Sabotage (24 page)

T
ony was almost back to LA. He got to enjoy the desert cooling off, the disintegrating sky giving way to night. He had nothing but his thoughts, and, at a time like this, he wished he didn’t. He tried to listen to music, but nothing felt right. He didn’t like or trust Britt. Britt was a pretty boy with a mean streak. Tony really didn’t think Britt couldn’t handle fighting in the trenches. He sized him up as having some sort of academy training, but Tony had actually been in the streets, first in New York City and then in Vegas. He was there when the collars were made. He had heard the cartilage break, not looked away soon enough as someone was putting a round into some unfortunate soul. He could outsmart the boy. He needed to grab a few things, and then he could be on his way. Tomorrow morning, he would start a new life. He would circle back to Vegas in a different vehicle, see if Red wanted to come with him, and be gone. He had a little money saved. That sounded good.

He stopped off at a convenience store, grabbed a cup of coffee, and got back in the SUV. He looked down and saw his cell phone was ringing.

“Hey boss,” he intoned, trying to sound reasonably cheery. “Whaddya need?” He had checked once to see if Britt tracked his cell phone; he hadn’t. He realized he hadn’t checked this in some time and hoped to hell nothing had changed.

“Where are you?” This sounded cold as almost anything that left Yankee’s mouth.

“I’m almost to Tahoe.”

“Making good time, huh?” Yankee almost seemed to brighten.

This surprised Tony. He didn’t know if he was being tracked or not. He guessed he wasn’t.

“Yeah, I’ll be there in ninety minutes or less.” He would actually be back to L.A. in less than an hour as long as there wasn’t traffic.

“Call me when you get there. I’ve still got lots for you to do.” The coldness returned.

“No problem. I’ll call and get my orders.” Tony wished he hadn’t said it. It sounded stiff and stupid and something he wouldn’t say.

Again, the cold. “Do that. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

Tony ended the call. He was going to be glad to be loose of that motherfucker.

N
aseem and Grant sprinted off the airplane and down the tarmac. Grant saw Gate 17 to the left and made a hard right, which put them closer to the exit. He saw a motorized help cart and used his FBI badge to commandeer it. They sped off and were out of sight before anyone came out of the other gate. He knew it wouldn’t be a long head start, but it was probably enough.

Naseem sized up the situation. He had silently seethed since Grant took the shot at him back in St. Louis. He knew he deserved it, but that didn’t make it any easier. Now, he might just have one shot to do this right, and he wasn’t sure Grant would be willing to do what needed to be done.

Grant saw a bureau-issued SUV ahead and found a wedge seam where he could get them between another vehicle and the SUV. He was two steps ahead of Naseem and had completely let his guard down, probably after some serious concern about flying with him in general. Grant stepped to the driver’s door, and Naseem saw his chance.

He rushed him like a hockey player putting a man into the boards and hit him just under the shoulders. He hit him forcefully.

Grant fell forward, unable to brace himself. His nose broke on impact with the thick glass.

Naseem reached in his breast pocket and grabbed his badge. He obviously looked nothing like the lilywhite image of Grant, but there was no denying the value of a real FBI shield, especially on a hysterical day like today.

Naseem was sure he knew how to find Yankee. And he wanted to be the first one to do so.

R
ed told the cab to wait for her and paid the fare up until that point. She threw in enough of a tip to know he wasn’t going anywhere.

The apartments were nice—for young people working as dealers, pit bosses, and servers at the town’s casinos. The kids there drove nicer Hondas and Acuras and made enough to start saving for a house. There was a big pool in the middle that was well-lit by lights below the water, making everything look dreamy.

Red could smell marijuana as she walked toward the other side of the complex. She passed two girls, probably twenty or so, who were sitting on their boyfriends’ shoulders, trying to knock each other off into the pool, giggling as if they were the funniest things in the world.

She found the building and checked out the door. No one was around, and there were no cameras that she could see. She walked up to the second floor and got her lock pick out. She struggled with the lock, which was surprisingly good for this kind of building, but it still didn’t take her long; it just seemed like it.

Red turned on one light as she entered the apartment and would turn it off as she turned on the next one. She did not expect Caitlin to be here, but she didn’t know who else had a key, and she wanted to be able to hide in time if someone walked in.

Caitlin was a slob, which was not surprising. Red had met her a couple of times. She was alluring and a fun time waiting to be had by all. That was Red’s summation. She could see why Britt would like her. But Caitlin had never gotten over the situation with her ex. That was obvious the minute she took a drink. He came up again and again. Red thought that Britt, with whatever human emotions he could actually conjure, did like this girl, and she could tell he hated the emphasis on the ex, the FBI guy.

She had heard reports earlier. The FBI was hit in the attacks. She doubted that was coincidence.

She couldn’t take forever, and it seemed like there were not many leads—no pictures with friends and a few with family, but they looked out of date. There was a laptop she would take but nothing that jumped out at her in the bedroom or the living room.

She saw one thing in the kitchen that caught her eye, only because there were so few pieces of personal information. It was a name—Tonya Jamison—and a cell number. It also had the word “Harrah’s” on it. Red decided to start there.

She grabbed the laptop and the latest stack of bills. She might have written on them. Tonya was her best lead. The meter on the cab was still running, and Red thought this was the best she was going to get. It wasn’t much, but she had scored on much less.

T
he tip had come in via e-mail. It wasn’t much in the way of tips, something about an apartment “being involved,” but it had some level of detail, and the investigators weren’t exactly bubbling over with leads.

Lee Gates thought about not getting a warrant and just walking over and seeing what was going on. But he thought better of it. He took the ten extra minutes, faxed the paperwork, and received a warrant for his troubles. This wasn’t enough on any other day of the year to get a warrant, he was sure. But today, when everything seemed so monumental, it was apparently more than enough.

Lee grabbed his partner, who was working on the explosion out in one of the city’s industrial areas. Originally, the thought from Jessica Prater and other investigators was that the blast was unrelated to the day’s events, but now she wasn’t so sure. There was some report that at least one body was found, badly disfigured, more than would have been expected in this kind of fire. She was seeing if there was any way to tie that property to the apartment they were going to visit. She could find no connections.

They made their way onto the strip and noticed how few people were outside. It never looked like that on the strip. It seemed like the cumulative effect of the afternoon’s madness had pushed everyone indoors. That seemed strange considering agents had thought the interior of a casino to be its most vulnerable spot. For years, they had fretted about large-scale interior attacks, but it was no matter now. The foot traffic was negligible, and there were fewer cars, but they didn’t seem like things she could complain about right now.

“I think the American location was blown up to cover something, not as a civilian kill zone like the others. I think this was his base.”

Lee nodded. This was as plausible as anything else he had heard today: a false flag attack, domestic terrorists, Islamic terrorists—the default after a dozen years of worrying about these attacks. Las Vegas had freedom and access to anything bad you ever wanted. It would be the perfect place to organize a terrorist attack.

Lee pulled up to the Trump, gave the keys to the valet, and badged him. The valet said he would keep their ride up front. Jessica showed her ID and the warrant to the man at the front desk, who quickly got help.

“We believe that we are looking for the apartment of this man. We believe his name is Britt.” She showed him the picture they were circulating of Britt Vasher, who they would know as Britt Vance.

The manager asked for assistance from the doorman, who quickly recognized him.

“I saw him this morning. He’s on 34.”

They confirmed this information and the manager got a key and accompanied them up the elevator. They walked down the long hall, turning left and then right, and then saw the number: 3472.

Lee knocked on the door. “Police.”

No answer.

He knocked harder. This time Jessica announced them.

Still nothing.

The manager turned the key in the door and quickly peeled off.

Nick and Jessica entered and saw what they had. They had a murder, quite possibly of the main suspect in all this destruction. You reap what you sow and all of that.

P
al Joey and Raylon parked across the street from the house and played some low-volume old school shit on the stereo. They couldn’t risk the music being loud.

Still no sign of the gangster.