| |
Beth’s straw rattled in her ice as she sucked the last of the lime and soda out of the frosted glass. She felt dehydrated and wanted to get rid of the acid taste in her mouth. Ordering another, she looked at her wan reflection in the mirror beyond the rows of spirits. She was tucked at the end of the Centrifuge bar in the MGM, and it was twenty-five to three. The gunman was probably already in position.
How could she even contemplate meeting him? He’d not made any attempt to conceal the fact he wanted to kill her. What did she really expect? That he’d put her mind at rest before he pulled the trigger?
Beth didn’t have any edge or advantage. She was just a dumb tourist, and it was mainly luck that had kept her alive until now. Perhaps that’s why she’d caught him off guard. Maybe he’d thought she was such an easy target that her reactions had surprised him. Or was he just toying with her?
She knew she had to stop running and using any reason not to go home, even following a killer. But was she really safe, even if she got on a plane back to the UK? If the gunman failed when he’d lured her to LA and Vegas, would he then come looking for her? Was home any more secure, and did she want to endanger the lives of her family? Beth considered the threat he’d made against Jody’s life. The police, on whichever side of the Atlantic, weren’t going to be able to protect them indefinitely.
Or was she convincing herself to continue her own death wish? Beth wondered if she would have believed where she was now if she’d told herself only a handful of months ago. How had she arrived here? The only person who could definitively give her an answer was now a pile of ashes.
What had Luc been mixed up in that could have provoked this outcome? Maybe it was something Jerome had got him embroiled in. He was the more ambitious partner and was always pushing Luc to expand their remit. Perhaps he’d been socialising with some less-than-savoury clients. It all seemed so unlikely.
But if somebody wanted her dead, she should at least take the opportunity to find out why, rather than wait for a bullet. Was this her only chance to discover who Allegro was? Ramiro Casales?
The other drink arrived, but she was already off her stool and dumping dollar bills on the bar.
Beth entered the Luxor via the medieval-themed Excalibur hotel, wearing a mint-green baseball cap she’d bought in a souvenir store. She could at least make it difficult for him to spot her shaved scalp, but knew it was barely a disguise.
She walked down the ramp into the Luxor and found a floor map. Striding straight on, Beth studiously examined the features of everyone she passed and skirted the long wall of the Liquidity nightclub. The giant Egyptian pyramid interior of the Luxor was cool and welcoming, and the aroma of coconut oil was being piped through the air con. She stopped by the stairs outside the Tender steak restaurant that led down to the “All You Can Eat” buffet area, her knees wobbling.
The food smells wafting up made her throat spasm. Not again. Beyond her were a security post, the LAX nightclub and escalators up to the next level. She checked her watch – 2.59 – and, again, the faces of the people passing her. If he weren’t going to wait in the lobby, where would he be? She imagined the balconies overlooking the reception were way too obvious.
Where would he think she’d go to observe from a safe distance? Right where she was? Nowhere in the hotel was going to be safe. Her best recourse was to leave right now. She could attempt to contact him during his meeting via the Facebook page.
Beth was about to turn on her heel when she noticed the exposed screens of a security booth that was under maintenance. The front of the booth had been removed exposing board and wires but she could see the three screens at the back of the booth as they shifted through different sectors of the Luxor lower floor. A bleary-eyed security guard with a braided ginger beard, grey uniform and peaked hat was seated on a swivel chair below reading his Nook. She looked around for signs of anyone else loitering nearby, but the area was clear.
Beth walked left until she was parallel with the booth. She couldn’t approach the security guard and try and make idle conversation while watching the images, so she walked to the sidewall of Liquidity and leaned there.
Beth got out her iPhone and pretended to be busy with it. She was too far away to see the images, so she opened the camera and used her fingers to zoom it on the security booth. Her hand was shaking as she tried to steady it. The lens picked up the deadpan features of the security guard. He hadn’t acknowledged her observation of him.
Beth turned her iPhone on its side so she was focused on all three screens and their shifting perspectives. She waited, trying to slow her breath so the circulation in her arm didn’t keep wobbling the image. The black-and-white screens shuffled through other sectors on the lower level. There were about eight seconds between each angle change.
If she got a quick glimpse of reception, however brief, she could at least ascertain if the gunman was actually waiting for her. Beth took the opportunity to glance up and around. The security guard still hadn’t registered her presence, and apart from an old couple hobbling past, there was nobody else in the immediate vicinity.
She studied her iPhone again. One of the images was of the lobby, and her hand shook as she rapidly tried to assess the people there. Where was the concierge desk? Beth didn’t have long. There was a man in a Hawaiian shirt with a small rucksack on his back standing at the desk, about two feet away. It looked like the spiky head of Ramiro Casales.
