Innocent Obsession (The Dirty Kings of Vegas)

But, when we got outside, two of the men lifted me into the trunk of a car.

I’ve bounced and bumped in total darkness in the suffocating heat on the hard, prickly carpet for about twenty minutes.

And now the vehicle comes to a stop. The air cools when the trunk pops open. Under the blindfold, some light soaks through. A huge pair of hands grab my waist and hauls me out like a sack. Then I’m carried into the still, fetid air of a dusty building.

I’m dropped onto some sort of a cot. Then, footsteps walk away. A heavy door slams and a lock clicks. I’m alone, bound, blindfolded with a blanket draped over me.

I’m cursing myself for getting into this. And Paul, too. Whatever they want, they want it from him. After the phone call, all the threats and talk of pussy stopped. It makes me think they only did that to put me in terror when I spoke to him. And I didn’t even hear his voice.

I would have liked to hear him. Maybe one last time. The O’Malleys lead a thrilling and glamorous life, but it couldn’t ever have been my life. They can take things like this in their stride. Kidnapping, violence. Murder. And all the other things. I know. JoJo says that it’s all part of the Life, as she calls it.

Whatever it is, I know I’m not cut out for it. Not that it matters. This is probably the end of the line for me. No point crying about it. It is what it is.

All the same, I can be proud of myself, really. Hold my head up. Inside I’m hollow. Nothing but an icy space, shivering with fear.

Anything he does to find me will put his life in danger. And the last thing I want is for Paul to risk his life for me.

I don’t want to die. Of course I don’t. But if something happens to Paul I will never forgive myself.

Chapter Eight

Paul

The desert road is rough, but I run the Hummer fast. It was made for this type of work. Over the roar of the engine, John says, “We should wait for the others. There’s no way of knowing who’s in there or how many of them.”

We’re closing on the disused industrial site. It’s clearly visible from here. Isolated in the desert scrub, I can make out two vehicles inside the gated chain-link fence.

“It’s true, John.” I’m accelerating hard. “Look at the terrain, though. There’s nothing for miles.”

Peter knows what I’m saying.

“He’s right, John. This road is dead straight. They’ll have seen us for the last two miles.”

“No.” John checks through the weapons one last time. “You’re right. Will this fucking thing go any faster?”

He hands three pistols each to Peter and me, and two rifles each. We already have magazines of ammo threatening to wreck our suits.

John and Peter chamber rounds as I jam the gas pedal to the floor and point the heavy Hummer at the gates.

As soon as the gates burst, I stamp hard on the brakes. We start to skid right after we blast into the lot.

John and Peter shove their doors wide open. Before the vehicle stops, they roll out. Peter has an automatic in each hand and his rifles strapped over his shoulders. John holds an AR-15 out, straight and steady.

A door opens in the main building and a man steps into the doorway. His hands are down and I can’t see if he’s holding anything.

He ducks fast, to a crouch. Extends both arms out. A gun in each hand. Without thinking, I hit the gas.

The Hummer smacks into the doorway and he’s dropped out of view.

Peter and John run, crouching low, along the walls toward the door.

Fast, I reverse. Enough to clear the door.

Enough to see the figure crumpled on the floor.

John and Peter run inside. I’m straight behind them. One Glock pistol drawn, gripped in both hands.

The building was a warehouse or a factory. Now it’s just a lot of unlit derelict space. Mostly empty space.

A high gallery, littered with big packing cases, runs around the walls of the main area.

The place is a nightmare to enter and attack. Easy to defend. Especially for a sniper on the gallery. We all look up and nod.

Peter, John and I all think the same thing. Peter flings one stun grenade, then another, up to the gallery by the biggest pile of cases. John does the same, aiming at another stack.

Aiming an AR-15 rifle up, sweeping along the gallery, I run out to the center of the room just as the grenades explode. Smoke billows and holes blow out of the mesh gallery floor.

A figure leans out from behind the first pile. I get two shots off. He ducks back. When he jumps out the other side of the cases, I’m ready. He’s fast, though. I aim ahead of him. One crack of the AR-15 and he goes down. I send up another volley of shots. He’s not moving.