Private Vegas (Private 9)

There was a horrific sound and the CH-46 began its downward spiral through hell. Even though I landed the Phrog on its struts, the missile had done its work.

No amount of time or therapy could erase the afterimages of the events of that night from my mind: the scramble out of the aircraft to the cargo bay, the chunka-chunka-chunka sound of .50-caliber guns going off, the stink of burning aviation fuel, the sight of the dead and dying men.

If Justine had been awake, she would have asked me what I was thinking—and I would have lied.

I had lied to Justine many times, and when I got away with it, I suffered. If she found out that I’d lied, we both suffered.

And that’s why psychologist Dr. Justine Smith couldn’t imagine a future with me.

Chapter 5

THEY WERE HAVING dinner at Spago, Wolfgang Puck’s signature five-star restaurant at Caesars Palace, Vegas. Their table was at the back of the room, giving them a fine view of the dazzling chandeliers and the collection of bright, contemporary works of art on the walls.

But Lester was looking only at Sandra.

Right now, he was feeling an edgy kind of high, thinking how close they were to the jackpot. Sandra was almost ready. She just needed a little extra support.

Lester said, softly, “Hey. Talk to me.”

“I’m thinking,” she said.

Sandra was an angelic-looking twenty-eight-year-old with blunt-cut dark hair to her shoulders and the long, fluid limbs of a dancer. She was dressed in a black Hervé Léger bandage dress with an understated, million-dollar diamond necklace at her throat.

Sandra was perfect; gorgeous, smart, and very cold. She was also the well-cared-for wife of an extremely wealthy man.

Lester Olsen was not that man.

Lester was in his midthirties, of average height and build. His hair was thick, with a mind of its own, and he had a pleasant face of the boy-next-door variety. His fingers were unforgettable. They were misshapen—crippled by disease or a birth defect or some trauma, his dinner partner didn’t know.

Lester never discussed his hands.

Tonight, he and Sandra were having a business dinner, but Olsen cared about her. He was her friend and her coach and sometimes she called him the Big O, which made him laugh out loud. He saw no problem mixing business and pleasure.

But the point of their relationship was business.

Lester was teaching Sandra how to kill.

Right now, Sandra seemed thoughtful. She idly twisted the massive pink Tiffany diamond and matching wedding band on her ring finger.

“Sandra? What’s on your mind?”

She said, “I’m not concerned about going forward. That’s not it. I’m worried about how I’m going to feel afterward.”

Lester sipped his wine, and then, after the waiter had cleared the table, he said, “Sandy, it’s easy for me to say ‘Don’t worry.’ But don’t.”

“Tell me why not.”

“I have some experience in these things.”

She smiled. “Not your first rodeo?”

“Not my second either.”

They both laughed.

He reached for her hand, squeezed her fingers.

“It’s different for everyone,” he said. “You may feel down for a little while, but that feeling won’t last. I’ll be there for you no matter what. We’re partners, right?”