Devil's Dance (Trackdown Book 1)

by Michael A. Black

  “You look deep in thought,” McNamara said.

  “Just thinking about doing time.” He wondered if he’d ever get that new trial and be able to clear his name. One thing he did know, he liked the idea of putting people behind bars a lot more than being behind them himself. They were on a long stretch of a freeway now, with a cluster of buildings cropping up in the distance. “We in Vegas yet?”

  “Closing in on it. The hotel we’re going to is on the Strip. Maybe we’ll have time to do a little sightseeing. I’ll take you to the old downtown section called Freemont. We can stop and take in the light show on that canopy. Or even to do a zip-line ride across the street.”

  Wolf shook his head. “I’m more interested in why we’re here in the first place. How are we going to give that Reno guy some payback?”

  McNamara’s grin faded. “You think you can take him? Remember, he does that mixed martial arts stuff. That big black guy does, too.”

  “Then we’d better stop and buy a baseball bat.”

  McNamara chuckled. “Hit him with that and it’d probably just make him madder.”

  “I notice you brought your gun with you. You authorized to carry in this state?”

  “Sure I am,” Mac said. “As long as I don’t get caught.”

  “So what is our plan?”

  McNamara didn’t answer. Instead he took the next exit and got off the freeway. “There’s this place called the Neon Boneyard. Where they keep all the old signs from the hotels they tore down.”

  “The plan?”

  “Just trying to give you a little historical perspective. You ain’t never been here before, have you?”

  “The plan,” Wolf repeated.

  McNamara chuckled. “Damn, you are one tenacious son of a bitch.” He swung into a gas station and drove up next to a pump. “Out of state bounty hunter rule number one: don’t run out of gas.”

  “What’s number two?”

  “That’s easy.” Mac’s grin creased his face as he opened the door and got partially out. “Always have a plan.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Shamrock Hotel And Casino, Las Vegas, Nevada

  The bright lights of the smoky casino greeted the four of them as they walked into the air-conditioned comfort. The hot climate outside had reminded Eagan of Iraq, but the Sandbox had been much worse. Of course, there he didn’t have to worry about sweating in a business suit. Here was a different story. He had to appear professional, not formidable, and totally in control. Never let them see you sweat, especially when you’re wearing a suit and tie.

  The constant dinging of the various slot machines merged into a dissonant background like an audible curtain. The odor of burning tobacco renewed his urge the go buy a can of chaw, but he’d given that up years ago. He didn’t like anything, even a craving for nicotine, having a control over him.

  The motif of the hotel was all Irish. The Shamrock had everything cast in various shades of green, with statues of leprechauns peeking from around each corner and oversized four-leaf clovers adorning the backs of every chair. Even the cocktail waitresses’ outfits were done up in green and black, their boobs almost spilling out of their push-up bras and the high-cut pants pulled tight exposing a good portion of netted nylon over ass. Teddy’s grin was ear-to-ear, and Nasim kept eyeing every scantily clad girl in sight. He seemed to have regressed into a more traditional Muslim posture since their last meeting, refusing any alcohol in the limo. That could be good, or it could be bad. Imbibing always added to the possibility of a screw-up, but religious zealotry could be a wild card as well. But still, this was a long way from Mecca. Eagan figured he could most likely keep the Arab occupied once things got rolling by getting him a start on his seventy-two virgins while he was here, although finding someone of that status in Sin City might prove a bit challenging. Cummins was still sweating as he walked, even after they’d stepped inside, and Eagan wondered if the fat fucker was going to keel over. He was definitely a weak link in the chain.

  Just so he lasts long enough to get my paycheck forwarded to the right account, Eagan thought.

  “The convention center’s this way,” Teddy said, pointing toward a set of escalators bisected by an extended staircase. Eagan estimated it to be at least two hundred steps to the top. A huge sign at the bottom of the stairs posted: NATIONAL BAILBOND ENFORCEMENT CONVENTION UPSTAIRS. Eagan slapped Cummins on the shoulder and asked if he wanted to race up the stairs.

  “You kidding me?” Cummins said, shaking his head. “No way. Be my guest.”

  Eagan considered it momentarily then decided against it. While he had no doubt he could beat the escalator with ease, the prospect of being slightly winded overrode the momentary tactical advantage of standing at the top looking down on the rest of them. Besides, he was venturing into unknown territory here and didn’t want to stand out too much. He paused and gave one of the cocktail waitresses a twenty for four green paper derby hats and handed them out.

  “Put these on,” he said, eyeing the ceilings for PTZ cameras. At least the hats would make them somewhat less distinguishable. “Get in the spirit of things.”

  Teddy smirked and slipped his on, followed by Cummins and finally Nasim, who looked a bit leery.

  “I think the first thing I’ll do is get laid,” Teddy said.

  “Wrong,” Eagan countered. “Your gonads can wait. The first thing you do is find us that guy you were talking about. The one with the connections in this neck of the woods.”

  Teddy frowned and shook his head. “All right, all right. Let’s get up to our room and I’ll see if I can find his number and give him call.”

  Eagan nodded and stepped onto the escalator behind the three of them, his eyes continuing to scan the walls and ceilings for the ubiquitous cameras. He knew they were providing a video trail that he had no hope of controlling, but the hats would help. Just four more drunken idiots here for a good time. Whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

  Hopefully.

  Low key was the way to go. For now, anyway. Later, when they were in the field, or at least in a place with no cameras or police around, would be the time to be assertive.

  Chapter Nine

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  As they proceeded toward Las Vegas proper, Wolf took in the view of brown mountains in the distance that reminded him of his tours in Afghanistan and along the DMZ in Korea. An explosion of houses sprang up on both sides of the roadway with all sorts of homes settled in basins between the uneven landscape while others sat farther up on escarpments. The residential buildings gave way to commercialized structures, ranging from the standard array of gas stations and chain stores to rows of low scale motels, hotels, and casinos. The occasional vacant lot had clusters of election posters lining the sidewalk extending back into mosaics of papers, plastic bottles, and other urban detritus. They passed under a viaduct where a couple of homeless people had erected two blue plastic curtains to form tents. A pile of feces resided on the sidewalk between them in odious demarcation.

  The Third World’s gaining ground on us, Wolf thought. Even here in Sin City.

  At least in the Sandbox they had good latrines. At Leavenworth, too, although those always held the potential for danger and violence.

  The road morphed into a big four lane roadway bisected by a grassy median. Wolf saw that the street sign proclaimed: Las Vegas Boulevard. After passing the iconic, angular Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas Nevada sign, a white ellipsoid edged in gold and topped by a flashy, red, eight-pointed star that hovered over the lettering, the heights of the building began to extend upward, and in the distance, a taller skyline was visible. Rows of stores and smaller structures gave way to bigger and bigger high rises. A smaller airport was on the right and a few football fields over a jet plane soared upward into the late afternoon sky.

  The street expanded to six lanes and an X-shaped wedge of tall, white topped high-rise buildings, trimmed in layers of gold, marked what Mac said was the beginning of the Strip. The hotel was
set back from the street hallmarked by open metal gates and a wide, private driveway that appeared to give way to sculptured lawns, trees, and gushing fountains. It looked like something out of a theme park. Next to the ornate gold-colored windows decorating the sides of the huge wedge of buildings lay a shiny black pyramid looking like a glistening version of some ancient, Egyptian fantasy, replete with a huge faux sphinx in front. An old-fashioned castle framed by brilliant blue and red topped turrets lay on their left, and an older, beige colored hotel, the Tropicana, was on the right. Across the street an ersatz Statue of Liberty stood prominently in front of a miniaturized Manhattan skyline, and opposite that the MGM Hotel beckoned with a quartet of bright, reflective greenish buildings replete with flashing billboards advertising shows, fights, and who knew what else. The statue of an immense recumbent golden lion kept watch over the busy intersection.

  Wolf tried to take it all in, but it was almost overwhelming.

  “Man, this place is something,” he said, thinking that it was a monument to American excessiveness.

  McNamara chuckled.

  “It sure is, ain’t it?”

  “Looks like Disneyland for adults,” Wolf said.

  “That’s a good comparison. Lots of pretty gals around, too.” McNamara clucked his tongue. “We still have to work on number two on your list, too, don’t we?”

  Wolf thought back to number two—get laid, then shook his head. He wasn’t so sure about that one at the moment. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman in an intimate context. Although he hated to admit it, he found the idea a bit intimidating at this point. “I thought this was all about business?”

  “Hell, it is,” Mac said. “But that don’t mean we can’t take some time off to enjoy ourselves a little bit.”

  Wolf said nothing.

  Enjoyment takes money in this town, he thought.

  And at present, he didn’t have very much of it. The last thing he wanted to do was to keep sponging of his friend and mentor. He already owed Mac way too much.

  “How about I start earning my way a little more before we talk about that?” he said.

  McNamara snorted. “You will be, as soon as we catch up to Reno.”

  Wolf didn’t like the sound of that. Not that he was afraid of him. He felt confident that he could hold his own against either Reno or the black guy, Herc. Both of them were big and had the weight advantage, but Wolf had seen the way they’d moved. Muscle-bound and slow, especially the big black guy. Speed and endurance would be the key to fighting them, though hopefully not both at once. That and delivering some solid kicks to their knees. No matter how big they were, once the supports were knocked out of place, the whole house would come crashing down. He’d faced many a bigger foe in the cell blocks, bathrooms, and prison yard at Leavenworth, where there were no rules except one: survive. And the times he’d fought in the ring, it had been his experience that the guys with the big muscles ran out of gas sooner rather than later. His wind was pretty good from running up and down the mountain on a regular basis. Still, the prospect of taking on two professional fighters would most likely prove problematic, especially considering that the MMA fighters trained for five-minute rounds.

  But he owed Mac, even if it meant getting his ass kicked. He’d just have to give as good as he got. And there wouldn’t be any rules on the street, either.

  McNamara turned right and headed down to the next intersection. The heights of the buildings lessened substantially, giving way to fewer and fewer tall buildings on the left and more airport and planes on the right. After a quick left turn at the next intersection, they proceeded down a street that was slightly less populated by the ubiquitous flow of vehicles.

  “The convention hotel’s down a ways,” McNamara said. “At the Shamrock.”

  “Maybe it’ll bring us luck,” Wolf said. “You’re Irish, right?”

  “Scots-Irish, just like the Duke.”

  “The Duke?”

  McNamara snorted. “John Wayne.”

  “That gonna help us get a room there?”

  “Kasey already took care of that. Got us a nice suite at the place down the way. It’s called Motel Six. I’m sure they’ll leave the light on for us.”

  Wolf laughed. He knew they’d both slept in worse.

  “As long as the roof don’t leak,” he said.

  “Right,” Mac said, shifting lanes to the sound of protesting horns. “We’ll park at the Shamrock and do some recon first.”

  “If we can get there without an accident,” Wolf said.

  McNamara snorted. “We’ll get there, all right. Then we’ll do some settling up.”

  After turning into a parking garage and going over a series of speed bumps, McNamara accelerated up the winding ramp going between rows and rows of parked vehicles. They seemed to be ascending forever until finally they emerged from the penumbra of the cement level onto the uppermost one in the fading sunshine. Finding a place large enough to accommodate the Escalade proved a bit tricky, but they settled on an isolated one at the far end of the lot. McNamara secured his Glock in the special metal case between the seats and locked it.

  “You going to feel a bit undressed without that?” Wolf asked.

  McNamara smiled. “Nah, like I told you. The clothes make the man.”

  They walked across the open roof area toward a set of elevators. The temperature was pretty similar to Phoenix: sunny, hot, and dry. They were both still dressed for traveling comfort, jeans, T-shirts, and gym shoes, but after parking they’d both slipped on their loose fitting BDU blouses. The garments had been specially modified with additional inside pockets and epaulets to accommodate clip-on mini-mag flashlights. Additionally, the sleeves had been removed for extra coolness. Both garments were camo-colored, with Wolf’s being gray and white and McNamara’s dark tiger stripes.

  The height of the parking structure gave them a bird’s eye view of the profusion of surrounding buildings. Across the street the fronts of several hotels displayed more flashing neon lights as well as statues, cultured landscaping, and exotic designs. An immense Ferris wheel with plastic capsules large enough to accommodate half a dozen people rotated at an infinitesimal pace.

  McNamara pointed out several other hotels and landmarks then tapped his knuckles on the wall by the elevator button. “I forget what this here place used to be called. It’s been bought and sold and remodeled so many times.”

  The indicator light dinged and the doors opened.

  “Hit the button marked casino,” McNamara said. “You gotta go through there to get to anyplace else in the hotel.”

  “Figures,” Wolf said. “This place is all about business, too.”

  The car descended, stopping at virtually every level on the way down. An assortment of middle-aged tourists got on as well as a pair of beautiful women, one blonde and one brunette, whose heavy makeup and tight clothes labeled them as working girls. Both were busy texting and paid Wolf little attention.

  Maybe working on number two on that list might be in the cards after all, he thought wistfully. But these chicks are way out of my league, unless I could somehow grab a windfall at an overripe slot machine.

  But even then, the idea didn’t really appeal to him that much. The specter of his bleak financial situation, and unpaid debts, edged out all other considerations at the moment. And his disastrous attempt at reentering the dating scene with Consuelo was still looming large.

  Baby steps, he thought.

  The elevator stopped and as the doors opened everyone shuffled out. McNamara made a show of ogling the blond girl’s low-cut display of ample cleavage, then held up his index and middle fingers, mouthing “Number two,” before pointing at Wolf.

  The corridor gave way to a longer section with a pattern of green and white tiles on the floor. The walls were lined with plaster figurines in recessed slots, each peeking through a four-leaf clover that they held in different positions. The frozen impish faces all displayed what looked to be a conspiratori
al wink. The corridor widened into a walkway of shops, restaurants, and snack stands every few feet. They came to another open expanse and McNamara headed toward a pair of long escalators over which a gold sign flashed the lighted letters spelling out CASINO.

  Looks like it’s getting close to show time, Wolf thought, as he mentally began to formulate the first moves he would use on each of his opponents. He wondered how effective they’d be.

  “Remember, we’re here for recon only,” McNamara said, as if reading the concern on Wolf’s face. “Not to go toe-to-toe with Reno and King Kong’s little brother.”

  “That’s not very politically correct of you,” Wolf said.

  The escalator was almost at the bottom now.

  McNamara laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. I wouldn’t want to insult the anthropoidal species by associating that moron, Herc, with one of them.”

  Wolf knew that Mac didn’t have a prejudiced bone in his body. They’d both lived and served with men of all races, creeds, and colors, and killed quite a few of the different variations of each one as well. In the combat brotherhood, nobody cared what your ethnicity or religion was, only that you had each other’s backs.

  They stepped off the escalator and Wolf saw row after row of brightly lit slot machines clustered in bunches with a comfortable looking padded chair in front of each one-armed bandit. A cacophony of ringing sounds, each signifying a pull of the lever, drowned out any other sounds of music or conversation. A pervasive odor of cigarette smoke hung in the air and irritated his lungs. He’d been around tobacco all his life but never used it, despite the ritualistic significance it held for some tribes in the Native American community. The smell of it bothered him. He saw a guy perched in one of the seats, cigarette in one hand, a drink in the other, staring intently at the spinning symbols inside the three slotted vents before him. They stopped in a mismatched pattern and the man reached up and punched one of the buttons. The symbols started their spins again. Interspersed between the clusters of slots were longer tables housing card games and craps. One black guy reached into his pants pocket and tossed two hundreds onto the green felt surface. He rolled the dice between his palms, held them in front of a gorgeous woman to his right, and waited for her to blow on his hands. She did and his arm shot outward.