Michael Connelly - Murder in Vegas

Ed wrestled with the steering, finally getting it under some control, and whipped right, over to the shoulder and beyond it. He pictured the three Mayans from the yard next-door to Natalya’s chalet, and he hoped he’d put the Mustang’s engine block between him and any likely fields of fire from their vehicle. Ed also hoped they didn’t have much weaponry beyond the sniper rifle but knew he was probably wrong on that score, the way they’d handled everything else.

And, after their killing Brandi, there was no bargaining with them, no chance of “Take the money and let me live, or I’ll nail at least one of you right here.”

Nobody leaves a body and a witness behind.

Ed grabbed the little Raven.25 from the floor mat, slapped the magazine back into the butt of its handle, and slid the semiautomatic into the left-side pocket of his sports jacket. Then he slipped out the driver’s door, waiting for the Mayans to make their move. They took long enough before starting the Suburban’s engine, he was pretty sure one of them did the same thing he’d done: dropped out of their vehicle and into the desert, to flank him while the others rolled slowly toward him.

Just like Ed learned in Small Unit Tactics, back in the airborne. And just like the big land yacht was doing now.

Down on his hands and knees, Ed scuttled like a crab across the desert floor, away from the Mustang. And the money, but it was his only chance: Outflank the flanker, and come around behind all of them.

Ed went into the desert fifty or sixty meters at a diagonal to the road, angling slightly toward the direction he’d driven from. Figuring that was far enough, given the superiority of numbers and firepower the Mayans would think they had over him, Ed assumed the prone position to wait.

Listening to the desert sounds. Trying to pick up anything that didn’t move like a snake. Or a lizard, even a tarantula.

Or whatever the fuck else there’d be in this kind of desert.

And he did hear some slithering sounds, then a scratching sound, like maybe a mouse’s foot would make on wood, then a little squeak that Ed figured was curtains for that particular rodent.

But now, footfalls. Halfway between him and the road, mov-ng parallel to it. Jogging, the guy moving with confidence toward the Mustang.

Ed rose to a sprinter’s start, waiting for the Suburban to draw even with him. Then he used the noise of the receding vehicle to cover his own.

The running Mayan stayed on a line with the big vehicle’s rear doors. Smart: That way, its headlights wouldn’t silhouette him for a shooter still at the Mustang.

Bad luck, though, too: That relative positioning did pinpoint the guy-a pistol of some kind held muzzle up-just right for the angle Ed had from behind.

Closing fast on an interception course, Ed was all over the Mayan-Christ, no more than five-four, max?-before the little guy could have heard him. Ed used the extra-heavy barrel of the Combat Masterpiece to pistol-whip the Mayan across the back of his head, pitching him forward onto the sand with a “whump” sound from his body but nothing from his mouth.

Then Ed planted his left foot on the Mayan’s spine, and-with his free hand-hooked under the little guy’s chin and snapped his neck.

Scooping up the Mayan’s pistol-another semiautomatic, maybe a nine-millimeter but not enough light on it to be sure-Ed put it in his jacket’s right side-pocket, kind of balancing off Brandi’s Raven.25 in the other. Then he started to run, trying to match the pace of the Mayan he’d just killed.

Thinking: one down, two to go.

The Suburban was now enough ahead of him, he could see itclearly approaching his Mustang. When the driver nailed the gas and kicked in his high-beams, the third Mayan began shooting two-handed from the rear seat, Ed closing his eyes against the blaze from the muzzles, so as not to ruin his night vision. He heard both magazines empty into and around the convertible as they passed-some richochets, some thumps, depending on what the rounds hit. Then, hanging a U-ey, the Suburban came back hard. Ed was already prone again, eyes turned away from the headlights, but his ears picked up the sound of the third Mayan emptying another two magazines into the Mustang from the opposite direction.

Christ, a good thing you left the car. And picked off their flanker, who’d otherwise be standing over you right now, capping three rounds through your skull.

Ed turned again toward the Suburban. It hung another U-ey, this time moving back toward the Mustang real slow and weaving a little, let its high beams maybe pick up a dead or wounded courier against the convertible or somewhere near it.

Fuck this.

Ed got into another crouch, then sprang forward, letting Brandi’s.25 fill his left hand, since he couldn’t waste time fiddling with the maybe-on, maybe-off safety from the first Mayan’s semi. He matched that dead guy’s pace again as best he could, let the two Mayans exiting the Suburban-one at the driver’s side, of course, the other at the passenger rear door-think their pal was joining up. Until they were clear of the vehicle and fixated on the Mustang, each just forward of the Suburban’s front grille, using its high beams to blind anybody left alive to shoot back at them.

After drawing a deep breath and releasing it slowly, Ed emptied both of his weapons into those two Mayans, being careful not to hit their vehicle.

His new transportation, after all.

Ed’s targets spazzed out like puppets as his slugs hit them, Ed himself now pulling from his jacket pocket the first guy’s semi, to close and finish the fuckers. Then he caught the flash of another muzzle from the rear-passenger’s window of the Suburban and simultaneously the impact of two, three rounds spinning him around and down, hard.

Shit: A fourth fucking Mayan?

Hoping the semi did have its safety off, Ed squeezed the trigger, putting five shots into the rear door. Hearing a scream, he decided to save the remaining slugs, in case the guy was playing possum. But Ed started feeling dizzy, too, knew he was losing too much blood to wait any longer. Levering up on his elbows-Christ, like somebody’s hit you in the chest with a battering ram, tough even to breathe shallow-Ed staggered toward the Suburban, keeping the semi as level as he could. Getting there seemed to take an hour, but when he inhaled as much air as his lungs would hold, he yanked open that rear door, and saw the top half of fat Natalya ooze more than flop onto the pavement, another semiautomatic clattering on the asphalt like it was the tile floor in her chalet.

Fucking bitch didn’t trust her Mayans after all.

Then Ed walked around to the front of the Suburban, let its high-beams spotlight his shirt under the sports jacket. He said, “Shit,” and, a moment later, the same once more. After that, he didn’t see much else to say.

So Ed inched out of the jacket as best he could, found a soft, level spot on the desert floor, and rolled the jacket into sort of a pillow, rest a little easier.

Ed Krause opened his eyes, realized he didn’t know how long he’d been out, still just lying there on the desert floor. He was starting to feel cold, which he didn’t remember from before. And while some of the stars above him seemed to have changed position, there was no sign yet of dawn to the east.

Just the glorious, heavenly effect from the lights of Vegas.

Ed shifted his head on the sports-jacket pillow as best he could, to be able to stare at those lights, the promise of real money and seeing a place he’d always wanted to visit. Last two times he’d coughed, though, blood came up, so right now he wouldn’t bet on even seeing morning.

You’re gonna bleed out in this fucking desert, you might as well stay focused on the prize, huh? Shows… lions… show-girls… magic acts… tigers… casinos.