He’d come expecting to see me. So far as I knew, he’d no idea of what I looked like. But he knew I wasn’t either of these guys. And I could bet he knew exactly who they were, as well—or at least, who’d sent them.
I saw him glance back at the elevators, realize he’d never get to them in time. A look of panic crossed his face. Then he ducked down, into the avenues of slot machines, and I lost him.
I told Angel, “Circle. Get behind him.” She was faster than I was. For me, I took a side turn, hoping I could cut him off.
There were too many unanswered questions here. These two guys had been waiting for him. So how did they know to be here now, today? Through Shwetz? I doubted that. And I could bet it wasn’t just good luck.
I saw him again. McAvoy. Twenty yards away, crouched behind a big machine called Golden Goddess. Reflections from the lights flashed on his face, flared on his suit. He craned up, checking the area— And bolted. Straight across the floor. He stumbled, smacked into a waitress, sending her tray of glasses smashing to the ground.
After that, it all went very, very fast.
The guys in the Hawaiian shirts began to run. The house security was up, too, and moving. Suddenly I saw where McAvoy was heading. A small red exit sign marked an emergency door. At a sprint, he’d get there well before security, his pursuers—and me.
But I was nearer than the others. And I ran, too.
I lost him for a moment, in among the pillars and the potted palms. Next time I saw him he was pelting, flat out, hands splayed in front of him, a helpless, panic-stricken flight. In the video, he’d had some poise, some cool; all that was gone now.
He reached the door and flung himself against it. The bar gave and he tumbled through. Alarms began to shriek, mingling with the bleep and ping of the machines. I heard another sound—a low, soft thump, and felt a moment’s pressure in my ears. A thick white cloud began to curl over the tops of the machines. A smoke bomb? In seconds, someone would yell “Fire!” and then the whole place would go to hell. There’d be panic everywhere. I couldn’t see Angel. But if I waited, I’d lose McAvoy. I hit the door and barreled through.
I ran down a service corridor. At the end there was a flight of stairs. I froze a moment, listening.
Footsteps, down below.
Angel was right. I was out of shape. I scrambled down the steps, jumping the last few in each flight. I was breathing hard.
Something clattered, one flight down.
And then I saw him. He was trying to get a door open. An ordinary wooden door. He kicked it, pulled it, shook it in its frame.
It wouldn’t budge.
I slowed. I caught my breath.
“Looks like it’s shut,” I said.
He spun around, one arm up, as if fending off a blow.
“Copeland,” I said. “I think we had a date?”
I showed him my ID. He snatched at it, pulled it to him. I let him read it, and then took it back.
He said, “I need to get the door open. It’s never locked! They tricked me. It’s a trick—”
He kicked it, like a child in a tantrum.
“Locked is locked,” I said.
“You’re meant to have a key!” He turned on me, accusingly. Spit hung from his lips. “You’re meant to get me out of here! You’re meant to get me home—”
And then it dawned on him.
“You’re not control,” he said.
“I’m all you’ve got.”
“You’re not—”
We heard the lock click.
Someone outside wrenched the door open.
They were soldiers—maybe half a dozen—and they poured into the stairwell, quick and silent. They wore flak jackets and gloves and desert camouflage. They carried billy clubs and Tasers.
I put my hands up in the air.
“OK,” I said. “OK.”
McAvoy lunged for the stairs.
They grabbed him and he fell headlong.
I was frisked, searched. Quick, professional. They took my phone, my reader, and my wallet with my three IDs.
“This one’s our guy, too.”
A couple of them traded knuckle-bumps and high-fives.
But not with me.
I said, “‘Our guy’?”
They dragged McAvoy onto his feet. He squirmed and struggled, then all at once went limp. He seemed to fold in on himself, hanging from his captors’ grip. He whimpered, sobbed, then let go the most awful wail. It wasn’t fear or pain. It was frustration, like a child denied his favorite toy. He threw his head from side to side, and that dreadful sound just echoed, bouncing off the concrete, moaning, on and on.
One of the soldiers stuck a finger in his ear and waggled it, for fun.
Then he went up to McAvoy, and smacked him in the face.
That shut him up, all right.
“Who are you guys?” I said.
Nobody answered me.
“You got names? ID?”
But I got no names from them, and no ID. Instead, I was shoved towards the stairs, and then, with McAvoy beside me, prodded and manhandled, back the way we’d come.
The gaming floor looked like a riot had just taken place.
But then, I’d been expecting that.
Chapter 56
Assault on a Casino