“Wait a second,” she said. “Is that a gun?”
Cho misunderstood and looked down at his groin, then winked at Lambrosia knowingly.
“A big gun,” he joked. “And you have the holster, yes?”
But the woman wasn’t in a joking mood. “That’s not what I’m talking about,” she said.
She crawled across the bed and then leaned out, reaching for Cho’s jacket.
Cho realized what she was doing and suddenly lunged forward, grabbing for the jacket, as well. In the ensuing tug-o-war, the gun fell clear and thumped to the carpet. It was a 9 mm Glock semiautomatic pistol.
“What is this?” Lambrosia demanded as she let go of the jacket. “Soldier, my ass. You’re a cop, aren’t you?”
“No, no,” Cho told her. He picked up the gun and assured her. “I work private security, that’s all.”
“If you’re a cop, this is entrapment,” Lambrosia complained. “And for the record, we never talked about sex!”
“I’m not a cop!” Cho shouted. “Don’t you listen?”
But Lambrosia wasn’t buying it. “Let me see some identification,” she demanded.
Cho Il-Tok’s ardor had dampened, replaced by a growing anger. The last thing he was interested in was being talked down to by some American whore. Glowering, he raised his gun and thumbed off the safety, then drew bead on the mole over Philly’s right cheek.
“You want some identification?” Cho taunted. “How is this?”
“Hey, hey, wait a minute. Let’s calm down here, big fella,” Lambrosia said, a trace of fear in her eyes as she stared down the bore of the Korean’s gun. “Point that thing somewhere else, would you?”
Cho kept the Glock trained on the woman. “Take it off!” he told her, nodding at her teddy.
“I will. Just get that gun out of my face!”
“Take it off!” Cho repeated, holding the gun steady. “Now!”
“Okay, okay!” Lambrosia’s hands trembled as she fumbled with the teddy, unable to take her eyes off the gun.
“Look, I’m s-sorry,” she sputtered, “I didn’t mean to be so nosy. It’s just—”
“No more talking!” Cho told her. “I liked you better with your mouth shut!”
When Lambrosia continued to have trouble with the teddy, Cho moved forward and grabbed at the fabric. The woman let out a faint shriek as he jerked hard, ripping the teddy at the seams and then yanking it away from her body.
“Stupid American bitch!” he seethed, shoving her back on the bed.
Cho was about to climb out of his boxers when he suddenly froze in place and turned his gaze to the door. He thought he’d heard someone on the other side sliding a card key into the lock. When he saw the doorknob turn, the Korean dropped to a quick crouch behind the bed.
A second later the door flew open. Cho didn’t wait to see who it was. He opened fire, aiming chest-high at the doorway. He didn’t hit anyone, but his shots had managed to keep whoever it was from charging into the room.
Cho’s instincts told him that he was probably outnumbered, so rather than stay put, he pivoted and put a round through the window behind him, shattering it into small pieces. Even as the last few fragments were tumbling to the carpet, the Korean was on his feet, racing toward the window. Gunfire sounded behind him and he heard the loud thud of a round plowing into the wall to his immediate right. Somebody called out for him to freeze but he ignored the command and instead hurdled his way out the window.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Desert Eagle in hand, Bolan charged into the room, followed by Jayne Bahn and Ed Scanlon.
“The window!” Bahn shouted.
“I saw him!” Bolan yelled.
He bolted to the window, ignoring Philly Lambrosia, who remained atop the bed, covering herself with the torn remnants of her teddy.
“It’s not what you think!” she cried. “He was just some guy I picked in the bar. It was consensual—”
Jayne cut the woman off. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, cupcakes,” she told her. “We’re not Vice, okay?”
Bolan braced himself, then leaned out the window. Even though they were on the third floor, the South Tower had been built into the hillside, so it was only a two-story drop to a bed of flowers encircling a small park area located directly below the window. Cho Il-Tok had landed amid the azaleas and, unharmed, was already back on his feet, sprinting across the thin sward of grass separating the tower from the Riverwalk. Bolan was taking aim at the Korean when Cho suddenly whirled around and drove the Executioner back with a round from his Glock.
Behind Bolan, Bureau agents Pearle and Thompson had crowded into Lambrosia’s room. The prostitute, realizing her life and livelihood were no longer in danger, had shed her fear almost as quickly as Cho had rid her of her teddy.
“What is this, a convention?” she exhorted. “I don’t do groups.”
“Put a sock in it, sister,” Bahn told her.
Agent Scanlon keyed the walkie-talkie linking him with the other Bureau agents posted on the ground floor.
“He’s out on the Riverwalk!” he reported.
“We’re on him,” came the crackling response from Agent Howland.
Bolan tried the window again. Cho had bounded over the inner railing and was shoving his way through a throng of startled tourists mingling on the Riverwalk. There was no way for Bolan to get off a safe shot, so he climbed up to the windowsill and pushed off. He bypassed the flower bed and landed in the grass, rolling on impact and then quickly scrambling to his feet, gun still in hand. He raced diagonally across the park strip in hopes of gaining ground on the Korean, who by now had reached the concession area just off the dock that serviced the water taxi. In addition to refreshment kiosks, there were booths where guests could rent anything from personal watercraft and mountain bikes to window-view seats on one of the twice-daily helicopter excursions to Lake Havasu or the Grand Canyon.
“Out of my way!” Bolan shouted to the tourists as he vaulted over the railing and onto the Riverwalk. As he gave pursuit, the people he scattered weren’t sure what to make of the fracas.
It was only when Cho fired at Bolan and clipped one of the tourists that people began to realize they were caught up in something other than free entertainment. The moment the first victim went down, howling that he’d been shot, people saw blood and the first screams of terror began to sound along the Riverwalk. By then, Jayne Bahn had jumped to the ground and Scanlon’s backup agents were spilling out of the rear entrance to the casino.
“Everybody down!” Bahn shouted as she sprinted across the parkway. Her command was lost in the cacophony, however, and only a few of the tourists heeded her warning. Others were fleeing in all directions, and those racing for the casino immediately blocked the progress of the Bureau agents.
Cho was slowed down as he made a point to keep himself surrounded by as many pedestrians as possible. The ploy worked in terms of keeping the authorities from firing at him, but Bolan and the others were gaining ground. The Korean knew he had to change tact. Abandoning the Riverwalk, he veered to the dock and stiff-armed his way through a small crowd queued up to board the water taxi, a glorified barge that could carry up to forty people at a time to the other casinos. There was a second, shorter line to the right for those who’d rented pontoon boats or Jet Skis and were waiting for their turn on the water.
The combined noise of the water taxi and the personal watercraft had drowned out the earlier sound of gunfire and, when Cho started elbowing his way to the front of the second line, people began to grumble, mistaking him for a drunken crasher. The man who’d been at the head of the line—a vacationing football linebacker—took particular offense and grabbed the Korean by the arm.
“Not so fast, asshole!” the linebacker shouted. “Wait your goddamn turn like everybody—”
The man’s voice dropped off when Cho twisted around and pointed the Glock at his face.
“Asshole? Is that what you called me?”
B
efore the linebacker could fully realize his mistake, Cho fired a point-blank shot through the linebacker’s forehead. The man’s head snapped back and his brains splattered the tourists behind him as he pitched to one side, then toppled over the railing and into the water. The same panic that had gripped the Riverwalk now spread along the dock. Cho ignored the pandemonium and clambered down the steps leading to a floating platform where a worker had been showing a teenage boy how to use the personal watercraft he’d just rented. The worker quickly realized what was happening and just as quickly stepped aside, throwing his hands in the air.
“Don’t hurt me, man!” he pleaded.
The teenager was a little slower on the uptake and stayed put until Cho grabbed him by the collar and forcibly yanked him off the watercraft, then took his place at the controls.
Cho had only been on a Jet Ski once, but he hadn’t forgotten how to operate one and within seconds he was speeding away from the docks, cutting a wake as he veered around the water taxi out into the middle of the river. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Bolan had just reached the loading platform. The Korean fired a wild shot Bolan’s way, then tucked the Glock inside the waistband of his boxers so he could have both hands free to maneuver the Jet Ski.
Back on the platform, Bolan pointed out the remaining personal watercraft and asked the worker, “Is one of these faster than the others?”
The worker nodded and pointed to a larger model tethered on the other side of the platform from the others.
“That one’s mine,” he said.
“I need to borrow it,” Bolan said.
“Yeah, I figured,” the worker said. He was already fishing through his pockets for the keys. As he handed them to Bolan, he asked, “What’s going on, anyway?”
“I think you can figure that out, too,” Bolan said.
He quickly mounted the Jet Ski and started it up. He had to back his way out into the water, and as he was looking over his shoulder, he saw that Jayne Bahn had commandeered one of the rental mountain bikes and was bicycling down the Riverwalk, following the same downriver course Cho had taken. There was no way she’d be able to keep up, but Bolan had to give her points for quick thinking.
Once he had the Jet Ski pointed out toward the river, Bolan opened up the throttle and held on tight. The craft lunged forward with a high-pitched whine. The river was calm and he had no problem keeping control as he sped after the fleeing REDI agent. Twice, however, he had to change course sharply to avoid colliding with other skiers. Slowly, he began to close the gap between him and the Korean. He knew there was no way Cho would be able to use his gun, so it was down to a chase, and if the worker was right about the added horsepower Bolan had at his disposal, the Executioner liked his chances.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
There was a bend in the river just past Harrah’s, and as he rounded it, Cho Il-Tok glanced over his shoulder and realized he was losing ground on the man pursuing him. As if that weren’t disconcerting enough, the constant jarring motion of the Jet Ski had finally loosened the Korean’s Glock. When he felt it slipping through his boxers, Cho nearly lost control when he freed one hand in a frantic effort to grab the gun. Forced to reach back for the watercraft’s handle, he had no choice but to let the pistol clatter off the footrest into the river.
Just beyond the bend, the river widened. To Cho’s left, a Bullhead City mobile home park reached out to the river’s edge, and even though the water was a frigid sixty-three degrees, a few brave souls, mostly young children, were out wading and splashing while their parents watched on from a sandy beach that had been carved out of the embankment. Across the way, though, the Laughlin side of the river had been left to nature’s hand, and tall, scattered patches of cattails and broad-leaved reeds extended more than twenty yards out into the water. Apparently the area around the vegetation was good for fishing, because Cho saw two elderly men in a small boat anchored near the reeds, with lines in the water. Realizing he had no chance to outrun his pursuer on the open water, Cho decided his only option was to head past the fishermen into the reeds and hope that he might somehow use the obstacle course to his advantage.
The Korean let up on the throttle and veered sharply to his right. Straight ahead was the small fishing boat. The man seated next to the motor was reeling in a catch when he heard Cho heading their way. Distracted, he failed to play the fish properly and his line suddenly went slack as the fish wriggled free and swam off. Livid, the man waved an angry fist at Cho.
“See what you made me do, you no good…!”
Before the man could finish, Cho raced past, threading the gap between the boat and the nearest patch of reeds. A second later he vanished into the vegetation, leaving behind a wake violent enough to nearly capsize the fishing boat. The men aboard the boat had to grab the sides and shift their weight to stay afloat. They could no longer see Cho, but that didn’t prevent them from cursing him and promising that he would pay for ruining their outing.
When Bolan came upon the scene moments later, he saw that there was no way he could follow the same course as Cho without striking the fishing boat. He had no way of knowing the Korean was no longer armed, either, and as such he was wary of making himself an easy target by slowing down and taking another route into the reeds.
To make matters worse, one of the fishermen mistakenly thought Bolan was merely out joy-riding with Cho and cast his line the Executioner’s way. When the man’s fishing lure glanced off the front end of the Jet Ski and nearly snagged on Bolan’s shirt, he decided to give the men a wide berth. He steered toward the middle of the river and maneuvered his way around a tour boat on its way back from Lake Havasu, then finally slowed and brought the watercraft to a halt near one of the thick pylons supporting a footbridge spanning the river. He let the engine idle and reached out for the pylon, then pulled himself around so that the structure would protect him from gunfire. Positioned, he waited. The next move would be up to the Korean.
CHO WAS WAITING, too.
Lurking in the tall reeds, he’d shifted his personal watercraft into neutral but was ready at a moment’s notice to put the craft in gear. His plan was to wait until his adversary came into view, then speed forward and ram his pursuer, hopefully with enough force to knock him off the watercraft and buy enough time to head back out onto the river and make another run for it. But there was a problem with the idle on his own watercraft, and he had to continually rev the engine to keep it from dying. Each time he opened up the throttle, the engine seemed to whine even louder. Cho cursed under his breath. This was no way to hide.
Finally the engine sputtered and fell silent. He tried a few times to start it up again, without success. Furious, he was about to abandon the Jet Ski and take to the water when he heard the sound of another motor. It wasn’t the trilling sound of a Jet Ski, however, but rather the lower drone of an outboard motor. Cho realized the fishermen he’d disrupted earlier were making their way through the reeds toward him.
“We know you’re in here somewhere, you son of a bitch!” one of the men aboard the boat shouted.
The other fisherman was equally worked up and yelled, “It’s high time you punks learned better than to go hotdogging around our fishing holes all the friggin’ time!”
Cho stayed as still as he could, but he had to shift his weight back and forth to keep the Jet Ski upright in the water. Peering through the reeds, he finally spotted the prow of the boat headed his way. As it puttered into view, the Korean caught a glimpse of his new pursuers. The men were even older than he’d first thought—easily in their seventies—and each wore a bright orange foam life jacket and wide-brimmed hat. One sat at the rear of the boat, manning the outboard motor. The other man had moved to the front and set aside his fishing pole in favor of a fiberglass oar, which he now held aloft as if it were a baseball bat.
Cho didn’t know what had happened to the man who’d been pursuing him on the other Jet Ski, but for the moment it didn’t matter. For now, his most pressing concern was dea
ling with the pair of geriatric vigilantes. He sized them up quickly and figured he could take them both on without too much trouble. The trick was to do it without attracting any more attention than necessary.
Shifting his weight, the Korean leaned the Jet Ski into the patch of reeds to his immediate left. At the same time, he slowly swung his left leg around so that he was sitting sidesaddle on the Jet Ski. Then he twisted his upper torso and draped his arms over the handlebars and went limp, craning his head so that if he opened his eyes slightly he would still be able to see the approaching boat. Hopefully, to the old men it would look as if he’d rammed into the reeds and knocked himself out.
The ploy worked.
“Check it out, Virgil,” the man with the oar quipped as the boat came closer. “Looks like Mr. Hotshot bit off more than he can chew.”
“Serves him right,” the other man said, easing up on the throttle as the boat pulled up beside the Jet Ski. “And, hell, look at him, Johnny! Son of a bitch was out racing around in his damn skivvies.”
“What do we do now?” the first man said, lowering his oar. “Not like I’m gonna wallop him when he’s already out cold.”
“Let me see if I can raise the sheriff on the CB,” Virgil said. He leaned forward and reached for citizen’s band radio lying in the bottom of the boat next to the men’s tackle box. “Let him throw the guy in the hoosegow for a couple days and see if that’ll teach him.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Johnny set down his oar and was leaning over to grab Cho when the Korean sprang to life. He caught the old man off guard and drilled him squarely in the forehead with a head butt, knocking him unconscious. When the Jet Ski began to slide out from under him, Cho kicked off the footrest and leaped past Johnny into the boat. In the rear of the boat, Virgil, taken aback by the sudden turn of events, dropped the CB microphone and gaped at Cho. By the time he recovered his wits and reached into the tackle box for a scaling knife, the Korean had already caught up with him. The boat rocked beneath them as they struggled.
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