Villain (Gone 8)

“Attention, everyone in the emergency center. I am going to give you an order. You will broadcast this order over police radio.”

He could hear the hollow echo of his voice coming through the public address system at the emergency center.

“This is the statement you will send out to every cop—”

“Excuse me, sir,” the operator said.

Dillon was taken aback. “What?”

“Well, just to LVMPD? What about private security?”

Dillon’s voice was silky. “Wait . . . are you saying you can reach out to casino security people?”

“Well, sir, some, yes. We have an emergency communication system called—”

“I don’t care what it’s called!” Dillon said, and did a little dance around. His reptile form was a much better dancer than his old human form. “Here goes the message: All people who hear this message will first do all they can to spread it by any means available. They will take two hours doing that. And then, they will assemble on the Strip, near, um . . . what’s a central casino?”

“Caesars Palace? The Cosmopolitan?”

“Okay. Take two: All people who hear this message will first do all they can to spread it by any means available. They will spend two hours doing that. And then, they will assemble on the Strip, near Caesars Palace. There they will wait until the military column arrives and then they will attack the military, killing everyone. Without mercy.”

The “without mercy” was irrelevant, but Dillon was pleased by the note of grim determination it added. Part of his mind noted the comic possibilities in the phrase “without mercy.” What was the alternative? With mercy?

“That’s the message you want us to put out there?” the operator said.

“You and everyone at the center. Oh, and, what’s your name?”

“My name? Dot Perkins.”

“Well, Dot Perkins, as soon as you’ve spent two hours spreading this message, I want you to hop in your car and drive to, let’s say, Dallas. You should be safe there. You helped me out with a timely suggestion, and the Charmer rewards his friends.”

“Dallas?”

“Don’t worry, Dot, they’ll be hiring a whole lot of emergency operators there, too, soon enough.”

CHAPTER 22

World War Vegas

FRANK POOLE STOOD up in the JLTV, squeezing up through the same hatch occupied by the machine gunner, and scanned the road ahead.

Cars stalled or burned out. Bodies lying in the road. The air stinking of smoke. It looked like they’d started the war without him.

He drove on past the Mandalay Bay, passing a looted liquor store on the right, and a McDonald’s, which gave him a pang of hunger despite the nausea of anticipation.

Next came the black pyramid of the Luxor casino, with its Sphinx replica out front.

So far, so good.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

Excalibur, with its Disneyesque Knights of the Round Table theme.

A person came out of nowhere, an elderly man dressed in sweatpants with neither shirt nor shoes. He was clearly unarmed.

“Hold your fire,” Poole said to the gunner.

The old man ran at the JLTV, kept running, slammed into it, and fell straight back, knocked cold.