No Shelter (Holly Lin, No. 1) Read online

  The guy behind the wet bar’s an idiot—he exhausts the entire clip, which gives me the chance to pop back up from behind the couch, aim and fire toward the wet bar. He sees me and ducks but I plan for that and aim low, striking him in the chest.

  Two of the girls have been caught in the crossfire, their dead bodies spread out like rag dolls on the floor. The other two girls keep low with their hands on their ears, crying and screaming.

  The foyer door opens and the gunfire starts up again, the guy who’d frisked me charging in with his finger pressing the trigger of his nine. I put it down to a rookie mistake—you never charge into a gunfight, not if you don’t know what’s what first—and I shoot him in the left leg twice, the guy crying out, falling, dropping his weapon.

  I reach him a second later as he tries to stand back up, tries to reach for the gun. I bend down and pick his gun up, knowing he has more rounds in his piece than in mine.

  His face is red. It looks like he’s hyperventilating. I should tell him to take it easy, just breathe, but instead I point his own gun at his face.

  “Easy, baby, everything’s okay.” I’ve dropped my dumb schoolgirl act and speak in my normal tone of voice. “You’re going to be a good boy and help me out here, okay? Otherwise I’m going to kill you.”

  He’s still hyperventilating. His eyes are huge. He manages to say, “Fuck ... you,” and tries to spit at me.

  I shoot him a third time in the leg.

  He screams, cries out, begs for me to stop.

  I say, “Then stand up, you sissy.”

  He raises himself on his elbow but that’s as far as he gets. I have to help him with the rest. Keeping the gun aimed at him, I pull him up then push him forward, toward the main room, the gun digging into his back.

  “Believe it or not,” I tell him, “I don’t plan on killing you. So listen carefully to me, do as I say, and I won’t shoot your spine in half.”

  He tries to act tough but it’s difficult when you have three bullets in your left leg. He limps forward into the main room and I direct him toward the master bedroom, the one where Roland took his trio of girls.

  The air has become thick and bitter with cordite. I realize the rap music is still blaring. I don’t have a remote so I take a moment to shoot the stereo system. That takes care of the music, but leaves the porno going. The thing makes me sick, so I put a bullet in the widescreen.

  The guy takes this as his cue to be a hero. He turns and tries to make a play. I block his first punch, push his fist away, step forward and knee him in the balls. He goes down groaning.

  “Get the fuck back up,” I tell him and use the back of his jacket to yank him to his feet.

  The two girls still alive keep crying. One of them realizes the gunfire has stopped and hurries toward the foyer. The other follows. She’s in such a hurry she stumbles and falls, for some reason can’t remember how to get back up, and sobs into the carpet.

  I push the guy farther ahead. The bedroom is ten feet away. The door is still closed.

  When we reach it he stops and I put the barrel of the gun to the back of his neck.

  “Open it.”

  “But—”

  “Now,” I say, and he does, and the moment the door is opened gunfire comes from inside, and I hunch down and use the guy’s body as a shield as I push him into the room where all three girls are naked and hiding behind the bed, Roland also naked and standing there with a .45 in his hands, yelling as he fires.

  But then the realization hits him that he’s shooting one of his own men. He pauses, frowns, and I push my human shield away, take aim, and place one bullet right between Roland’s eyes.

  The naked girls start screaming. Two of them get up and rush past me. I let them. The last one stays where she is behind the bed, crying.

  I walk over to where Roland has fallen. I get a load of how small his junk is and have to suppress a smile. I bend down, grab the golden flash drive, and jerk it away so that the chain snaps.

  “Scooter, you hear me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Target’s out and I have the prize.”

  “Good. Now get th-th-the hell out of there.”

  I glance over at the girl sobbing beside the bed, the girl looking back at me with tears in her eyes and her lips trembling.

  “How many?” I ask.

  “At least four.”

  “Roland’s men?”

  “Definitely not Bellagio security.”

  “When?”

  “Any second now.”

  7

  Back in the main room, I stop by the wet bar and grab the guy’s TEC-9. I search his pockets, thankfully find he has another clip. I eject the spent clip, load the fresh, and hurry around the bar, the gun aimed toward the foyer.

  The hooker who’d stumbled and forgotten how to get back up is still sobbing into the carpet. I keep the gun aimed at the foyer door as I reach down and take a fistful of dress fabric. I try to pull her to her feet but her body is dead weight and she just starts sobbing how she doesn’t want to die.

  “Then stand up and maybe you won’t.”

  She stops sobbing for a moment, looks up at me. She wipes at her eyes, scrambles to her feet. Then she just stands there, her legs shaking, biting her lip.

  I motion toward the foyer door, say, “Go,” and she takes off, running awkwardly because one of her heels has fallen off and she’s too scared to notice or even care.

  Then she’s gone and I start to head in that direction but pause when I realize I’m forgetting something.

  Back in the other bedroom then, stepping over Jerold’s body, hurrying toward the bathroom, I knock once on the door and speak in Spanish, telling the girl that it’s okay, it’s me. I push the door open. The bathroom is empty. I take another step, confused now, and notice that the shower curtain has been drawn. I step over to it and pull it aside, find the Mexican girl lying in a fetal position in the base of the tub.

  “Hey,” I shout, and when she looks up at me, I say, “Let’s go.”

  She murmurs in Spanish, “Leave me here. They’re going to kill me anyway.”

  In my ear Scooter says, “Ah, Holly, what do you th-th-think you’re doing? Th-Those men are coming up the elevator right now.”

  I ignore Scooter and tell the Mexican girl nobody is going to kill her, that I’m going to make sure of it.

  “You saved my life,” I tell her. “Now I’m going to save yours.”

  She still doesn’t look convinced. I extend my hand, keep it there, listening to my heart palpitate in my ears, listening to Scooter telling me to hurry the fuck up. Finally the girl nods and takes my hand and I pull her out of the tub. Seconds later we’re in the main room, heading toward the foyer, and the entire time the girl hasn’t let go of my hand and I haven’t let go of her hand. Then we’re at the foyer door and I open it and step out at the same time there is a ding father down the hallway and the elevator opens.

  I push the girl back into the room, crouch and aim at the elevator. But the people that step out are civilians, a man and woman dressed up for the club, and they’re laughing about something until they turn and see me and the gun I’m holding and their laughter dies.

  Before I have a chance to lower my gun, before I even have a chance to tell them to get to their room, another elevator dings and the doors open and men appear, very bad men in suits, and they have weapons in their hands and see me and raise those weapons and begin firing.

  The couple dies first. The woman screams and the man yells and they try to duck away but bullets tear into their bodies and then I find myself yelling too, raising the TEC-9 and returning fire.

  I manage to hit one of the men. The other three step back to take cover in the elevator. I glance behind me, see the emergency exit, yell for the Mexican girl. Her face appears in the doorway but she looks scared and I know I should just leave her, that she’ll slow me down. Maybe these men won’t bother with her, will leave her alone, but it’s a very thin maybe. And besides, this gi
rl saved my life when she didn’t have to and I owe it to her, so I yell at her again to move. She takes a step forward, another hesitant one, and I grab her hand and pull her forward and push her toward the emergency exit just as the three men step back out of the elevator.

  I walk backward, firing at the men sparingly since I don’t have an extra clip. They take cover in the elevator again and I turn back around, sprint toward the door the girl has just gone through and slam it shut right as bullets rip into the door and shatter the glass.

  The girl is already hurrying down the stairs. Following, I tell Scooter we’re in the stairwell heading down.

  “I know,” he says.

  “How?”

  “A sensor goes off. Look, the police have been tipped about what’s going on. A bunch of th-th-them are already in the lobby.”

  The girl is one flight ahead of me. I hurry to keep up. Breathing heavily, I say, “Nova, you there?”

  “What’s up?”

  “I’ll have a package for you to grab.”

  “The prize?”

  “That and another.”

  Nova asks me what this means but I ignore him and continue down the steps. I’ve ditched my heels and the thin fabric of my stockings threatens to make me slip. Past the twenty-fifth floor, past the twenty-fourth, I hear the heavy footsteps closing in behind us. I can keep going—running five miles is a regular part of my daily workout—but it’s clear the Mexican girl is slowing down. She’s holding her side, wheezing, and I know she won’t be able to go another twenty floors at the same speed.

  I push myself even harder, finally reaching up to her. I take her by the arm, and at the first floor we come to—the twenty-first—I open the door and push her into the hallway.

  We hurry toward the elevators. Thankfully the hallway is deserted. I know cameras are watching us—have been watching us the entire time—and that the police are probably sealing off every exit.

  I press the button for the elevators and start counting—one, two, three, four, five—and then there’s the ding and the doors open just as the emergency exit opens and the men appear. I see one of them raise his gun but it’s just as we’re stepping into the elevator and he doesn’t bother firing.

  I press the button for the lobby, the doors close, and then we’re headed down.

  “Nova,” I say, “we’re in the elevator headed down to the lobby right now.”

  “Who the hell is we?”

  The girl is having a hard time catching her breath. She asks who I’m talking to.

  We pass the fifteenth floor.

  “Nova, are you there?”

  “Almost.”

  The girl asks again, “Who are you talking to?”

  We pass the tenth floor.

  “Nova?”

  “You got a weapon on you, Holly, you better ditch it. Expect the police once those doors open.”

  “How many police?”

  “A shitload.”

  “What’s going to happen to me?” the girl asks. “No police. I can’t go back. Please.”

  Three more floors, two more floors, one more floor, and as the elevator slows I flick the safety on the TEC-9 and quickly slip it in the waistband of my skirt. The doors open and I take hold of the Mexican girl’s arm, begin crying, screaming, telling the dozen men in uniforms that they had guns, they were gonna kill us.

  The police have their weapons drawn. Suspicion is in their eyes. But then they see the two of us—helpless young women—and the suspicion starts to fade. Remorse replaces it, and two officers step forward, take our arms, try to hurry us out of the elevators. I don’t let go of the Mexican girl; she doesn’t let go of me. I bring the tears on without any trouble and the Mexican girl takes my cue and doesn’t stop either. We play a pair of blubbering idiots. People are everywhere watching us. I spot Nova in the crowd. The cops are leading us away from him but then another set of elevator doors opens and then there is shouting and gunfire and the place explodes with activity.

  The two cops leading us away let go and turn back toward the action. I hold onto the Mexican girl and lead her toward Nova. He opens his mouth but I shake my head and push the girl toward him, say, “Take her back to the garage.” He knows better than to argue and nods and takes her and then they’re slipping through the crowd of people that is quickly dispersing, everyone running and screaming now that there’s gunfire.

  I turn back around, inspect the damage. I hold the chain up at my side, the gold coin swaying back and forth. If any of Roland’s men are watching, they’ll recognize it. If they recognize it, they’ll understand what’s happened and come for me. That’s fine. My goal here is ensuring nobody follows Nova and the girl.

  The gunfire continues by the elevators. It’s only been going on now for thirty seconds. Some police are hit, some of Roland’s people are hit. The three that were in the elevators don’t look like they’ll be a problem for me.

  But then I see more of Roland’s men. It looks like just two of them. Not wearing suits but dressed causally, like a pair of insomniac gamblers.

  They’re looking at me, fury in their gazes.

  I look back at them. I wave. I smile. I give them the finger.

  They start toward me.

  I run.

  8

  Believe it or not, sprinting through the lobby of the Bellagio in a schoolgirl outfit at three o’clock in the morning isn’t as conspicuous as you’d think. Not while gunfire continues by the elevators. Not while someone has apparently pulled the fire alarm and strobes are blinking and a siren is blaring. Not while almost everyone else is hurrying away, running for their lives, so yeah, me running through the lobby, the gold flash drive swinging from my hand, isn’t that strange at all.

  I come outside and see cop cars everywhere, their lights flashing red and white. The people closest to the entrance when the gunfire started have already made it out, many crowded around like the violence inside has no chance of escaping. A few police stand around, their weapons drawn, looking back and forth frantically.

  The Strip is still heavy with traffic, people at Bally’s and Paris across the street having no idea the amount of chaos ensuing inside the Bellagio right now. They’re drinking, gambling, not having a care in the world, while right behind me people are screaming and crying and dying.

  Coming up the drive is a group riding motorcycles. The cycles are crotch rockets, what look like Hondas, and I start in the group’s direction.

  The guy in front has stopped his bike, straddling it as he takes off his helmet. I glance behind me, the entrance now fifty yards away, the pair of Roland’s men having just made it outside. I turn my attention back to the guy on the lead bike, say with a seductive smile, “Hey, that’s a sweet ride.”

  He’s overly tan and has long dark hair with highlights and probably drinks Red Bull. He smiles and says, “Thanks. Maybe you’d want to go for a ride sometime?”

  I’m standing less than five feet away, really putting on the charm, giving him a sexy look as I grab his helmet and say, “Actually, I’d love to go for a ride right now.”

  Looking surprised, he says, “Really?”

  I glance behind me. Roland’s men are running now, their guns out and held at their sides.

  “Only thing is,” I tell the guy, stepping close, “I don’t ride bitch.”

  The smile fades abruptly. He gives me a confused look but by then I’ve put on the helmet—it’s sweaty and smells of cigarettes, which just makes me crave a menthol—by then I’ve grabbed the one handle of the Honda and with my other hand I shove the guy off the bike. He shouts and falls back, loses his balance, hits the ground. I’m already on the bike, applying the throttle, letting go of the clutch, before the guy even has a chance to sit back up.

  The Honda’s rear tire burns rubber as I incorporate a one-eighty, and then I’m speeding away, hearing a distant pop behind me as one of Roland’s men fires.

  At the end of the drive I brake and stop and glance back. Roland’s men have taken a mu
ch less subtler approach in acquiring their transportation. A number of the other riders are either on the ground or starting to get back to their feet, having been thrown off, threatened by weapons. Both of Roland’s men are now on the bikes, turning them around, heading toward me.

  Of course they’d know how to ride a motorcycle. How naïve of me to think otherwise.

  I give them an extra second to make sure they see me, and then I shoot out onto The Strip.

  I’m headed south, swerving in and out of the traffic. Some people brake, some honk and shout obscenities. I keep riding. I pass the Monte Carlo, the MGM Grand, and at the main intersection right by New York New York the traffic light flicks to yellow and then red. Cars are stopped in front of me and I swerve up onto the sidewalk, downshift so I don’t run into the late night stragglers.

  At the corner I glance back, see Roland’s men are right on my tail. They’re following my lead, up on the sidewalk now, and I give it an extra second before I pop the clutch and then I’m speeding over the sidewalk onto Tropicana Avenue.

  I’ve been to Las Vegas before at least a half dozen times, I know my way around the city pretty well, and my plan now is to lose them on the Interstate.

  So that’s just what I do—I merge onto 15 and head north. The traffic is lighter here. A couple taxis, a couple tractor-trailers, a number of cars. As I pass one car I look over just as the car’s driver looks over. He sees me on the bike, sees me in my outfit with my skirt and shirt flapping in the wind, and makes a face. Because he can’t see my smile, I give him a thumbs up. Then I glance behind me and see the two of them back there, headed my way. I let up off the throttle, letting them catch up. As they do, I reach behind me for the TEC-9.

  Seconds later the two men are riding right on my tail. We’re doing seventy-five miles per hour, almost eighty. They’re spread out, one behind me on the left, the other behind me on the right. Both of them have their weapons drawn. I hit the brake just a little and they zoom past, both looking back at me as the same time. I do a quick enne-meene-minee-moe and then I raise the TEC-9, fire at the man to my right. The bullets hit him in the back. He goes down hard, the bike scraping against the highway, spitting up sparks.