by Conlan Brown
He grabbed the senator, pulling him across the floor in the prone position. The senator tried to stand, but Devin yanked him back. “Keep your head down!” he hissed.
A maelstrom of fire ripped their position above them. Scraps of glass and plastic rained down on them as bullets and buckshot blasted at the cover around and overhead.
Suddenly the shooting stopped.
Devin pulled the senator, bringing him to a stop around another set of machines. Everything was quiet except for the electronic jingle of the machines, advertising their presence.
“Anybody see them?” one of the gunmen asked, breaking the silence.
Footsteps moved slowly and steadily at a distance.
“They aren’t here anymore.”
“He got my leg!” the wounded one groaned from where Devin had left him. “Be careful—he’s got a gun.”
“The senator?”
“No! I think he’s security. Black guy. Shoot him for me.”
Police, Devin thought. Where were the police in all of this? Security was all dead or immobilized, and that left the police— who were either useless or chasing after that van that had made the drive-by.
The footsteps got closer. On the other side of the slot machine rows? Either way, they were too close.
The senator must have heard it, shuddering as he tried to control his breathing.
Footsteps pressed softly into the carpet a short distance away, and the slot machines sang their jolly songs. Just inches away, the senator let out a frightened sound.
Devin looked around and saw a spilled scotch glass lying sideways on the floor. It must have been dumped by a casino guest in the mass exodus. He grabbed the glass, feeling its weight in his hand, palming the wide cylindrical object. Devin steadied his grip, trying not to let his hands slip on the condensation. A moment to listen, then he threw it as hard as he could down the row. The glass shattered against the metal frame of a slot machine.
“There!”
A gunman with a shotgun rushed in the direction of the breaking glass. Devin was already aiming when the man realized he’d been duped.
Blam-blam-blam!
Devin’s pistol went dry, and the approaching gunman fell behind cover.
“What happened?” another of the gunman called out.
“I took one to the vest,” the assassin choked out with surprise. “But I’m bleeding!”
Devin dropped the empty magazine from the handgun and fished in his jacket for another. He’d forgotten that the FN FiveseveN was designed to penetrate body armor. A claim that some considered exaggerated but had apparently worked well enough at close range to cause some damage.
There was some groaning from around the corner as Devin shoved a new magazine into his gun. The shotgun peeked around the corner without aiming and fired.
A seat flipped, thrown by the hearty blast. Devin shot back at the gun hand before it disappeared back around the corner.
“Keep back,” another gunman shouted. “Work around them, and hurry.”
“Oh no!” The senator moaned. Devin grabbed him and pulled him around another corner toward the card tables and out of sight.
John felt the impact as Dalton threw him into a stainless steel table, a pile of freshly grated cheese shifting as he hit. They were in the restaurant kitchen. The staff ran for the exits, compelled by the sounds of gunfire. Dalton peeked around the corner, into the dining area, then back at John.
“Am I your hostage?” John asked.
Dalton grunted, shoving a stack of pots and pans off a countertop, throwing his black bag on top. “I don’t know.”
“Are you trying to escape?”
Dalton reached into the bag, pulling out a yellow walkietalkie. “Not now, John!” He turned the device on, adjusting the radio frequencies.
John shook his head, eyeing Dalton’s gun. “You were really going to kill a senator, weren’t you?”
Dalton grumbled. “We may have already.”
“But it’s wrong,” John said, shaking his head. “Don’t you see that?”
He didn’t answer John, dialing in to the channel he was seeking. “This is lead; is anybody there?” he asked.
A crackle of static. “The target is cornered, but we’re having trouble getting him pinned down.”
Dalton seemed to panic for a second, glancing at John. “Can you get the target? Do you need help?”
“I don’t know. We’re trying, but he’s got somebody with him that seems to know what they’re doing.”
Dalton groaned, slammed his fist on a stainless steel tabletop, and spoke into the radio again. “I’m on my way!” Without saying any more Dalton turned toward the back of the kitchen and moved toward the door.
“Wait!” John called after, suddenly being ignored. “You’re not actually thinking of—”
Dalton was already out the back door. Gunshots followed in a fully automatic tear. John burst through the door, following, and saw Dalton in the sweltering alley between the restaurant and a parking complex. Dalton was more than a hundred yards away, firing his rifle at a police car that was trying to block his escape.
John chased after.
Was Dalton really going to try to run back to the hotel? Maybe it wasn’t that far. Or maybe he didn’t care.
Either way—he was only proving himself to be more dangerous.
Devin looked around at the card tables, wooden, tapering upward. A center display with a car, presumably available for winning, was in the middle of the room, surrounded by three art deco pillars. Devin peeked over the top of the table he was using as cover and saw two of the gunmen looking the wrong direction.
“OK,” he whispered to the senator. The man’s eyes were huge with panic, but he was obviously trying to pull himself together. “I know you’re scared,” Devin said. “I understand that, but we have to make a run for it. Do you understand?”
The senator looked Devin in the eyes, nodding.
“OK. Here we—”
“Got ’em!” a gunman shouted triumphantly from the left.
Devin fired a fast volley, driving the enemy back, then dropped to his stomach, pulling the senator with him.
At least one of the gunmen jumped up onto a card table, firing at a downward angle. Felt-top tables shredded with the impact of bullets—card shoes exploding, sending playing cards fluttering through the air like snow. It was a hell made of raining lead and a deluge of debris.
Surrounded. Cut off. Scared. Devin felt like curling into a ball and dying. “This way!” he hissed sharply at the senator, unwilling to succumb to fears. They weren’t going to be able to survive this much longer.
The gun chatter stopped.
“Look out!” one of the gunmen yelled to the others. “Behind you!”
“Stop!” someone shouted. “LVPD!”
The police had arrived.
The gunfire resumed, but there weren’t any bullets headed toward Devin and the senator this time. They had turned toward the police.
Looking behind him, Devin saw that the casino exited back into the leg of the hotel promenade twenty yards away. They weren’t out of this yet. “Come on!” Devin ordered, pulling the senator with him. He moved as fast as he could with the frightened senator, every step a challenge. Almost—
“There!” a gunman shouted. A bullet burst off a nearby wall as they ran into the promenade.
There was a moment of quiet as Devin looked around and then saw the stairs leading up to the monorail. “This way!”
One of the gunmen stepped out of the casino, and Devin fired, forcing the gunman back around the corner. He squeezed off rounds until the gun went dry, making sure the senator had gotten to the stairs before turning to follow. A few quick seconds and Devin was on the stairs, the sounds of heavy footfalls chasing behind him, gaining fast.
Devin reached the top of the stairs.
He saw the monorail station. Doors open. A waiting car.
Chimes warning that the doors were closing.
&n
bsp; The senator braced against the wall to the left of him.
A fifty-yard dash to the car. Only seconds.
Footfalls approaching fast.
Devin grabbed the senator by the sleeve and charged at the monorail.
Dalton Waters ran, moving as fast as his heavy bag and cumbersome rifle would let him. The black balaclava on his face was starting to snag and make him sweat. He was burning up in his suit, and the Kevlar vest was only making things worse. The Nevada sun was blasting down from above, turning the entire city into an oven. Sweat covered every part of his body.
The police didn’t seem to be following him. They were probably still so wrapped up in forming perimeters around the attack location and the van’s crash site that they didn’t have any more units to dispatch.
The hotel was only a little farther ahead. Across the street and—
“Lead?” His radio crackled, almost inaudible against the sounds of rushing air and rustling fabric. “Are you there?”
He stopped and keyed the radio. “Yeah?”
“The senator made it to the monorail, headed north. Can you make it to the next station in time?”
Dalton looked up, seeing the monorail start moving his direction. “On my way.”
He ran toward the rear entrance, fishing a handgun out of the black bag before ditching it, tossing the M14 rifle at the same time. He pulled the balaclava off his head, tossing it aside— cool air rushed against his sweaty face. It would be easier to get around in the hotel without all the gear.
A few seconds later he was at the rear entrance, and then he was inside.
The monorail car traveled over the Las Vegas scenery, moving to the next hotel on the Strip.
Devin jammed the last magazine into the FN Five-seveN and sat on the floor of the empty monorail car. He was breathing so hard he thought his lungs might burst. His face burned, and his hands were shaking from the exertion and stress. The car was moving slower than Devin would have expected; maybe there was some sort of technical problem slowing the monorail down.
“Who…” The senator wheezed, sitting next to Devin, trying to catch his breath. “Who are you?”
Devin offered a hand, and the senator shook it.
“I’m just a concerned citizen.”
The senator tipped his head back, resting it against the wall of the monorail car. “What’s your name?”
“Devin,” he said with a moment of hesitation, always reluctant to spread his name around in the wake of destruction. “Devin Bathurst.”
“I’m Senator Warren Foster. I—”
“I know,” Devin said with a nod.
“How did you make it to me?”
He shrugged. “Wrong place at the wrong time.”
“And you just happened to have a gun on you?”
Devin was quiet for a moment. “Long story.”
The monorail began to slow, and they stood.
“Well,” the senator said with a sigh, “thank you for….”
Devin didn’t hear the last part. Looking through the glass, he saw Trista Brightling standing at the station. He frowned. What was she doing here?
The doors eased open. Devin waited for the senator and escorted him off of the monorail car.
Trista approached fast. “Devin!”
Dalton had already made it around the corner into the monorail station when John caught up with him. He stopped, digesting the scene as a whole: Devin, stepping off the train, the senator with him. Standing between John and the tableau was Dalton, pistol in hand, lifting it.
Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, John saw something else—
“Trista!” he shouted, realizing that she was stepping in the way of Dalton’s shot two feet in front of him—preparing to take the bullet. “Trista, no!” he shouted, nearly hoarse.
Trista saw him. Their eyes met. He could see it—she wasn’t going to move.
John slammed into Dalton’s back, knocking him forward, stumbling into Trista. Dalton recovered fast, grabbing the stumbling Trista by the hair, jerking her upward. She reached for something—a gun. A violent motion, and the handgun tumbled from her fingers, hitting the floor.
“Trista!” John screamed again, nearly in tears.
Dalton pulled Trista in front of him, using her as a shield, swinging his pistol directly at—
“John!” Trista screamed, the muzzle of the pistol pointed right at him.
BLAM!
Trista stumbled backward to the ground, her support falling free.
Dalton hit the floor—a shot to the forehead, Devin’s FiveseveN smoking.
Trista pulled herself to her knees and saw John come running at her. He dropped down beside her and cradled her in his arms. She stared at him. His eyes, overcome with concern, looked her over, hands touching her face.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
Trista nodded, gripping his arms. “I’m fine.”
The world around her was filled with chaos and destruction, but John Temple—reckless and free—was here. Now. Present.
People moved around them in a tumult of confusion, but John’s hand cradled her cheek—and she was fine.
Chapter 21
HANNAH STOOD IN the sanctuary of the dusty, tinder-wood church. The older woman sat on the steps leading up to the pulpit. The woman was short, maybe five-two, midsixties, short gray hair, a yellow T-shirt, and blue jeans. The others, including Dominik, stood around them, speaking emphatically with the woman in what must have been Ukrainian. The woman’s name was Misha; Hannah had been able to work that out from the conversation.
Misha looked at Hannah. “Who are you?” she asked, seeming more offended than anything, accent thick.
Hannah didn’t say anything.
“You come here,” Misha continued, annoyed, “you wave gun around and trespass. Who are you?”
“What you’re doing is wrong,” Hannah said.
Misha frowned. “What?”
“What you’re doing is evil, and I can’t let you do this.”
Misha looked at the others, confused and offended, then back to Hannah. “I am businesswoman. I do what makes money, and this makes money.”
“It’s still wrong.”
“Says rich girl,” Misha sneered. “You have everything. You have money. You have never had to live poor.”
Hannah shook her head. “There are other ways to make money.”
“Says you, rich girl.”
“I’m not rich,” Hannah said, trying not to argue with dangerous captors.
“You don’t starve to death. You aren’t left to die when the capitalists take over your country,” Misha said. “We have to find a way to live. To survive. To make money and not starve to death in a world where we do not have as much of a portion as others.”
“So you kidnap girls?” Hannah said, angry.
“Not always,” Misha disagreed, as if Hannah had no clue what she was talking about. “We offer girls from Ukraine jobs in the United States. A chance to come to a new place—to be in the West. They want it; we give it to them. And,” Misha said, spreading her palms, “we make money. Enough money that we can stop being poor and be rich like Americans.”
“Do you tell these girls what they are going to be doing?” Hannah asked skeptically.
“No!” Misha laughed as it were a ridiculous thing to ask. “We offer them jobs. Good jobs. Waitress, secretary, nanny—these kind of things. We tell them that they can come to America to do these things and send money back home to their families.”
“And they accept?”
Misha nodded vigorously. “Many.”
“But they aren’t working as waitresses and nannies,” Hannah said with a frown.
“No,” Misha laughed again, “there is no money for us in that. We sell them to pimps and strip clubs. Things that people like to pay for. Things that make money.”
Hannah felt her stomach twist into knots, nausea nearly overpowering her. “And they don’t run away?”
“How?” Misha shr
ugged. “They come here and we take away their passport. They have nowhere to run or go. They are illegal aliens and prostitutes. They know better than to try to run.”
“Don’t any of them try to run away?” Hannah asked, anger, pain, and disgust filling her body as she thought it all through.
“That is stupid question. Where would they go?” Misha asked. “They do not know their way around. We get most girls through family; they know it is not smart to go back. They know we will hurt their families if they run away.”
The whole thing washed over Hannah in a hideous deluge of futility. “They must fight back, though.”
“No,” Misha said, again seeming confused. “Our girls are very beautiful but very weak.”
“And the ones that aren’t?”
Misha considered for a moment. “We make sure we take certain kind of girl—but the ones who try to be strong must be taught.”
Hannah shuddered, not certain if she wanted to ask or know. “How? How are they taught?”
Misha waved a hand. “Like a horse. You must break them. If you are going to keep a girl, you must break also.”
“How?” Hannah asked, fury rising in her.
Misha smirked as if Hannah were the most naive creature she had ever seen. “They have to be raped. Often. If they are trouble, they have to be hit and scared. They have to know who is boss and what they are good for.”
Hannah shook her head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Why?” Misha shrugged. “These girls serve twenty, thirty men a night—they need to be ready for it.”
“You’re sick,” Hannah growled, feeling depraved just thinking about it all.
“But we’re here,” Misha said without remorse. “We make money, and we keep doing what we do as long as people pay. Maybe it is human pain.” Misha shrugged. “But the pay is good, so we won’t stop.”
Police swarmed the scene, cordoning off everything they could. The monorail station had been completely shut off from the public. John, Devin, and Trista had been asked by the police to stay until they could give a statement.
John watched, waiting for the inevitable moment when the police would want to speak to them, wondering what he would say to them about who he was and why he was there. Across the station the senator sat on a bench, talking to his people.