Lucky Break

by Deborah Coonts

  He answered on the first ring. “I’m following Jean-Charles to the Babylon. That guy works almost as much as you do.”

  “Once he’s here, I’ll get Security to ride herd on him. I need you to find Jeremy.”

  “Has he gone missing?” Dane’s tone turned serious.

  “Don’t know, but he’s radio silent, which makes me worried. There’s a benign explanation that I won’t go into, but also some that aren’t.” I stared at a spot on the wall, avoiding Miss P’s stricken look.

  “Got it. I’ll let you know.” He rang off.

  I tossed my phone onto a stack of papers on the desk, then waved at the resulting small dust cloud and returned to Miss P. “So, why now? Why did Cody Ellis show up now?”

  “He grew up.” Miss P said that matter-of-factly, as if was a legitimate explanation.

  I was so at sea. “What? Help me out here. How could you have married him if he wasn’t grown-up before?”

  “The difference between chronological and emotional maturity.” She leveled her gaze. “I know you know all about that.”

  Ouch. “Obviously, I’m still learning. Maybe you could start at the beginning?”

  With studied care, she set her jelly jar on the floor by her feet, then rubbed her hands down her thighs. When she looked up, a bit of the worry was gone, replaced by something else, an emotion I couldn’t read.

  “It all started in Kenya.”

  Blindsided once again. I was getting used to it, which didn’t make me happy. “Like Kenya in Africa?”

  “No, like Kenya in Iowa. Jesus H. Christ.” She took a deep breath. “Sorry, this has thrown me off a bit.”

  The Mistress of Understatement. Leaning forward, I raised my hands and opened my arms. “Finally! A bit of piss and vinegar. Every problem has solution, but you got to man-up and face it head-on.”

  She looked at me from under lowered brows, one side of her mouth ticked up.

  A familiar look; no interpretation necessary. I grabbed my cockroach paperweight, turning it over and over in my hands. “As you are dying to point out, if running from problems was an Olympic event, I’d have more gold medals than Michael Phelps and Mark Spitz put together. If experience is the best teacher, I have a gold-clad Ph.D. If—”

  “I get it.” This time I caught a fleeting smile, or maybe I imagined it. Regardless, her posture softened. Leaning back, she tucked her feet underneath her.

  “And I love you, so you should listen to me.” I’d saved the best for last, and I could tell it worked.

  “Okay. But just let me get through this. Don’t offer a running commentary. I know I’ve been a fool. I can’t outrun my past. Hell, by that standard I’m one of your beloved clichés. But, admitting that?” She raked a hand through her hair, spiking it back up and perhaps unwittingly showing a bit of her normal moxie. “Well, a bitter pill, that’s for sure. I pride myself on being so … ”

  “Contained? Enigmatic? Perfect in a way us mere mortals couldn’t possibly attain?”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “One step too far, huh?”

  We both knew I was jerking her chain on purpose. Pissed off, she had a chance.

  “Yep, too far, but too true. Now just be quiet and let me tell you a story.”

  “Sure. No more. Not until you’re finished. I promise.” We both knew I had agreed to an impossibility.

  “So, as I said, it all started in Kenya. We were both young, stupid. I was doing basic nursing duties for one of those volunteer doctor organizations. They do such incredible work, really make a difference. It was all very empowering, satisfying in a way nothing since has been. Cody was—”

  A voice shouted from the front office. “Lucky! Lucky are you here?”

  Shit, just when Miss P was getting to the good part. “In here.”

  Kimberly Cho ran into my office. She too still wore last night’s party costume although she looked even worse than Miss P. For once I wasn’t the one on the short-end of the sleep spectrum. How had that happened? Had I gone mainstream? Old school? Or just old? Perish the thought.

  “Oh, thank God!” Kimberly shot a glance at Miss P, then slapped me with worried eyes. “You have to stop him! Now!”

  “Who?”

  Kimberly stepped around my desk, grabbed my arm and started tugging. I had her by about eight inches and forty pounds. If she wanted me to move, brute force wasn’t on her side.

  “He has a gun, and he’s after your father!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “WHO has a gun?” I grabbed my phone.

  Kimberly waved my question away. “Too hard to explain. We must stop him. I saw him from the balcony just outside your door. We must hurry!”

  Miss P and I both leapt to our feet. Kimberly turned and ran with both of us hot on her heels.

  “Where is he?” I panted the words as I ran. We hit the door to the stairs, then pounded down the stairs and burst into the lobby.

  “Baccarat room.” Kimberly didn’t even pause, turning to the left, then regaining speed as she raced over a bridge over the lobby stream, scattering guests. Ducks flapped in a cloud of feathers as they skittered out of the way. As I loped after her, I caught the flash of yellow out the front door.

  A yellow Lamborghini. With a black dragon logo behind the front wheel well.

  I keyed the walkie-talkie feature of my phone as I ran. “Jerry? Tell me you’re there.”

  “Right here.” All business, he knew serious when he heard it.

  “The dinner jacket guy is in the building. His car’s at the front curb. Get a license plate. I’ve been told he has a gun and is after the Big Boss.” I raced over the bridge, keeping Kimberly in sight. “I’m en route to the high-stakes Baccarat room. Get eyes open. I need to know where my father is. And, goddamn it, locate that ass playing games with us. And do it now.” Technically, after my last promotion, I was Jerry’s superior, but this was the first time I’d used that attitude.

  “I’m on it. Keep the channel open.”

  I lowered my head and summoned my after-burners. A flame-out, but I managed to close the distance slightly. I could hear Miss P’s ragged breathing as she pounded behind me. Heads turned as we raced by. The crowd parted, jumping out of the way as we dodged, darted, and ran.

  Jerry’s voice. “Confirm your father is in the high-stakes Baccarat room. Several whales, a lot of money in play. Three teams closing. ETA two minutes.”

  “Got it.” My heart pounded more from fear than lack of oxygen. My father. A guy with a gun who had most likely killed before. And nothing I could do about it other than run.

  I angled to the left. With a two-fingered whistle, I got Kimberly’s attention, redirecting her. Now in the lead, I whipped around the corner and burst through the doors into the quiet decorum of high-stakes gaming.

  A carefully controlled environment, the high-stakes rooms were kept library quiet, the staff unctuous, obsequious, and invisible unless summoned. No one ever bolted through the doors. Ever.

  So, when I did just that, everyone froze in indecision.

  Time slowed. “Father!”

  He gave me a quizzical look.

  Two burly men with ”goon” written all over them stepped forward. Important people, impressive muscle, an unwritten requisite. The men paused, assessing my threat level. Several Asian men seated at the tables gave me little attention as I skidded to a halt—as a woman and an interloper, I was a trifle for someone else to sully themselves dealing with. My father, his arms crossed, his head lowered, was engrossed in heated conversation with an Asian man I vaguely recognized. Neither looked happy, my father in particular, a deepening glower on his face. His interest shifted at my intrusion.

  Where was the dinner jacket guy?

  Think, Lucky. Calm. What did he look like?

  Short, dark hair, an arrogant bearing.

  There. Across the room, at the far table.

  He looked calm, unhurried. His eyes darting my way, the only chink in his unruffled exterior. My prese
nce had upset him.

  Where was his gun? Was Kimberly right?

  With no immediate threat, I willed myself to calm. To restore decorum, I adjusted my features to a smile, even though my fingers itched to grab the little shit by the neck and squeeze. I moved in his direction.

  Kimberly Cho skidded in next me. “There!” She gasped. “Oh, my God.”

  Activity in the room stilled. Except for me. I advanced on the dinner jacket guy. Sam Asshat.

  The man reached into his coat. His eyes, dead hollow holes, caught mine. An evil smile as he pulled his hand out.

  A gun.

  He wanted me to see, to watch.

  Chairs scraped back as players scurried for shelter. Someone upended a table. No one shouted. Odd.

  Fear catapulted me to action. Fear and a mile-wide urge to commit homicide. One stride. I honed in on him with laser-like precision. He raised the gun. I threw a chair at him. He ducked. It glanced off his shoulder. He steadied his aim. Another step. Close now. Blood pounded in my ears. He pointed.

  The Big Boss. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw him flinch.

  The gunman threw me a look, toying with me.

  I flicked another chair at him, hitting his shoulder again.

  “No!” I took a step and leapt.

  The gun jerked in his hand. A silenced pop.

  I barreled into him. Both of us crashed to the floor. One hand on his throat, I scrambled to straddle him. Squeezing soft flesh, I delighted in the pulse that beat under my fingers, in the dimming of the light in his eyes. My bulk held him down; my right knee pinned an arm. Frantically, he tried to work the other loose.

  “Oh, my God!” Kimberly screamed. “He’s been hit.”

  I whipped around. My father!

  That moment of infinitesimal focus shift was the opening the guy under me was looking for. He pulled his left hand loose, then swung his elbow. With little weight behind it, his strength was still enough to stagger me. Stars peppered my vision as I blinked and tried to shake it off. Another punch to my solar plexus, and the air rushed out of me. He rolled me off of him, bolted to his feet and ran.

  On my hands and knees, I struggled for air, my oxygen-starved muscles slow to respond. “Call Security. Get him. Warn them about the gun,” I shouted as best I could. Two of the staff jumped to action.

  On the far side of the room, I could see my father’s legs extending from behind a table. I scrambled and crawled my way through the jungle of overturned chairs and tables until I reached his side.

  A red stain bloomed across his chest. Blood.

  “Call an ambulance!” I shouted, as I clutched his arm, pressing my fingers to the hollow in his throat. “Hurry!” A thready pulse whispered under my fingers. I tore at his shirt. Someone dropped down next to me. “I need to save him. He can’t die.” Panic ripped at me. Tears raced down my cheeks. “Don’t touch him.” I slapped at the hands that reached to help. Strong male hands.

  “I can help.” A calm male voice.

  “Father,” I said, loudly like a rude American willing a non-English speaker to understand. “Come on. Talk to me. You have to stay with me. You can’t die. I need you.”

  The male hands grabbed mine, stilling them.

  “Let me do this. I’m a doctor.” The voice calm, reassuring.

  I glanced up into warm brown eyes, a kind face exuding a calm confidence. A handlebar mustache, graying hair pulled back and caught in a ponytail. Something about him. I stopped my frantic desperation, and eased back. “You’re a doctor?”

  “In New York, Emergency Medicine. I’ve handled a lot of this.”

  “Don’t let him die.”

  The kind face turned serious, the eyes focused. “I’ll do my best.”

  I sat back on my heels, helpless, terrified. “Are you a good doctor?” I whispered. But intent on my father, he didn’t hear, or couldn’t answer. I raised a shaking hand to brush the hair out of my eyes, but it was covered with blood. Unable to process, I stared at it like it belonged to somebody else. Blood splattered my pants, my shirt.

  The doctor barked quiet orders to those who hovered.

  I didn’t understand. The scene in front of me grew distant, my vision fuzzy, the world kaleidoscoped.

  A hand on my shoulder, warm, strong, stopped the spinning. “Lucky.” Miss P’s voice, steady and strong. “Come with me.” She grabbed my arm and tugged. “Please. Give Cody room. If he’s anything like he was, he knows what he’s doing, and he’s good at it. We just have to get out of his way.”

  “Cody?” My weight shifted back. I let Miss P help me to my feet.

  “I was behind you when I heard the shot. I called him. He was nursing a drink in Delilah’s.”

  “Drinking?” Panic pulsed, a heartbeat restored. I jerked my arm from her grasp.

  “A soda.” Miss P wouldn’t let go. “Come on. We’ll meet them at the hospital.”

  “Where’s Security?”

  “Chasing the shooter.”

  “God, a gunman loose in the hotel. What the hell is going on?” Miss P held my arm tight, then looped an arm around my waist to steady me. “First, Holt Box, which could’ve just been a fifteen minutes of fame kind of thing.” Life. Mental health. A delicate balance. “But why the Big Boss?” A distant connection filtered through the adrenaline. A contract connected the two of them. But was it worth killing over? Who would care?

  Besides Teddie. Unless somehow he’d been sprung on a technicality, too, and I had been left out of the loop once again; I was pretty sure he’d been in jail for this one, a pretty airtight alibi.

  EMT’s rushed into the room. They knelt beside the doctor, Cody, Miss P had said, deferring to him as he explained. In seeming seconds, they had my father hooked up to an IV and strapped to a gurney. As they ushered him out of the room, I caught a glimpse of a pale face, eyes closed. If he died …

  The Big Boss had been my North Star for as long as I’d been me.

  Once they’d disappeared, and some of the staff started picking up chairs, putting the room back in order, my focus returned and the panic cleared. Many around me typed furiously on their cellphones.

  “If I see a video of anything that happened here …” I paused, shrugging away from Miss P, my focus returning. “Wait. I want to see all the footage you guys shot.” I gave a high sign to all the staff. They knew what to do: round up names, contact info, and strong-arm the phones out of them.

  A few of the men tried to sneak out. “Stop them,” I barked at the two attendants closest to the door.

  The men resisted, the situation turning ugly.

  I’d keyed my phone to request security reinforcements, when Romeo arrived with a phalanx of uniformed officers. They ushered everyone back inside and organized the debriefing. Power and side arms, both attention-getters.

  Romeo rushed to my side, emotions marching across his face and concern clouding his eyes. “You okay?” He rolled his eyes at himself. “Stupid question. I have an escort waiting at the front entrance. Two motorcycles to facilitate your trip to the hospital. I’ll handle things here, but keep me posted.”

  “Get everybody’s phone. They were all recording it.”

  Romeo barked at his officers.

  I focused on breathing, and not speculating on what was happening with my father. Numbness seeped in, a haze of protective disbelief. “Did you get the shooter?”

  The detective’s lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes hard. “No. He ran through the casino. Got off some shots at the guards. Didn’t hit anybody, but scared the hell out of everybody. At the first shot, they all ran—it was chaos. Apparently his car was waiting out front.”

  “Yellow Lamborghini, black dragon logos behind the front wheel wells.”

  Romeo’s attention focused. “Yeah?”

  I brought him up to speed on this morning. “Check with Security. See if they have a license number. How’d you get here so fast?”

  “I was on my way to see you when the call came in. The uniforms got here
right after I did, but we got tied up with the shooter.” Romeo raised his head and searched the crowd. “Reynolds,” he barked. An older man, a familiar arrogant disinterest on his face, looked up. Romeo motioned him over.

  Trying to place him, I watched him amble toward us. “Isn’t that the guy you used to work for?”

  “He works for me now.” Romeo didn’t smile, but I heard the satisfaction in his voice. Reynolds jotted notes as Romeo told him where to go and what to do.

  Reynolds nodded—whether he was angry or not, interested or not, it was hard to tell, as he left to do Romeo’s bidding. Another day, another attempted murder.

  But this one was anything but every-day.

  “You trust that guy?” The blood on my hands drying, I swiped at a couple of strands of hair tickling my eyes. My father’s blood. It flaked and cracked where my hand bent … like finger painting in grade school. Time folded. My father hadn’t been a part of my life then. I’d felt his absence.

  “He’ll do his job,” Romeo said. “But if I trip up, miss anything.” He jostled me to get my attention. “If I let anyone go off half-cocked. He’ll have my ass.”

  I met his stare. “Then I’ll have to make sure I am fully-cocked, locked, and loaded.”

  Concern etched his features and his warning timbered his voice. “Right. Before you go, can you give me a quick and dirty?”

  Miss P shouldered her way into the conversation, tucking a protective arm around my waist. “Let her go. I was here. I can tell you all you need to know.”

  “Between you and Kimberly, you guys saw it all.”

  “Kimberly?” Romeo asked, pulling his notepad out of his pocket, poising his pencil over a clean page.

  “Yeah. She’s right here. She’s the one who told us about the shooter.” I scanned the room.

  Kimberly Cho was gone.

  Raising my phone to my mouth, I pushed to talk. “Jerry. A young woman.” I described her, Miss P weighing in on her clothing. I never noticed that kind of thing. “She alerted us to the shooter, led us here. And now she’s gone. Find her.” I felt Romeo’s eyes boring holes. As I talked, I looked around the room. Everyone looked a bit confused, shell-shocked as they cooperated with my staff. Everyone except one, the man my father had been talking with. Arms crossed, head down, he glowered.