Kill Fee (29 page)

R
amirez wasn’t slowing down. “Out of my way, man,” he told Windermere as he barreled through the lobby, his entourage hurrying to keep up. “Got a plane to catch.”

Windermere stood her ground. “Your life’s in danger, Julio. You walk out of here, we can’t protect you.”

“Got my boys with me. The fuck I need you for?”

He pushed past Windermere and toward the front doors. Beside
Windermere, Mathers shook his head. “Couldn’t stop him,” he said. “Told me I’d have to shoot him to keep him here.”

“Should have,” said Windermere. “Could have interrogated him from the hospital.” She glared after Ramirez. “Guess we’ll see you in Los Angeles, Julio,” she called out. “If you make it that far.”

The big man ignored her. Made the front doors with his entourage and kept going. Disappeared into the sunlight.

IN THE CIVIC,
Wendell Gray straightened. “Target in sight.”

Parkerson sat up. Looked over the asset’s shoulder to the Rio below. Saw the target walking from the Rio’s front doors, headed for the valet line. He had an entourage in tow, a couple security guards and two pretty girls. Parkerson watched the man walk, confident, impatient. Totally unaware that his life was almost over.

In the passenger seat, the asset chambered a round.

STEVENS STARED
at the FBI agents. “Well?” he said. “What happens now?”

Windermere looked around the lobby. “Hell if I know, Stevens,” she said. “I feel like we just let our only lead walk.”

“Could follow him to Los Angeles,” said Mathers.

Stevens shook his head. “What does he know, anyway? We keep chasing our tails. Nobody knows Killswitch.” He looked at Windermere. “Brought you all the way out here, partner, and for nothing.”

Windermere opened her mouth. There was a
bang
from outside the front door. Then screams. Mathers frowned. “Was that—”

Windermere drew her sidearm. “Sure was.”

T
hey ran out the front doors, sidearms drawn. Met a wave of people running the other way. “Valet stand,” said Mathers. “To the right.”

They ran right. Hugged the wall of the casino. Dodged terrified bystanders, a mob, all of them screaming. Rounded the corner to the valet stand and found Julio Ramirez facedown on the pavement, his security guards nowhere in sight.

There were more gunshots. Like firecracker pops. Stevens ducked behind a Corvette and Windermere crawled behind him.
“The parking garage,”
she said.
“Across the street. On the roof.”

Another
pop
. Mathers cried out and dropped, clutching his face. Stevens felt his stomach lurch, but the kid sprung up again. Hugged the wall, his face bloody. Caught a stone chip or something. Ricochet.

Stevens backed up tight against the Corvette. Peered across the hood and the casino lot. Across the roadway to the parking garage beyond. Scanned the roof, the parked cars. Then he saw the sniper.

THE ASSET KEPT SHOOTING,
Long after the target was down. He had a look on his face, a sick smile. Parkerson reached for the weapon. The asset shrugged him away. Kept shooting. Lit up the driveway. Parkerson grabbed the kid’s arm.
“Time to go, soldier.”

The kid kept shooting until he’d emptied the mag. Down below, there were bystanders injured. Dead, probably. A guy leaned against the casino wall, clutching his face. He was holding a pistol.

Parkerson slapped the asset.
“Wendell,”
he said.
“Time to go.”

“Time to go,” the asset said. He grinned at Parkerson, breathing hard.

Parkerson took the rifle from the asset’s hands. Wiped it down the best he could, then shifted into gear and drove across the garage. Halfway to the exit, someone stepped from between two cars. An older man, paunchy, a concerned look on his face.

Parkerson leaned on the horn. The man stood there, jaw set. Crossed his arms and glared at Parkerson, shaking his head. Parkerson swore. “Jesus Christ.” He backed up the Civic. Shifted into drive and aimed straight at the man.

The man’s eyes went wide as the Civic approached. He didn’t move, though, didn’t duck for cover. Went up and over the hood and bounced away to the pavement. Parkerson kept driving. Sped down through the garage and out onto the street. Sped away before the police appeared.

T
he airport,” said Windermere. “Shut it down
now
.”

The cop nodded and hurried off, shouting into his radio. Stevens watched him go. Then walked to the edge of the garage and looked down at the Rio.

They’d run for the Gold Coast as soon as they’d seen the sniper. Watched the little blue car peel off and disappear from sight. Heard it squeal down the ramps and out to Flamingo Road. But by the time they’d reached the garage it was gone.

Stevens turned back to Windermere. “Rental cars,” he said. “We need men there, too. And O’Brien’s picture in every LVPD cop’s hands. How’s our witness?”

Windermere glanced across the lot at the ambulance by the ramp. The shooter had run a man down on his way out of the lot. As far as anyone knew, he was the only person to get a good look at the car. And he was unconscious. She shook her head. “He’s alive, anyway,” she said. “Let’s hope he stays that way.”

Stevens followed her gaze. Watched the paramedics hoist the man onto a stretcher. The shooter was gone. Julio Ramirez was dead, as were both of his security guards and his girlfriends. One bystander was seriously injured, and the only man who’d seen the shooter’s car was a coin flip for survival. Stevens looked around the grim scene. “God damn it,” he said, “so what now?”

“If this is O’Brien, he’s flying home,” said Windermere. “Soon as we get that airport locked down we can start combing the place for him, hope he didn’t decide to go Greyhound.”

“Or a train,” said Stevens.

“No Amtrak in Vegas, Stevens.” Windermere started for the stairs. “I bet this sucker tries to fly.”

P
arkerson wrestled the Civic to the airport along a series of back roads. Parked in a far corner of the long-term lot and hustled the asset out of the car. Popped the trunk and left the rifle inside, with the pistol, the sunglasses, the cheap Las Vegas hats. Wiped down the car, quick as he could, and then grabbed the asset by the arm and hurried him into the terminal.

The asset went willingly. He’d lost the rebellious streak he’d displayed
at the scene. The bloodlust. He was docile again, compliant. He followed Parkerson across the lot and into the terminal.

McCarran was chaos. There were police everywhere. Parkerson felt his heart skip like an old record. Forced himself to keep walking. Focused on blending in. Led the asset past a couple city cops, who scrutinized their faces. Smiled at them, polite, and kept walking. Made the US Airways desk and cocked his head at the agent. “What’s all the fuss?”

The agent was a pretty, young woman. She grinned back at Parkerson. Leaned in, conspiratorial. “There was a shooting just now at one of the casinos,” she said. “Cops are trying to shut down the airport.”

“Holy crap,” said Parkerson. “They get a look at the suspect?”

The girl nodded. “This guy,” she said, holding up a photocopied police sketch. “Guess they’re thinking he’s on the Philadelphia flight.”

Parkerson looked at the sketch. It was a drawing of Lind, no question. “Philadelphia,” he said.

The girl grinned at him again. At the asset. “Just be thankful you’re not on that flight,” she said. “Those guys aren’t going anywhere today.”

A
re you out of your mind?”

McCarran Airport’s deputy director stood behind his desk, his face bright red, staring at Windermere like she’d asked if she could borrow a kidney.

Windermere cleared her throat. “Mr. Rawson, we’re dealing with a serial killer here. This is a nationwide manhunt. If this guy’s in your airport, we need to find him.”

Rawson exhaled slowly. Gripped the edge of his desk and released it. “I understand your concern, Agent Windermere,” he said. “Certainly, I respect your need to apprehend this fugitive. But you cannot—
cannot
—ask me to shut down my airport. The logistics involved. The lost revenue. For one man?” He shook his head. “Impossible.”

Windermere stared at him. “If this guy gets away, my case evaporates, Rawson.”

“I appreciate that, Agent Windermere.” Rawson held her gaze. “All the same, the only way you’re closing this airport is through the FAA.”

WINDERMERE CALLED
her guy at the FAA. Begged him not to hang up. “It’s time-sensitive,” she told him. “I lose this guy and I’m screwed.”

“You have any evidence at all your guy’s in the building?”

“Precedent. This matches his MO.”

“What about the rental car situation? He drop off a car?”

Windermere shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “Nobody’s seen him at Liberty or anywhere else.”

“So you don’t know he’s there.”

She sighed. “No, I don’t.”

“You have no evidence whatsoever that he came to McCarran. And you want to shut down one of the busiest airports in the country so you can play a hunch.”

“It’s more than a hunch,” she said. “I know how this guy works. I can catch him. Just help me, damn it.”

There was a long pause. Then a sigh. “Sorry, Carla,” the man said. “I don’t have that kind of power. And I don’t think I have the evidence to sway anybody who does.”

Windermere ended the call. Glanced back at Stevens and Mathers, who lingered in the doorway, Mathers now wearing a fresh bandage on his cheek. “Well, that’s that,” Windermere said. “On our own, boys.”

P
hiladelphia,” said Stevens as they hurried through the terminal. “Gate A12. Boards in ten minutes.”

Windermere and Mathers followed Stevens through the crowded airport. The place was chaos: displaced travelers, crying babies, angry businessmen swearing into their cell phones, and police of all stripes wading through the mix, staring at printouts of the composite sketch of Richard O’Brien and scrutinizing faces in the crowd.

Stevens led them through the security checkpoint, flashing badges quickly at the harried TSA guards. Then they were through, and racing down the terminal concourse toward gate A12 and the Philadelphia flight.

“Better hope he’s on this flight,” Windermere muttered as she dodged tourists and slot machines on her way after Stevens. “There’s about a hundred other flights leaving at the same time.”

It was true. Rawson had categorically refused to shut down his airport, even for an hour, and Sunday afternoons were gong shows at McCarran. If Richard O’Brien hadn’t chosen a direct flight, he was going to get away clean.

There were two airport cops waiting at the gate. They’d commandeered the microphone and stood at the head of a long line of confused passengers. Stevens and Windermere showed them their badges. “Any luck?”

The cops shook their heads. “No O’Brien on the manifest,” they said. “Nobody who looks like him at the gate yet, either.”

Windermere surveyed the line of travelers. Young people, old people, fat and skinny, couples and families and groups. Confused people, angry people, tired and impatient people. No zombies. Nobody like O’Brien.

Behind them, the US Airways gate attendant cleared her throat. “Excuse me,” she said. “We really need to start boarding if we’re going to have an on-time departure.”

Windermere looked at her. Then she looked back at the line. “Grab the manifest, Stevens,” she said. “Work with me. Mathers, you guard the line.”

Mathers nodded and wandered out into the crowd. Stevens took a copy of the manifest from the gate agent and stood beside Windermere. “We’ll board,” Windermere told the agent. “But we’re doing it my way. One by one.”