled around to spray her with his M16 and Kate shot him three times in the chest. They were great shots, a perfect center mass cluster, and Trace saw the disbelief on Blackmore’s face. The mobster tumbled backward into the fleeing van just as the Audi exploded in a massive fireball.
The force of the blast shattered the lobby windows behind Trace and knocked Kate off her feet. She kept on shooting as she fell, holding her aim steady on the van, which screeched past Nick’s car and disappeared behind a veil of smoke and flames.
All of the gunshots that were fired during the shootout were blanks. The bullets striking the Audi, the van, and Boyd were illusions, created by tiny charges that Chet ignited by remote control from his seat in the van. It was like another day at work for Chet, only without the cameras, the lights, or the catering.
Nick had opened the trunk on the Audi after the crash to block the rear window so that he could slip out through the escape hatch in the floor, and on through the breakaway manhole cover below, without being seen. He was safely in the sewer when Chet blew up the car with the cadaver inside. The blast was calculated to be strong enough to mangle the car and any evidence of a trapdoor.
The Scam Page 19