was unarmed and wearing his best shirt, pants, and new John Varvatos shoes. Not that it mattered. He heard the echoes of men shouting, the squeal of rubber against concrete, a car horn blaring.
“Manny, position?”
“Cars are exiting onto Frank Sinatra Drive, black Escalades, Arizona plates.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
“What’s your position?”
At the emergency stairway, he turned left toward the sound of shrieking tires. Saw a black Cadillac Escalade forty feet away whip around the corner and down the exit ramp. Mancini ran out from behind a pickup to its right and lunged toward the partially opened rear window of the SUV. Seeing him, the driver turned sharply right, smacking him with the right rear bumper and tossing him against the grille of a parked Mercedes. He bounced off and hit the pavement.
Crocker found him bleeding from the nose and disoriented. “Don’t move,” he instructed.
“Fuck that.” Mancini pushed himself up onto all fours, rolled to his right, and stood in a crouch. “Which way did they go?”
“I only saw one.”
“One individual?”
“No, one Escalade.”
Crocker punched in the side window of a Ford pickup with his elbow, got in, and loosened the ring around the ignition switch with his pocketknife. Once he got the ring off, he pulled the switch out of the dash and unplugged it as Mancini slid into the passenger’s seat.
“You okay?” Crocker asked.
“A little woozy. Don’t worry about me.”
“Anyone following them?”
“Don’t think so. CP security is totally overwhelmed.”
“What about the Treasury guys?”
Mancini shrugged and rubbed his ribs.
“Take the push-pull. Tell Jeri what’s happening. Tell her to send a team with wheels.”
He found the red wire with the green stripe around it and the black one, and stuck them both in the hole at the back of the plug, touching the red one to the one that started to crank the motor. Then he held the black one to the other wire until the engine started. He pressed down on the gas and unplugged the red one.
Mancini, who had been talking on the radio, lowered it into his lap. “Ixnay on the follow team, says Jeri.”
“Why?”
“All focused on hotel security.”
“You armed?” Crocker asked as he backed the truck out of the spot and Mancini wiped a stream of blood from his nose with the back of his sleeve.
“No. You?”
“Negative. Which way we going?”
“Turn right toward the back exit. There!” Mancini grimaced and pointed.
As Crocker turned onto Frank Sinatra Drive, he swerved to avoid some guy with a camera, who shot him the bird.
“Fuck you, too. You see ’em?”
“Right. Bear right,” Mancini said. “Stay on this road and give me your iPhone.”
“Why? You calling takeout?”
“So I can find the fuckers.”
“How the hell you gonna do that?” Crocker asked.
“When the second SUV sped past, I tossed my Android in the open rear window. Made sure the volume was muted and the GPS engaged.”
“What’s your Android gonna do?”
“Watch.”
“How many targets you see total?”
“Three subjects in the first vehicle. Two in the second. All male.”
As Crocker cranked the pickup up to eighty, he saw Mancini to his right punching something into his iPhone. “What the fuck you doing now?”
“Accessing my InstaMapper account. You got a text from Cyndi. She wants to know where you want her to wait, at the Bellagio or Caesars Palace.”
“Leave my shit alone!”
“Relax. She’s waiting for you, buddy.”
“Focus.”
Mancini held the little screen to the right of Crocker’s face. It showed a map with a red dot moving down a highway. “See that?”
“That them?”
“Brilliant, right? They’re headed north on 15 toward Salt Lake City. You enter up ahead.”
Crocker swerved left up the ramp and merged into traffic at ninety miles an hour. Multiple car horns screamed behind him.
His mind was spinning, trying to figure where the diplomats/counterfeiters were
“Manny, position?”
“Cars are exiting onto Frank Sinatra Drive, black Escalades, Arizona plates.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
“What’s your position?”
At the emergency stairway, he turned left toward the sound of shrieking tires. Saw a black Cadillac Escalade forty feet away whip around the corner and down the exit ramp. Mancini ran out from behind a pickup to its right and lunged toward the partially opened rear window of the SUV. Seeing him, the driver turned sharply right, smacking him with the right rear bumper and tossing him against the grille of a parked Mercedes. He bounced off and hit the pavement.
Crocker found him bleeding from the nose and disoriented. “Don’t move,” he instructed.
“Fuck that.” Mancini pushed himself up onto all fours, rolled to his right, and stood in a crouch. “Which way did they go?”
“I only saw one.”
“One individual?”
“No, one Escalade.”
Crocker punched in the side window of a Ford pickup with his elbow, got in, and loosened the ring around the ignition switch with his pocketknife. Once he got the ring off, he pulled the switch out of the dash and unplugged it as Mancini slid into the passenger’s seat.
“You okay?” Crocker asked.
“A little woozy. Don’t worry about me.”
“Anyone following them?”
“Don’t think so. CP security is totally overwhelmed.”
“What about the Treasury guys?”
Mancini shrugged and rubbed his ribs.
“Take the push-pull. Tell Jeri what’s happening. Tell her to send a team with wheels.”
He found the red wire with the green stripe around it and the black one, and stuck them both in the hole at the back of the plug, touching the red one to the one that started to crank the motor. Then he held the black one to the other wire until the engine started. He pressed down on the gas and unplugged the red one.
Mancini, who had been talking on the radio, lowered it into his lap. “Ixnay on the follow team, says Jeri.”
“Why?”
“All focused on hotel security.”
“You armed?” Crocker asked as he backed the truck out of the spot and Mancini wiped a stream of blood from his nose with the back of his sleeve.
“No. You?”
“Negative. Which way we going?”
“Turn right toward the back exit. There!” Mancini grimaced and pointed.
As Crocker turned onto Frank Sinatra Drive, he swerved to avoid some guy with a camera, who shot him the bird.
“Fuck you, too. You see ’em?”
“Right. Bear right,” Mancini said. “Stay on this road and give me your iPhone.”
“Why? You calling takeout?”
“So I can find the fuckers.”
“How the hell you gonna do that?” Crocker asked.
“When the second SUV sped past, I tossed my Android in the open rear window. Made sure the volume was muted and the GPS engaged.”
“What’s your Android gonna do?”
“Watch.”
“How many targets you see total?”
“Three subjects in the first vehicle. Two in the second. All male.”
As Crocker cranked the pickup up to eighty, he saw Mancini to his right punching something into his iPhone. “What the fuck you doing now?”
“Accessing my InstaMapper account. You got a text from Cyndi. She wants to know where you want her to wait, at the Bellagio or Caesars Palace.”
“Leave my shit alone!”
“Relax. She’s waiting for you, buddy.”
“Focus.”
Mancini held the little screen to the right of Crocker’s face. It showed a map with a red dot moving down a highway. “See that?”
“That them?”
“Brilliant, right? They’re headed north on 15 toward Salt Lake City. You enter up ahead.”
Crocker swerved left up the ramp and merged into traffic at ninety miles an hour. Multiple car horns screamed behind him.
His mind was spinning, trying to figure where the diplomats/counterfeiters were
Similar Books
