The Overseer (35 page)

John Temple blinked, body hurting all over. He looked around at the interior of the wrecked van. Seat belts dangled against the light that shone through the cracked and broken windows. The van had lost control when the driver was shot, hitting its side as it tipped over the curb and sliding across the sidewalk.

John lay for a moment longer. He hurt too much to move. Nothing was broken as far as he could tell, but who knew what else might have happened. Internal bleeding, concussion. Just because he couldn’t spot anything on the outside of his body that alarmed him didn’t mean he was OK.

Something nearby moved. John looked. It was Dalton Waters, reaching for the rifle he’d dropped as he tried to crawl out of the badly damaged van. John groaned as he tried to follow after. Dalton reached for the black bag that had been inside the van. Grabbing it, he stood. The van rocked with the shift in weight.

“Dalton.” John choked. It hurt to speak.

Dalton gave him a glance through the black mask, then turned back to the front of the van and kicked at the fractured windshield. The laminated safety glass popped out in a sheet, crumpling to the ground. Dalton stepped out, disappearing into the bloom of warm light.

John ignored the pain, pushing himself up, staggering forward. He crawled past the driver’s seat, where the body of the driver hung suspended, locked in place by the seat belt. Blood dripped down a dangling arm and head. John caught his gag reflex before he was able to vomit and held it in.

He stepped into the golden sunlight, looking around.

Where was he?

Some kind of sidewalk filled with kiosks and tourists who stared at their newfound entertainment. He was at the foot of one of the hotel and casino complexes. Off the Strip? Probably. He didn’t recognize the place.

“Are you OK?” a guy in his twenties asked. “Do you need an ambulance?”

“Don’t worry,” a woman shouted, phone to her ear. “I’m calling 9-1-1!”

Police sirens had already begun, getting close fast.

John scanned for Dalton. “I’m looking for—”

“Hey!” somebody shouted. “What are you doing?”

They were looking at Dalton, who knelt over his black bag, locking a new drum into the M14 rifle. A man stepped toward him, and Dalton swung with the butt of the rifle, forcing the bystander back. He shouldered the hefty black bag, firing a deafening string of bullets into the air.

People scattered.

The first police car appeared up the street, lights swirling.

“Out of the way!” Dalton shouted with anger, pulling the rifle to his shoulder, aiming toward the police car.

John plowed forward—half a dozen rounds too late—a trail of bullet holes tracing their way from the police car’s grill all the way up to the flashing light that exploded. The car screeched to a stop—the driver wounded.

John rammed with his shoulder, sending the remainder of the shots uselessly wide.

There was a blur of motion, and John felt himself stumble, thrown off and sent sprawling, hitting the sidewalk with his chest. A gun barrel jammed into his back.

“Get up!” Dalton ordered. He pulled John to his feet, holding him by an arm, the muzzle of the rifle tipped into John’s back.

He was being pulled backward—toward a restaurant.

John suddenly realized what was going on.

He was a hostage.

Devin pulled the senator behind a slot machine.

The senator stammered, “Who—?”

A harsh “Hush” was all the senator got as a reply. Devin peeked around their obnoxiously chiming cover—as much hiding as anything. The exit was a hundred yards away at best. Maybe if they ran…

A gunman with one of the vintage M14s stepped into view, blocking the far exit.

Devin cursed his luck and looked back in the direction he had—

Thunder shook the air as a rifle hacked out a violent burst. A slot machine took the blow, blasting lights and glass to bits.

He pulled back behind cover, blind-firing with the pistol, popping trios of bullets.

He crouched as the return fire began, the senator crouching beside him, shaking in fear.

“Are you—?” the senator started.

“Shut up!” Devin ordered, impatient with the shell-shocked official. “Do everything I say, or we’re both dead!”

“Do you see him?” one of the gunmen shouted, trying to coordinate with the others in the room.

Devin grabbed the senator by a lapel and pulled him as fast as he could, head down, to the end of the row of slot machines. He looked quickly, eyes peeking over the cover. The majority, if not all of the gunmen were in the casino now, all exits covered.

They were surrounded—and they were being hunted.

Dalton Waters shouted as he pulled his hostage through the restaurant. The place was darkly lit with yellowish lightbulbs at infrequent intervals. The place appeared as if it either hadn’t opened for the morning or was just opening now. There were no customers, only wait staff that scattered at Dalton’s command.

“Dalton…” John tried to say, still off balance from being grabbed.

How had John gotten involved in all of this? Dalton wondered. He’d always hoped that the interior team wouldn’t be necessary—that he’d be able to hit the senator from the van in the drive-by. But John had ruined that hope. Maybe everything. At least one of his people was already dead, and it was John’s fault. And now he was in danger of getting cornered, and that was John’s fault too.

A trio of police officers approached the glass doors at the front of the restaurant. Dalton lowered the M14 with one hand, firing wildly, blasting glass. The police—too afraid to risk their lives—backed away. And they’d stay away, Dalton thought, because unlike him, they were afraid to die.

“Out of the way!” Dalton shouted at a hostess, and she did what she was told as he pulled his hostage into the kitchen.

Devin listened to the sounds of feet moving along the casino carpet as the gunmen called instructions to one another. He motioned to the senator to stay and went prone, leaning around the corner of their position.

A moment to orient himself. A moment to brace his shooting arm. A moment to look.

In the dull metal side of a brass-colored slot machine he saw the warped image of an assassin moving perpendicularly to his left. Another moment as Devin held his breath.

A set of legs in brown coveralls stepped across his view ten feet away. The assassin was looking the wrong direction. Devin reacted fast, firing a burst from the handgun. Several rounds missed, but one hit a leg, sending the gunman to the floor, howling. The M14 in the man’s hands raised, and Devin pulled behind cover as the return volley exploded in their direction.

He grabbed the senator, pulling him across the floor in the prone position. The senator tried to stand, but Devin yanked him back. “Keep your head down!” he hissed.

A maelstrom of fire ripped their position above them. Scraps of glass and plastic rained down on them as bullets and buckshot blasted at the cover around and overhead.

Suddenly the shooting stopped.

Devin pulled the senator, bringing him to a stop around another set of machines. Everything was quiet except for the electronic jingle of the machines, advertising their presence.

“Anybody see them?” one of the gunmen asked, breaking the silence.

Footsteps moved slowly and steadily at a distance.

“They aren’t here anymore.”

“He got my leg!” the wounded one groaned from where Devin had left him. “Be careful—he’s got a gun.”

“The senator?”

“No! I think he’s security. Black guy. Shoot him for me.”

Police
, Devin thought. Where were the police in all of this? Security was all dead or immobilized, and that left the police— who were either useless or chasing after that van that had made the drive-by.

The footsteps got closer. On the other side of the slot machine rows? Either way, they were too close.

The senator must have heard it, shuddering as he tried to control his breathing.

Footsteps pressed softly into the carpet a short distance away, and the slot machines sang their jolly songs. Just inches away, the senator let out a frightened sound.

Devin looked around and saw a spilled scotch glass lying sideways on the floor. It must have been dumped by a casino guest in the mass exodus. He grabbed the glass, feeling its weight in his hand, palming the wide cylindrical object. Devin steadied his grip, trying not to let his hands slip on the condensation. A moment to listen, then he threw it as hard as he could down the row. The glass shattered against the metal frame of a slot machine.

“There!”

A gunman with a shotgun rushed in the direction of the breaking glass. Devin was already aiming when the man realized he’d been duped.

Blam-blam-blam!

Devin’s pistol went dry, and the approaching gunman fell behind cover.

“What happened?” another of the gunman called out.

“I took one to the vest,” the assassin choked out with surprise. “But I’m bleeding!”

Devin dropped the empty magazine from the handgun and fished in his jacket for another. He’d forgotten that the FN FiveseveN was designed to penetrate body armor. A claim that some considered exaggerated but had apparently worked well enough at close range to cause some damage.

There was some groaning from around the corner as Devin shoved a new magazine into his gun. The shotgun peeked around the corner without aiming and fired.

A seat flipped, thrown by the hearty blast. Devin shot back at the gun hand before it disappeared back around the corner.

“Keep back,” another gunman shouted. “Work around them, and hurry.”

“Oh no!” The senator moaned. Devin grabbed him and pulled him around another corner toward the card tables and out of sight.

John felt the impact as Dalton threw him into a stainless steel table, a pile of freshly grated cheese shifting as he hit. They were in the restaurant kitchen. The staff ran for the exits, compelled by the sounds of gunfire. Dalton peeked around the corner, into the dining area, then back at John.

“Am I your hostage?” John asked.

Dalton grunted, shoving a stack of pots and pans off a countertop, throwing his black bag on top. “I don’t know.”

“Are you trying to escape?”

Dalton reached into the bag, pulling out a yellow walkietalkie. “Not now, John!” He turned the device on, adjusting the radio frequencies.