“Oh, you know middle kids,” Milo said. “Always looking for a way to make their mark. I’ve heard that Mama and Papa Park aren’t thrilled about any of this, though.”
“They don’t approve of gambling?”
“They don’t approve of working with Russians and Mexicans.”
Dominic frowned. That couldn’t be true; the Park family had been allied with the Collective for years. Their collaboration with Los Avispones was more recent but still well established. Even if these underground casinos were a new venture, collaboration between those organizations wasn’t.
“All bets are in,” said the dealer. “Live players, please show your hands.”
Dominic laid out two of his four cards—the ace and five of clubs. Three of the five community cards were also clubs, and while the cards weren’t consecutive, it still netted him an ace-high flush.
His combination was the highest ranked of the remaining players. Groans and good-natured cursing sounded around the table. Dominic grinned, the case temporarily forgotten under a heady rush of pride and satisfaction.
A couple of hours later, he stepped away from the table to use the bathroom. His cell rang while he was washing his hands.
He didn’t recognize the number, but the bathroom was private and insulated from the tell-tale noises of the casino, so there was no danger in answering it.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Russo? This is Rohan Chaudhary. I’m sorry to call so late—I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all,” Dominic said with some surprise. “What can I do for you?”
“I was hoping to arrange a meeting with you like we discussed earlier this week. Something informal. Over lunch, perhaps?”
He had a pleasant voice, soft but not breathy. Dominic reviewed his schedule in his head and said, “How about Sunday? If you don’t mind working on the weekend, that is.”
“It’s no problem,” said Rohan. “Since you’re the local, I’ll leave the choice of venue to you. Just text me where and when and I’ll meet you there.”
“Sure. I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”
“Thank you. Have a good night, Mr. Russo.”
“You can call me Dominic.”
“Dominic,” Rohan said quietly. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
Dominic ended the call and put his phone away, but as he reached for the doorknob, it rang again. He pulled it out of his pocket, thinking Rohan must have forgotten something, only to see Levi’s name on the caller ID.
He hesitated, his thumb hovering over the screen. Could he risk talking to Levi while he was here? The casino noise might not be audible from inside the bathroom, but what if something in his voice tipped Levi off? The last thing he needed was to raise his cop boyfriend’s suspicions.
He silenced the ringer rather than rejecting the call so that Levi wouldn’t know what he’d done. Then he shoved the phone into his pocket and returned to his game.
“This is one hot mess,” Martine said as she contemplated the board she and Levi had created to track the past week’s incidents.
He grunted agreement. They had begun by laying out the interactions between the three organizations, using pushpins and string: The Parks and Los Avispones cooperated in the drug trade. Los Avispones and the Slavic Collective were both involved in arms dealing and prostitution, while the Collective and the Parks coordinated their white-collar financial crime enterprises. It made for a nice neat triangle.
Then they had laid the saboteur’s actions on top. Inciting a confrontation between Dubicki and Yu had looked like the Collective going after the Parks. The drive-by shooting had Los Avispones gunning down the Collective; the hit-and-run, in turn, had been staged as if the Parks had targeted Los Avispones. Finally, the faked tip-off to the Seven of Spades had again looked like Los Avispones taking action against the Collective.
The web had no discernible pattern. Each organization appeared to have launched an attack, and each had been targeted.
“Is it just me,” Levi said, “or does it look less like this person has a well-thought-out plan and more like they’re flailing around blindly and hoping something sticks?”
“Mmm. It’s not even sticking well. I’ve been asking around—discreetly—and there’ve been rumblings and tension on the street, but no openly hostile moves. The organizations involved aren’t falling for it. They know something’s fishy.”
“That only means the saboteur’s actions are going to ramp up in aggression and intensity until they achieve their objective.” He leaned against the side of the conference room table and let out a frustrated sigh. “Which is what? We know these were inside jobs. What would motivate someone to undermine their own organization along with the others?”
“The same things that motivate most crimes,” said Martine. “Revenge. Self-protection. Greed.”
“You think someone inside one of these groups stands to profit from a gang war?”
“It’s possible.”
“Or they could be including their own organization in the attacks just to disguise their identity. Cold-blooded, but effective.”
She contemplated the board, chewing her lower lip. “What about ideology?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Organized crime traditionally runs along divisive racial and ethnic lines. But these groups have a history of cooperation. Maybe someone takes issue with that strongly enough to prefer burning the whole thing down.”
“The problem is that we don’t know enough about the players involved to even hazard a guess.” Levi rubbed the bridge of his nose. “This is where inside information would be helpful.”
That information would have to come from Organized Crime, though, which wasn’t an option. Gang Crimes could probably help, but if they knew, word would get back to OC sooner rather than later, and Levi and Martine would be ordered to cease their investigation.
“Looks like we’re hitting the streets,” Martine said.
That was how Levi spent his Friday—dropping in on informants, parolees, and other known criminals around the city, none of whom were happy to see him. He had doors slammed in his face, curses spat at him, and beer cans hurled at his head, and was greeted everywhere he went with a chorus of unambiguous loathing. And through all that, he didn’t learn a single useful thing.
He called it quits in the early evening; he just didn’t have it in him to continue pushing this boulder up a never-ending hill. As he drove back to the substation, heading south on Koval Lane to avoid the thicker traffic on the parallel Strip, his mind kept straying to the thought that the Seven of Spades might be able to find out more about the saboteur than he could.
That was a dangerous idea.
The alert tone on his radio sounded, signaling a hot call, which required any nearby unit to respond. “4455 Paradise Road, shots fired, two officers down,” the dispatcher said. “Suspect is a Caucasian male, six feet, one hundred eighty pounds, wearing a black hoodie and gray sweatpants.”
4855 Paradise Road—that was the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino. Levi was only a minute away.
He responded to the call, hit the gas, and hung a quick left onto East Harmon Avenue. He barreled down the road and turned left again, cutting across traffic to enter one side of the hotel’s massive semicircular front lot.
A porte cochere jetted out from the casino entrance, crowned with the Hard Rock’s signature giant guitar statue. Levi made a tight U-turn, parked at the curb, and sprang out of his car, flashing his badge at the startled valet before hurrying through the glass doors.
Inside the lobby, he took a moment to adjust to the dizzying swirls of the purple carpet and the confused babble of the packed casino. The hotel guards and a couple of uniformed cops were beginning evacuation attempts but not making much progress.
After Levi notified dispatch that he’d arrived, she said, “Two Henry five copy. All units responding to the shooting at the Hard Rock be advised that plainclothes units are present.”
The l
ast report that had come over the radio indicated the shooter was in the northeast part of the complex. Levi jogged through the casino and down a long hallway between an eclectic mix of restaurants, bars, and retail shops. The people here were even less alarmed than those in the casino—they might not have heard about the shooter yet.
As soon as the thought had crossed his mind, he heard several panicked screams behind him. He whirled around to see people fleeing an armed man who had just emerged from a stairwell thirty feet down the hallway. The man stood in profile to Levi, but he fit the suspect’s description.
“Police!” Levi shouted, drawing his own gun. “Drop your weapon.”
The man turned to aim at Levi—and they both froze.
Levi recognized his picture from Leila’s file. This was Nick Bryce, the contract killer who had shot Drew Barton for the Seven of Spades.
Bryce clearly recognized Levi as well; his lips parted as his eyes flew wide. Then, incongruously, he smiled.
Before Levi could react, Bryce took off in the opposite direction. Levi cursed and sprinted after him.
Bryce darted into Pink Taco, a festive Mexican cantina with multicolored lights strung overhead and Spanish movie posters plastered on the walls. Levi chased him down the center aisle and out onto the patio, where the wall murals had a Día de los Muertos theme. With Levi closing fast, Bryce hopped the railing right into the hotel’s sprawling central pool complex.
The pool which, while in the process of closing for the evening, was full of hundreds of innocent people.
Levi hurdled the railing as well, then followed Bryce up a set of stairs leading to an elevated walkway that crossed over one of the pools and blended into the lush tropical landscaping. Guests cried out in alarm and scrambled to get clear. At the end of the walkway, Levi jumped the stairs, skidded on the slick stone, and continued running the second he caught his balance.
Bryce ran through a sheltered outdoor bar, shoving people aside and knocking a barstool into Levi’s path. Levi leapt over it and continued gaining ground.
They emerged on the outskirts of a second pool, one with a genuine sand beach and rows of cushy daybeds. People screamed and scattered in every direction, abandoning their belongings, as Levi and Bryce wound through the daybeds and onto the beach with their guns still in hand.
On the far side of the pool, an armed hotel guard yelled, “Stop or I’ll shoot!” and Bryce raised his own gun in response.
There were people everywhere. If either of them missed . . .
Levi put on one more desperate burst of speed and launched himself into a flying tackle, grabbing Bryce around the waist. They both rolled into the pool.
He lost his gun as they hit the water and could only hope the same had happened to Bryce. Disoriented and weighed down by his sodden suit, he floundered in the shallows.
Bryce’s lighter clothes gave him an edge. By the time Levi pushed himself onto his knees, gasping for air, Bryce was standing above him. Caught unprepared, he couldn’t defend himself against a vicious punch that knocked him sideways back into the water.
He struck out with his foot, aiming for Bryce’s knee, but Bryce scooped his leg aside with one hand and threw a second punch with the other. Levi deflected this one, following it with a sweep of his leg to Bryce’s ankle. The water neutralized most of the force the move would have on dry land, but it was enough to make Bryce stumble backward.
That gave Levi time to get to his feet and kick again, slamming his foot into Bryce’s chest. They both staggered out of the pool and onto the beach.
Hands up, they circled each other warily. Levi ignored the surrounding commotion. He couldn’t let himself be distracted for a single moment.
Nick Bryce was a former Green Beret and had kept his skills sharp since his discharge. This wouldn’t be an easy fight. The environment only made matters worse; the uneven sand created treacherous footing, and Levi’s soaking-wet suit dragged on every limb. At least with any luck, the hotel guards would know better than to shoot at Bryce while Levi was engaging him.
Bryce surged forward with a flurry of quick, powerful strikes. Levi blocked and counterattacked, staying off-center and light on his feet as they exchanged blows. After a few frustrating passes, he connected with a solid right cross, rocking Bryce back on his heels—but he wasn’t fast enough to avoid getting clipped with a left hook that rattled his brain.
Pressing the advantage, Bryce grasped Levi’s tie and yanked him forward. Levi trapped Bryce’s hand against his own chest, punched him in the throat, smashed his same-side knee into Bryce’s balls, and then snapped his left elbow forward to whip across Bryce’s face, all in less than three seconds.
He heard a crack followed by a cry of pain as Bryce lurched away. He’d definitely broken something—a cheekbone, or maybe Bryce’s jaw.
He advanced, intending to capitalize on the opportunity he’d created, but Bryce didn’t succumb so easily. Glaring at Levi with murder in his eyes, Bryce snatched a backpack off one of the pool towels and lobbed it at Levi’s face.
Levi dodged, lost his footing in the sand, and tripped. Though he didn’t fall, it gave Bryce an opening. He scooped up the backpack and used it as a shield to block Bryce’s next few blows before kicking him in the groin.
Snarling, Bryce seized the backpack’s straps and swung Levi around. Levi realized his intention and let go, but it was too late; Bryce was already behind him.
Bryce grabbed Levi’s legs at the knees and flipped him forward. Levi caught himself on his hands, reflexively closing his eyes and turning his face aside so it didn’t smash into the ground. Shoving Levi flat on his stomach, Bryce dropped on top of him, sitting astride his hips and choking him from behind.
Levi plucked hard on Bryce’s right hand, bringing it straight down and off his neck. Thrusting his left knee up along his side to free his leg from Bryce’s, he hooked his foot around Bryce’s calf and rolled sideways. As Bryce lost his grip and was flung onto his back, Levi continued rotating until they were face to face, throwing strikes to soften Bryce up further.
He ended up on his knees between Bryce’s spread legs, which would have spelled doom for a less experienced fighter in his opponent’s position. But not only did Bryce manage to deflect most of Levi’s punches, he knew just how to twist and move his hips to protect his groin, bring his knees up, and deliver a powerful defensive kick.
Levi was tossed backward onto his ass. When his hands slid through the sand, he gathered two fistfuls and threw them into Bryce’s face.
“Fuck!” Bryce shook his head frantically.
Grabbing another handful, Levi lunged forward and ground the sand into Bryce’s eyes and mouth. Bryce sputtered, cursed, and rammed his fist into Levi’s stomach with enough force to knock the air out of him.
Levi fell to the side, coughing. Bryce got to his feet and took a few faltering steps in the other direction, still half-blinded.
This was Levi’s chance to end it. He snagged one of the hotel’s pink towels, held it in both hands, and twisted it up so it was one long, tight rope. Standing required monumental effort, but once he was upright, he channeled all his remaining energy and charged.
Evading Bryce’s wild blows, he closed the distance, wrapped the towel around Bryce’s neck, and wrenched Bryce around until he could cross the towel at Bryce’s nape and pull hard.
Bryce knew how to defend against strangulation—but so did Levi, and he anticipated every maneuver, heading each one off at the pass. A kick to the back of the knee sent Bryce to the ground, providing Levi with even greater leverage.
Bryce thrashed and clawed at the towel, his struggles increasingly frenzied, but Levi set his jaw and kept the pressure on until Bryce went limp. Even then, Levi waited ten more seconds to ensure it wasn’t a trick.
When he let go, Bryce collapsed motionless onto the sand. Levi dropped next to him and checked his pulse—still there. A moment later, Bryce started breathing again.
Levi’s awareness of his surrounding
s came rushing back with a dull roar.
Two uniformed officers sprinted over to them, one checking on Bryce while the other put a hand on Levi’s shoulder and said something that was garbled nonsense to his adrenaline-fogged brain. Levi nodded dumbly and let the officer help him up.
Breathing hard, he shrugged out of his suit jacket and loosened the knot in his tie. Then the back of his neck prickled and he turned around.
For the first time since the fight began, he realized he was surrounded by dozens of people with their cell phones out, recording every moment.
Dominic scowled at his computer as he lost yet another hand. The disadvantage of online poker was that it removed most of the social aspect, making it near impossible to game the other players. There was no way to study body language and learn tells when everybody was faceless and anonymous.
Well, he was only fifteen hundred in the hole. That wasn’t too bad. He could earn it back before he went to Volkov’s casino later tonight—he was due for a run of good luck anyway. It was fine. He had everything under control.
He had just clicked the button to continue playing when Rebel trotted over to the apartment door, her ears pricked up. Seconds later, a key sounded in the first of his multiple locks.
Tensing from head to foot, Dominic pressed the power button on his computer monitor and swiveled his chair to face the door. Fuck, had he forgotten plans with Levi? Carlos and Jasmine? He wasn’t even sure what time it was. He’d started playing as soon as he’d gotten home from work, and hadn’t gotten out of this chair since.
“Good, you’re home,” Levi said as he entered. He punched in the code to the alarm, locked the door behind him, and strode toward Dominic.
“Levi . . .” But that was as far as Dominic got. Levi was glowing, exuding a palpable aura of excitement. Yet as distracting as he was all bright-eyed and pink-cheeked, Dominic still noticed the swelling marks on his face and his ripped-up, bloody knuckles. He was also wearing workout clothes instead of a suit.
“I should have called, I’m sorry, but my phone got wet.” Levi straddled Dominic’s lap and dove into a kiss, shoving Dominic against the back of the chair.
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