Lacking the key to the Road Runner’s trunk, they had been forced to lock the car to secure the luggage in the back seat. Despite Leet’s formidable skills at auto theft, they would lose precious time breaking in and striking the wires to start the vehicle, which they reached in a few seconds.
“Get down,” Max said to Farber, motioning for him to take cover behind the car’s fender. “Help me out; watch the rear door.”
Daniel nodded, his eyes betraying his fright.
Past the Road Runner lay a copse of desiccated desert scrub bordering a drainage ditch at the edge of the lot. Max turned his attention to the brush as Leet got busy popping the door lock. A bush twitched, perhaps disturbed by an animal back in the scrub, but Max took no chances. Firing immediately at the offending shrub, he heard a grunt when he hit someone hunkered down behind it. Thought so. He fired again. The shrub sagged as a fallen man keeled over and leaned into it. Max could see only faint portions of the well-camouflaged corpse.
Gunfire then erupted from the bushes, rapid muzzle flashes that sprayed the trunk of the car with bullets. Leet fell atop Shai to shield him. Max likewise dropped to the pavement, hoping to still see the flashes from beneath the car. A single operative in the bushes.
Their attacker didn’t stop firing, merely aimed lower to take them out where they lay. His rounds flew just over Max’s head. One tore his jacket and grazed his back. Leet’s pistol started popping, with Max adding his quieter shots to the mix. Their combined efforts stopped the shooter after a couple of seconds, though they couldn’t be sure if they’d actually killed him.
Fuck this. Max stood and shattered the passenger side window with his Glock, popped the lock, and then practically tossed Daniel into the back seat. On the driver’s side, Leet got the same idea. With no air conditioning in a desert, what did they need windows for?
Leet touched the wires that sparked the Road Runner back to life.
Max instructed, “Take us around front, we’ll shoot up their car.”
“Right.” She punched it.
The car shot from between the trailers as the bearded agent burst through the rear exit and opened fire. The rear passenger-side window shattered, followed by an anguished shout from Daniel.
“Papa!” Shai cried out.
Shit! Max took aim through the broken window and fired as they flew past the agent. None of his rounds struck home, but they succeeded in driving the man into cover behind a dumpster, where they left him to eat dust. When last Max saw him, he appeared to be talking to himself as he alerted his buddies over an earpiece. Max committed his face to memory, certain that they would run into him again.
They fishtailed around the corner of the diner, found the two other operatives standing to the right in partial concealment behind parked cars. Aware that only a couple of shots remained in his .45, Max dropped the pistol to the floor and drew his .380 sidearm from the ankle holster. He brought it up just in time to lay down return fire. Shooting from a moving vehicle was never easy, yet his opening shot, a real doozy, struck an agent beneath the chin before exiting through the top of his brush-cut skull in a geyser of bloody goop.
But he missed his next shot, even though the remaining agent had broken cover to get a better shot at him. In fact, the guy tried to replicate Max’s feat, taking careful aim at his head. Had they stolen a modern car with safety glass, he would have died. Instead the bullet struck the windshield and ricocheted off to parts unknown, leaving behind a large spiderweb crack. Thank God for old Detroit.
Max’s next two shots missed as the man ducked back into cover between the cars. The Road Runner blasted past his position. He fired upon them until Leet wrenched the wheel and rounded to the front of the diner. She nearly struck an elderly couple crossing the lot, who fled screaming before the prow of the speeding Road Runner, the guy dragging his stumbling wife from its path at the last second.
“That silver SUV.” Max pointed. “Shoot the tires. I’ll cover us.”
People smoking outside the diner scattered, shouting in panic when Leet fired on the SUV. A smart move on their part, but falling flat or finding cover would have served them better, for Max’s last nemesis soon appeared at the corner of the building. Expecting his arrival, Max squeezed off two shots, one chipping the brick. The operative leaned out to return fire. Max tagged him high in the shoulder as they exchanged lead. One of the fleeing smokers ran into the line of fire, a cigarette still hanging in his mouth. An enemy bullet passed cleanly through his neck before bouncing off the Road Runner’s stout quarter panel. A woman following the victim came to a dead stop at his body, wailing in terror. She would likely die next, though not by Max’s hand.
“Go!” he shouted once Leet had taken out the front tires.
They took off, the force of the accelerating car pressing Max into the vinyl bench seat. More screaming followed them, accompanied by the ping of two bullets striking the rear of the car. Out on the road, a line of cars and rigs stood backed up at a red light.
“Hang a right,” Max said.
“The interstate’s left.”
“Just do it. I know where I’m going.” Traffic was clear in that direction, the road an older two-lane route that would still get them to Vegas, only not quite as fast.
“Anyone following us?”
Max looked back. The operative had already fled the murder scene, and no vehicles followed. He watched two cars crash head-on in the parking lot, air bags erupting in the faces of their terror-stricken drivers. “No, we’re clear for the moment.”
In the calm that followed, Max remembered Daniel, wounded in the back seat. He turned to evaluate his condition. The bullet had struck him squarely in the right arm and lodged there. The wound bled profusely. Shai used a t-shirt from his bag as a makeshift bandage as he attempted to stanch the bleeding, his coolness again amazing Max. But for the instant Daniel had been shot, Shai remained remarkably calm and quiet.
“Is it bad?” Leet asked. “Does he need a doctor?”
“I’d say so.”
She smacked the steering wheel. “Dammit! And the ER is out of the question.”
“Don’t worry, I know a doc who doesn’t ask any questions. And he makes house calls for the right price.”
“You didn’t change your mind, did you? We’re not going to your house?”
“No.”
He checked his watch: 1725. Their flight didn’t depart until 2200. He’d been planning to kill the time by waiting in a secluded lot near Mount Charleston, access for a local hiking trail. No one would search there, and it had enough trees to conceal them from eyes in the sky. So much for that. But things could have been much worse: Farber mortally wounded, or Max in a strange city where he had no connections. Compromised or not, Vegas had been the right move.
“So where to?”
Max smirked. “Just stay on this road. You’re about to see Vegas like a native.”
CHAPTER 11
“Yello?” a Texan twang drawled into Max’s ear.
“Hey, Sharp, it’s Max.” Sharp owned Sharp’s Shooting Gallery, around the corner from the shithole motel on Fremont, east of downtown Vegas, where Max had secreted them for the moment.
“Well no shit, I got caller ID.” He laughed. “So what you been—?”
“No time for chitchat. You at the range or the bar?”
“The Wheel, where else? Work is highly overrated.” Sharp saddled his assistant manager with most of the responsibility of running the indoor shooting range, while he sat playing video poker at the Golden Wheel, a seedy biker joint across the street.
“Do me a favor. I’m over at the Old Stage Motel—”
He cut Max off with his barking laugh. “What the fuck you doin’ there? I didn’t know you smoked meth. That’s a welfare joint now; you know that, right?”
“Didn’t have many options. Look, I need you to stir up some of the locals, get ’em on the lookout for any vehicles that look even remotely government
—CIA, FBI, whatever. Any kind of suits. Cops too, uniform or otherwise. God knows they’re a rare enough sight down here.” Figuring the Agency would keep their quest for Nexus under wraps, Max didn’t expect them to involve the cops, but he had to anticipate the worst.
A pause on the line. “Uh-huh… Well, there ain’t much love for the gubment ’round here, that’s true, but I’ll need some incentive.”
“Spread the word that there’s some kind of sting operation in the works, then buy the bar a couple rounds of drinks to get ’em in the mood and out on the streets. Bill me for it, and I’ll flip you a couple grand to boot next time I see you.”
“Okay, I guess I can do that. You must be in some serious shit.”
“Neck deep, pal. I sure appreciate it. Call me if anyone spots anything.”
“Will—”
Max terminated the call, confident that the Wheel’s patrons would be on alert the moment they finished their shots. The bar hosted at least half a dozen hardcore felons at any hour of the day, as well as shooting enthusiasts of the minuteman type who distrusted every government agency. In addition to its close proximity to Sharp’s, Max chose the Old Stage because law enforcement avoided this ugly portion of Vegas; the neighborhood didn’t generate enough tax revenue for the city to care about it. It didn’t look like much of a ghetto compared to those in most major cities—not a lot of graffiti or burned-out houses—but the poverty and despair were every bit as palpable.
Max turned his attention back to Leet and the others in the room, which now included Dr. Coddington, the retired Air Force surgeon whom Max sometimes called upon when he needed to avoid the ER. He’d been waiting for them when they arrived, locked in his black BMW with the engine running.
“Ready when you are, Max.” Coddington stood beside the blood-stained mattress where Daniel lay ready for surgery.
The doc had administered local anesthetic for the operation, but he didn’t think it would totally dull Daniel’s pain. The bullet was lodged very deep in his shoulder joint. Max and Leet would have to hold him down during the extraction. Shai looked stunned, detached from reality as he watched his father bleed.
“Gotcha, Doc, just a second.” Max checked the door, its locks busted from his break-in. He hadn’t known the Old Stage had become a welfare motel, though it actually worked to their advantage: a disgusting but free room with no desk clerk for the Agency to bribe or coerce into snitching.
Peering outside, he saw the Road Runner parked beneath a sagging, rusted carport that ran along an equally saggy chain-link fence bordering the property. On the way into town Max had visited a speed shop and purchased a tarp for the car. The carport shed had collapsed completely in a spot or two, the wreckage helping to further conceal the Road Runner. He saw no suspicious government types around, though two of the motel’s residents had ventured outside for evening cocktails, each sipping from a bottle in a paper sack as they sat on rickety lawn chairs outside the room next door.
Max slipped outside and approached them.
“Wassup, high roller?” rasped the first derelict, an old white guy with a braided yellow beard and the withered body of a terminal cancer patient.
“Strip’s down there, chief,” said his companion, a large black man stuffed into tattered, ill-fitting woodland camo from the local Goodwill. He kindly pointed the way before hitting his bottle of Night Train. “That your car?” He nodded at Coddington’s beamer.
“Yep. You guys mind watching it for me while I take care of some business?”
Both bums laughed, the black one waving a dismissive hand. “Man, get the fuck outta here.”
“Five hundred each.” Max pulled out a roll of cash.
“Huh?” The black guy nearly dropped his wine.
“You heard right.” Max proffered the money yet withdrew when the bums greedily reached for it. “There’s one more thing I need you to do, real easy. You see any cops cruise the lot, any suits who look undercover, you let me know. Deal?”
“Fuck yeah!” said the white bum as he grabbed the cash.
Max nodded, then donned his most menacing look. “Stay here till I leave. You can go lose it after I’m gone. Don’t fuck me over, boys. I don’t forget faces.”
“Ain’t no thang, chief,” the black bum said. “We be right here in wine country.”
You fucking better be. Max went back inside and closed the busted door behind him as far as it would go.
Hellhole didn’t begin to describe the room, a regular fucking Hades. The western-themed Old Stage had been a respectable motel fifty years before, but since then it had declined first into hourly status, hosting hookers and johns, before plummeting to its final disposition as the lowest rung of government housing, a recent development that had nevertheless taken its toll. Max had cleared out Taliban bunkers in Afghanistan that were cleaner. Most everything had been stripped from the room—TV, couch, the second bed. They didn’t even have running water; some scavenger had torn out the copper piping in the bathroom to recycle for drug or gambling funds. The air conditioner in the front wall had suffered the same fate.
The stench of urine pervaded the hot, stagnant air and made Max’s nostrils tingle with disgust, not quite hiding the stink of putrefaction starting to rise from Daniel’s wound. Fuck, he was only shot an hour ago. But Max knew it didn’t take long for infection to set in under hot and filthy conditions; he’d seen it occur many times on many battlefields. Good thing the doc wasn’t busy, or we’d be fucked.
“Let’s get this done.” Max sat down reluctantly on the mattress, next to Daniel. Reeking sweat drenched the scientist, a competing scent for Coddington’s array of pungent antiseptics. “You’re gonna have to wear these.” Max produced a pair of handcuffs from his belt, fitted them just tightly enough around Daniel’s wrists, though he didn’t appear to notice through the fog of the sedatives Coddington had fed him. Now Daniel couldn’t flail his arms, which would make holding him down easier. “I’ll take his legs; Margaret, you mind the cuffs.”
“Roger that.” Weary, Leet sounded half asleep. Looks it too. We’ll all feel better once we leave this dump behind.
“Ready when you are, Doc.”
Coddington got busy, the blue eyes behind his bifocals animated and completely focused on his work. He’d removed many bullets in his career, both for the Air Force and his private clients around Vegas. Max totally trusted him and admired the deftness with which he worked. Daniel didn’t move an inch as the doctor probed around in his wound, cleaning as he went, delving ever deeper for the bullet with a pair of forceps.
“It appears that the bullet passed through his upper bicep, struck the humerus, and traveled tangentially up to his deltoid,” Coddington said. “Luckily, it doesn’t appear that any major blood vessels were severed.”
Daniel tried to flop reflexively, grunting in pain when Coddington went a little too deep. Max and Leet kept a firm hold on him.
“Here we go,” Coddington said. “He’s going to flinch again, harder, and probably scream too. So get ready.”
It was an understatement. Though Daniel was not a large man, Max still had his hands full when the doc plunged his forceps deep into the wound. Daniel wailed like a cartoon character who had just stepped in a bear trap. His violent thrashing kept Max busy holding him down. Doc continued to probe the wound, coming up a moment later with a mushroomed slug.
“There’s our culprit,” Coddington announced, admiring the deformed slug with detached satisfaction.
Shai flinched in Max’s peripheral vision. No kid should have to watch his dad go through a back-alley operation. Otherwise, the boy remained calm as usual, a stoic demeanor Max respected. Most boys his age would be hysterical by now. Maybe he is a touch autistic.
Daniel’s yelling trailed off as he passed out from the pain and fell into a deep sleep. He didn’t awaken when Coddington started cleaning the depths of the wound. Once everything had been swabbed out to his satisfaction, the doc applie
d a thick adhesive bandage over the wound, following up with a shot of penicillin. He didn’t suture the hole, which would have required additional disinfecting in a more sterile environment. Doc pulled out a small needle attached to some tubing and an IV bag with a dextrose solution from his bag. He started the IV into Daniel’s arm and hung the bag on the bed post.
“He’ll sleep for at least a couple of hours. Remove the IV once the bag is empty.” Coddington wiped off his surgeon’s tools with alcohol in preparation for the autoclave. As each met his satisfaction, he stowed them in a thick plastic bag so they wouldn’t contaminate the sterile packs in his old-school leather satchel.
“But he’s going to be okay, right?” Leet asked, dread in her voice.
“He lost a good deal of blood, and his shoulder will require physical therapy to heal properly, but he’ll make it if he takes it easy.” His bespectacled eyes fell on Max. “I don’t know what you’re into this time, but you should leave this man out of it. He needs to rest for at least a few days.”
Max nodded. “Understood.” He’ll have all the rest he needs when we get to DC. Hope our trip to the airport goes smoothly.
The doctor chuckled. “Yes, I’ve heard that from you before. Just remember, you’re not the patient this time.”
“We’ll take good care of him, doctor,” Leet said. “Thank you so much.”
“All in a day’s work.” He pulled three prescription bottles from his satchel. He shook the first bottle. “Tranquilizers, take as needed.” He handed Max a second bottle of pills. “Antibiotics, ensure he takes them with food, three times daily.” The third bottle earned Max a glare. “And three days’ worth of oxycontin. I hate to prescribe it, but I think it’s warranted in this case.” He rummaged again in his bag, then handed Leet an arm sling. “He’ll be thirsty when he awakens, so try to find some water. And take those cuffs off.”
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