Lucky Break (18 page)

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 presence 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?”