W Griffin - Hunters

"You know where to find him?"

Miller nodded.

"Ask him to do that, please," Castillo said. "How hard is it going to be to get Vic D'Allessando on the horn?"

Miller held out a cellular telephone. Castillo went and took it from him.

"Autodial seven," Miller said.

"I don't know when I'll be able to get to Biloxi," Castillo explained. "But I want to see Vic before I see the Mastersons."

"It'll probably be in the very wee hours when we get there," Fernando said. "But if you go with me, I'll bet you'll get there sooner than if you went commercial."

"I want to go to Philadelphia first," Castillo said.

"So does Jack," Fernando said. "Jack's wife is with her mother in Philly. The planned itinerary is Reagan to Philly. Then, after you see your lady friend, Philly to Charleston, where we drop the colonel off. Then Charleston to San Antone. No problem to drop you off in Biloxi."

"You're going to Charleston by way of Philadelphia?" Castillo asked Torine. "You can't catch a plane from here?"

"The oldest member of this small, valiant band of men," Torine said, "having just returned from a tour of the world, is in no condition to pass through airport security, especially in possession of an Uzi and a case of untaxed brandy that I don't want to have to try to explain."

Castillo chuckled. "Untaxed brandy?"

"Fernando told me you had bought your grandmother a case of Argentine brandy at twelve bucks a bottle. I figured if it was good enough for your grandmother, it would be a suitable expression of my affection for my wife."

"It's really good brandy," Castillo said. "And, best of all, it's not French."

"It's a sad world, Charley, where boycotting the products of those who have screwed you interferes with your drinking habits, but that's the way it is."

Castillo chuckled.

"Okay, let's get this show on the road. While I call D'Allessando, somebody call the doorman and have him get us a couple of cabs."

"There's a big Yukon stationed at the National Geographic exit," Miller said. "And since I'm not going anywhere, you can use that."

"Great," Castillo said.

"Sir, what about me?" Corporal Lester Bradley asked. Castillo looked at him a long moment before replying. "You better come with me, Bradley," he said, finally. "Sir, may I ask what I'm going to be doing?"

"You can ask, but I can't tell you because I haven't figured that out yet." [THREE] The Belle Vista Casino and Resort U.S. Highway 90 ("The Magic Mile") Biloxi, Mississippi 0405 2 August 2005 Inside the resort, as C. G. Castillo and Lester Bradley, in civilian clothing, approached the main entrance of the casino, a burly "host" came out from behind a small stand-up desk and not very politely asked Bradley how old he was and then, when told, shook his head and said he couldn't go in.

"Wait right here, Bradley," Castillo ordered. "I'll be right out."

"Yes, sir."

Castillo entered the casino and walked past rows of slot machines, at which maybe a quarter of them sat gamblers, most of them middle-aged and elderly women. Beyond the slot machines was an arch with a flashing GAMING sign on it. Castillo walked under it and found himself in a huge area filled with tables for the playing of blackjack, craps, and roulette.

Perhaps a third of them were in use. He saw Vic D'Allessando's totally bald head at one of the blackjack tables deep in the room. He walked toward the table and stopped six feet from it.

There was a sign on the table indicating the minimum bet was ten dollars. There were five stacks of chips in front of D'Allessando. He tapped them steadily with the fingers of his left hand as he watched the dealer deal.

Even if they were all ten-dollar chips-and they're obviously not, since each stack is a different color, which means they're worth even more-Vic is into this game big-time.

He watched a little longer, saw that Vic was playing two cards at a time, and then walked up behind him. D'Allessando sensed his presence and turned to see who was behind him. He gave no sign of recognition.

The dealer busted and passed out chips to both of the cards D'Allessando was playing.

"That'll do it," D'Allessando said, then slid a tip of two chips to the dealer and started to gather up the remainder of his chips. The dealer slid a rack to him.

"Thanks," D'Allessando said and put the chips in the rack.

"Oh, goody," Castillo said. "I brought you luck."

D'Allessando snorted. He arranged the chips in the rack and stood up. He was a short man whose barrel chest and upper arms strained his shirt.

"Cashier's over there," D'Allessando said, indicating the direction with a nod of his head.

On his retirement from twenty-four years of service-twenty-two of it in Special Forces-CWO5 Victor D'Allessando had gone to work for the Special Operations Command as a Department of the Army civilian. Theoretically, he was a technical advisor to the commanding general of the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg. What he actually did for the Special Operations Command was classified.

At the cashier's window, a peroxide blonde in her fifties counted the chips, then asked if D'Allessando wanted his winnings as a check.

"Cash will do nicely, thank you," D'Allessando said.

The peroxide blonde began to lay crisp new one-hundred-dollar bills in stacks, ten bills to a stack. There were four stacks. Then she started a fifth stack with fifties, twenties, a ten, and, finally, a five.

"Jesus Christ, Vic!" Castillo said. "You had a good night."

D'Allessando grunted again, stuffed the money in the inside pocket of his lemon-colored sports coat, and started for the door. Castillo followed him.

D'Allessando made a Give it to me gesture to the host, who had refused to let Bradley into the casino. The host unlocked a small drawer in the stand-up desk and tried to discreetly hand D'Allessando a Colt General Officers model.45 ACP semiautomatic pistol. The discretion failed. D'Allessando hoisted the skirt of his sports coat and slipped the pistol into a skeleton holster over his right hip pocket.

"They won't let you carry a weapon in there," D'Allessando said. "I guess losers have been known to pop the dealers."

Castillo chuckled. The host was not amused.

"Elevator's over there," D'Allessando said, again nodding to show the direction.

"I know."

"Oh, yeah. Masterson said you'd been here."

"You get to talk to him?" Castillo asked as they walked and Bradley followed.

"He'll be here at eight for breakfast."

When they reached the bank of elevators, D'Allessando took a plastic card key from his jacket pocket and swiped it through a reader. The elevator door opened. D'Allessando waved Castillo into it. Bradley started to get on.

"Sorry, my friend," D'Allessando said, "this elevator is reserved for big-time losers."

"He's with me," Castillo said.

D'Allessando shrugged and stepped out of the way.

When the door closed, Castillo said, "Bradley, this is Mr. D'Allessando. Vic, this is Corporal Lester Bradley. He's a Marine."

"You're in bad company, kid," D'Allessando said. "Watch yourself."

"He's a friend of mine, Vic."

"Even worse."

The elevator stopped and D'Allessando swiped the plastic key again. The door opened.

"Welcome to Penthouse C," D'Allessando said.

"Wow!" Bradley exclaimed.

They were in an elegantly furnished suite of rooms. Two walls of the main room were plate glass, offering a view of what was now an intermittent stream of red lights going west on U.S. 90, white lights going east. In the daylight, the view would be of the sugar white sand beaches and emerald salt water of the Mississippi Gulf Coast.

"My sentiments exactly, Bradley," Castillo said.

"You want a drink, Charley?" D'Allessando asked.