“I understand why you kidnapped the boys,” Blake said, forcing himself to set aside his outrage at the way she’d been abused. “You can’t work with your ex and can’t talk to him. He’s unreasonable, untrustworthy. And he is one hell of a dangerous individual.”
She glanced toward the back seat. “Keep your voice down. I don’t want the boys to hear about—”
“About how dear old Dad tried to kill you?”
“I try not to bad-mouth him to his sons. Whether I like it or not, they deserve a chance to have a relationship with their father.”
Though he agreed with her in principle, she might need to release the fantasy that her ex would turn into a decent human being. Hugh Waltham, the successful political consultant, gave new meaning to the concept of sleazy self-interest. Apparently, Blake wasn’t the only person who thought so. In his brief conversation with the ape who he now knew as Gruber, he’d learned that her ex had hired a team of bodyguards, which meant he had enemies.
He wondered if the threat to Waltham connected with the reasons Jordan had for separating from him and taking the kids and moving to a house in Flagstaff. In the glow from the dashboard, he studied the stubborn jut of her chin and her unswerving gaze on the road ahead. Seven years ago—when she’d been an embedded reporter, he had admired her bravery and her grit. No challenge had been too great. No threat too daunting. She’d thrown herself into every project, including those bivouacked nights when they made love in the open air.
Before he’d heard the details of her ex’s assault on her, Blake had hoped to convince her to reconsider the kidnapping. She’d broken the law and the outcome of that desperate act could destroy her life. Aiding and abetting her on this mission didn’t bode well for him, either. But he wasn’t concerned about the consequences for himself. From the moment he saw her and the kids, he knew in the raw depths of his soul that he had to protect them.
He trusted her. His value system included firm belief in the rule of law, and he also believed in justice. Sometimes, the legal system failed. Separating the twins from their mother was flat-out wrong. Leaving them with her ex-husband? Worse.
“You haven’t told me everything,” he said.
She shrugged. “What do you want to know?”
When he first got to Flagstaff, he’d gone to the Gateway Institute where he’d heard she was a patient. The sprawling complex with several two-and three-story buildings covered several acres on the outskirts of town. The grounds featured immaculate grooming, colorful gardens and a pleasant array of paths for strolling. A valet had taken his car at the front entry, which made him expect cooperation, but he hadn’t made it much farther than the reception counter, which was staffed by people in beige suits. The atmosphere reminded him more of an exclusive hotel than a facility for treating patients.
“The Gateway Institute,” he said. “From what I saw, it’s a classy place.”
“Most of the inmates would agree. There are attractive common areas, a spa, a gym and dining areas with gourmet chefs. The level of care ranges from minimal assisted living to inpatient hospital care. If I had actually needed medical or psychiatric treatment, I might have chosen the Institute. But I wasn’t sick.”
“How did they keep you there?”
“Hugh’s hotshot lawyers drew up the paperwork to have me committed, stating that I was a danger to myself and others. According to them, I couldn’t be trusted with my twins.”
“And that fooled the people at the Institute?”
“The legal petition was granted because the man in charge at Gateway, Dr. Stephen Merchant, is one of Hugh’s cohorts. Once under his thumb, I was helpless. When I regained consciousness, I was drugged out of my mind.”
“Why didn’t you contact a lawyer or someone to help you leave?”
“Not possible. All my communications were cut.” The corner of her mouth twisted in a bitter scowl. “Whenever I demanded my rights or showed signs of disobedience, I was locked in a windowless, padded room, sometimes in a straitjacket.”
Blake had witnessed horrific mistreatment in military prisons and hostage situations, but he didn’t expect to find similar tortures at a fancy spa tucked away in the mountains of Arizona. “How did you escape?”
“Lucky for me, I knew someone on the inside. I did an article on the Institute and their research on Alzheimer’s. The woman who was my primary source recognized me and helped me out. She gave me access to a computer, and I plugged into my network of researchers. It took a while, but I worked out the details of paying cash and using a fake identity for the registration on this Prius—an excellent getaway car that’s silent and seldom runs out of gas. I was able to contact a chef who helped me find work as a caterer at Blake’s campaign party. A nurse at Gateway—who hates Dr. Merchant almost as much as I do—arranged for me to sneak away from the Institute.”
Though her voice remained level and calm, he knew her three-month ordeal had been brutal. He didn’t want to push too hard for details. “When you linked up with your contacts, why didn’t you use them to get released? You have grounds to charge your ex-husband.”
“Reality check—I don’t dare challenge Hugh. He’s a powerful man with high-powered attorneys. As for me? I’m easily dismissed as a divorced wife who was so depressed that I tried to commit suicide.” Her mouth stretched into a straight, hard line. “I couldn’t take the chance that I’d lose.”
He didn’t want to believe that the court system could be so easily corrupted, but he understood why she felt powerless. “When you’re in the clear, I hope you write a tell-all book about your experience.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get my revenge when my ex-husband is in prison.”
“Ex-husband, right? Did you sign the divorce papers?”
“I didn’t have a choice. It was the only way he’d let me see the kids.”
She spoke with an edgy determination that made him glad he wasn’t the target of her rage. “What’s our next step?”
“After we’re settled at your cabin and I’ve got internet, I’ll reopen my investigation. There’s an important witness I’m tracking down. When my case is airtight, I’ll present it to federal and state prosecutors who will charge Hugh and his criminal buddies.”
“And you’re sure this is solid evidence?”
“Explosive,” she said with grim satisfaction. “In the meantime, I’ll lay down my false trail in Las Vegas. There are tons of surveillance cameras to record my presence, and I met the owner of the Magic Lamp Casino, Caspar Khaled, when I visited last year. Caspar is kind of a gossip, and he’ll be sure to report my visit to Hugh.”
Blake didn’t like the way this plan was shaping up. “Let me make sure I understand. You plan to contact this Khaled at the Magic Lamp.”
“Me and the twins,” she confirmed with some hesitation. “It’s probably best if you don’t accompany us. Can you find another way to meet us in Utah tomorrow morning?”
“There’s a guy in Henderson who owes me a favor and could loan me a vehicle,” he said. “I suppose you’ve already made travel arrangements for you and the twins.”
“Do you remember the James Bond movie with the sexy female pilot?”
He paused to catch his breath. She’d tossed out a lot to consider—Caspar Khaled, the Magic Lamp and 007. Still, he remembered with a smile. “You’re referring to the lady pilot, Pussy Galore.”
“I know a real-life version. Her name is Emily Finnegan. She used to be a showgirl, but her real talent is poker. She won a helicopter and built her own fleet. I did a couple of articles on her business and the resulting publicity gave her a boost.”
“Rags-to-riches story,” he said.
“More like G-strings to g-force, if a chopper went that fast.” She flashed a grin. “So? What do you think?”
“I’m not great at plotting like a criminal,” he said, hoping to dash cold water on her enthusiasm for the adrenaline rush of dancing outside the law. “But I see flaws.”
“Such as?”
“While you’re in the Magic Lamp, Khaled has home-field advantage.”
She nodded. “I’ll move fast. And I’m counting on the element of surprise.”
She wasn’t being realistic about the danger of confronting a casino owner. Las Vegas might not be run by the mob anymore, but that didn’t mean the city was totally family-friendly. “If you run into trouble at the casino, how will you keep the twins safe?”
“I’ve been worrying about that. We’ll have to run. The kids are pretty darn speedy.”
“Are they fast enough to outrun grown men who know their way around Vegas?”
Her brow furrowed. “This plan isn’t going to work, is it? But I don’t have much choice. I can’t very well leave the kids in the car.”
“Things change,” he pointed out. “You have me riding shotgun.”
“True.”
“I’m your backup.”
“True, again.”
He took his cell phone from his pocket and scrolled through his encyclopedic inventory of contacts until he found the listing for his buddy. “I’ll call Harvey in Henderson. When we get to Las Vegas, you can head for the Magic Lamp, and I’ll keep the twins out of harm’s way.”
She concentrated on the road when merging onto US 93, a highway that led to Lake Mead, Hoover Dam and Las Vegas. The increase in traffic was noticeable, even in the middle of the night. “We’re more than halfway there,” she said, “only an hour and forty-five minutes to go. We’ll arrive between 1:30 and 2:00 a.m. My rendezvous with Emily is scheduled for 3:00 a.m.”
“Call her and let her know I’m taking your place. Me and the twins will go to the airfield and meet up with Ms. Pussy Galore.”
“A word of advice. Don’t call her that to her face. She’ll knock your block off.”
“Thanks for the warning.” He shrugged. “Are you okay with this change in plans?”
“I’m relieved. It’s better not to put the kids in danger.”
“Do you want me to come with you into the casino?”
Her jaw clenched. “I can handle myself.”
IN AN ALLEY behind Fremont Street in the heart of old Las Vegas, which had been revamped with street performers, light shows, neon artwork and zip lines, Jordan tensed her grip on the car door handle and squeezed her eyes closed, mentally preparing herself before entering Caspar Khaled’s casino. She blinked and checked her watch—2:13 a.m.
Their little troop had made two stops. Once in Henderson, where Harvey joined them with his SUV, and they formed a two-vehicle caravan for the balance of the drive. Their second stop was at a gas station where they shifted seating. The twins in their booster seats went into the SUV with Blake while Jordan rode in the passenger seat of the Prius with Harvey behind the wheel.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I think so.” She had changed into a black outfit and a satin, neon green bomber jacket, which was designed to attract attention and then be easily discarded so she was wearing only black. In her jeans’ pocket, she carried a switchblade that she hoped never to use. Her titanium baton that extended to twenty-six inches was holstered on her belt.
“Captain Delaney seems better,” Harvey said. “I was worried about him.”
She stared at Harvey’s craggy profile, dominated by a nose that had obviously been broken more than once. Though his hair hung almost to his shoulders and his chin sported thick salt-and-pepper stubble, he carried himself like a marine. “Why were you worried about Blake?”
“His injuries after the IED explosion would have killed most men. Not the captain. When the docs told him he’d never walk again, he started training for a goddamned marathon.”
Jordan knew nothing about his injuries. Every bit of her focus and energy had been directed at herself and her children with no room for anybody else. She and Blake had been riding in the Prius together for hours. He certainly could have said something. But she hadn’t asked and felt deeply ashamed for not being more concerned. “He’s recovered now, right?”
“How come you don’t know?”
“I’ve been...out of touch...for the past three months.”
“I get it.” Even in the alley, reflected flashes from many colors of neon splashed across his face. “The captain don’t like to talk about himself. Never whines, never complains. But that don’t mean he ain’t hurting. The top brass asked him to step back from field operations and take a more supervisory role. No way. Am I right? Captain Delaney ain’t riding no desk.”
Had he mentioned something about retirement? “Please tell me he’s okay.”
“Depends on your definition,” Harvey said. “I will say this. You’re good for him and so are the twins. I’ve never seen him so smiley.”
As soon as she and Blake were together again, she’d get to the bottom of this explosion and possible retirement. For now, she needed to concentrate her energy on her mission. She inhaled, closed her eyes and visualized her goals: Show my face to the cameras in the casino. Lay out a false trail for Khaled to pass on to Hugh. Her eyelids lifted. It was 2:17 a.m. She opened the car door.
“Wait,” Harvey said. “Where should I pick you up afterwards?”
“No need. I’ll catch a cab.”
“Just in case, I’m going to stick around. I’ll be cruising on Fourth Street.”
“Thanks, Harvey.”
She blew him a kiss, closed the door and strolled down the alley to Fremont. On a Saturday night in October, the temperature hovered at a pleasant sixty-five degrees, and the streets hosted a mob of revelers, singing and dancing and having a good time. If she’d brought the twins, they would have been captivated by the churning overhead lights and blasting music from top rock stars. Alex would say they were trapped inside a video game while Cooper would, no doubt, find a wizarding comparison. The neon created an unnatural, mesmerizing atmosphere. Her contacts in Las Vegas had told her that she’d be picked up by surveillance cameras immediately, but she had trouble figuring out how anybody could find her in such a crowd.
When she slipped into the Magic Lamp Casino, Jordan took care to avoid metal detectors at the entrance. She meandered through slot machines toward the gaming tables. After being sequestered at the Institute for three months, she was overwhelmed by the casino’s dazzling sensory overload. The Arabian Nights theme played out with cocktail waitresses in see-through harem pants and bejeweled bra tops wandering among the gamblers with free drinks. Belly dancers undulated on four circular stages. Shirtless young men, oiled and glistening, performed intricate sword dances that reminded her of kendo and the Filipino martial arts techniques she’d learned using her baton.
Amid the exotic background, the clanking of coins from machines paying out and mechanical voices beckoning gamblers to play combined in discordant harmony. She needed to get this unscheduled meeting with Khaled done so she could fly away with her boys.
She approached a well-dressed man in a shiny black suit and purple shirt with an open collar. His position at the center of several blackjack and poker tables made her think that he was the supervisor, the pit boss.
Tilting her head upward so she’d be readily visible on camera, she said, “Excuse me, I need to leave a message for Caspar Khaled.”
Unsmiling, he replied, “Check at the front desk, miss.”
The way she figured, her chances for escape were better on the casino floor where some of the gamblers crowded around looking for their next lucky break and others played with single-minded concentration, only occasionally glancing up at the jiggling belly dancers. Fixing her gaze on the pit boss, she spoke loudly. “It’s okay to call him. I know him very well. Actually, my husband—” no need to mention that Hugh was an ex “—he’s an associate of Mr. Khaled.”
“I can’t help you.”
“My husband, Hugh Waltham, has political connections at the highest level. And he has business interests he shares with your boss.” Though she didn’t have enough evidence to make an accusation that would stick, she suspected Khaled’s involvement with Hugh was all about money laundering. She gave the pit boss an exaggerated wink. “Business interests. You know what I mean?”
“A politician, huh?”
“I just want to leave a message.” She fluttered her eyelashes in the direction she thought a surveillance camera might be recording. It would have been useful to have Blake with her. He could have pointed out the cameras. “Tell Caspar that Jordan Reese-Waltham is in town. I’m staying at the Flamingo. In a few days, I’ll be at The Ritz-Carlton in San Francisco.”
“What’s this about?”
“A joint project.” She shot him a huge, beaming smile. “Maybe you ought to write some of this down.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Jordan. Reese. Waltham.”
He repeated it, then touched his ear, most likely listening to somebody through an earbud, and then grabbed her left arm above the elbow. Grabbed tight. His fingers dug into her flesh. “You need to stay with me.”
His response surprised her. She’d expected to be mostly ignored, which was exactly how a pit boss usually acted. Best-case scenario: have her message passed on to Khaled, who would then contact Hugh and tell him she was headed to San Francisco. Worst outcome: Khaled wouldn’t get the message, and she would have wasted her time.
She tried to twist away from him. “Let me go.”
“Turns out that Mr. Khaled wants to see you.”
Never had she thought the casino owner would be in his office at two in the morning, paying attention to camera feeds. She needed to get away from this thug and hustle out to the airfield.
As the pit boss dragged her through the crowd, she reached across her body with her right arm and unfastened her innocent-looking holster. About the size of her hand, the black case on her belt matched her outfit under the neon green jacket. She pulled out her baton. With a downward flick of her wrist, the titanium rod extended to twenty-six inches.
Her technique with the baton borrowed heavily from Japanese kendo and fencing, but the basics came from the Filipino martial arts that used rattan sticks. A calm came over her, boosting her confidence. I can do this. Twisting her body away from him, she whipped the baton against his elbow joint. With a gasp of pain, the pit boss released her. And she ran.
Weaving through the Saturday-night crowd, she sprinted toward the main exit, encountered another guy in a shiny suit and two of the bare-chested dancers with fierce expressions twisting their mouths, making them look like they wanted to munch on her arm for a post-midnight snack. Retreat! Jordan backpedaled and flew in the opposite direction.
Darting through the casino, bobbing and weaving, dodging around cocktail waitresses with trays of drinks, she found another way out. Three wide, carpeted stairsteps led to the street. At the top stood a huge man with a shaved head and heavy black eyebrows. He spread his arms, blocking her way. It was Caspar Khaled.