traffic. Rolling on the throttle, he split the lanes, shooting between an idling panel truck that advertised HOT BABES ON CALL and a low-rider Silverado pickup.
The Hypermotard, Ducati’s version of a dirt bike for the street, was built for speed and maneuverability in all terrains, perfect for Quinn’s needs at the moment. He caught sight of the gray hoodie’s head through the back window of the cab, craning backward to see if he was being followed. Quinn pulled to the side of the road, in the shadow of a Hummer limousine.
The hoodie jumped out of the cab after less than a block and began walking again. Quinn often used the same trick to see if anyone was following him. The short ride made the drivers mad, but a good tip got them over it in a hurry.
Quinn slowed the bike to a rumbling putt, falling in with the flow of stop-and-go traffic while he watched the hoodie bob its way north with the sidewalk crowd. This man had shot Hartman Drake, likely to shut him up before he could tell Quinn anything useful. He’d had enough resources to find out what room Drake was in and the juice to get a key to that room. Had Dolores not assisted by plowing into the guy, Quinn might have thought she was involved.
Quinn veered right, nearly forced into a line of palm trees by a big-haired redhead paying more attention to her cell phone than the path of her shiny Coupe de Ville. The mere act of riding a motorcycle in such traffic brought an extra level of awareness that only added to the intensity of the chase. Not only did he have to worry about keeping the man in the hoodie in sight, or that same man turning to shoot him, but half the vehicles crammed onto the Strip seemed hell-bent on grinding him into the pavement.
“Where are you headed?” Quinn mused to himself as he leaned on the handlebars and watched the gray hoodie bob across the small service street on the other side of Denny’s and Casino Royale. The shooter continued walking in front of the Venetian, answering his cell in the flickering green glow cast by the outdoor gondola canals.
Quinn knew that phone would contain a wealth of information.
Still moving, the man in the hoodie turned to look over his shoulder while he spoke, his bob becoming more animated. Turning again, he scanned the pedestrian bridge that crossed Las Vegas Boulevard to Treasure Island, then back over his shoulder. His head on a swivel, the man’s eyes shot back and forth, looking behind him, then up at the bridge. Twenty meters back, partially hidden by the Hot Babes panel truck that had caught up with him in traffic, Quinn couldn’t hear the conversation. But he didn’t need to. Someone was telling the shooter that he was being followed, warning him.
Instinctively, Quinn began to scan the area, eyes combing the windows above. When he looked back, the man in the gray hoodie hunched his shoulders—and ran.
C HAPTER 11
R olling on the throttle, Quinn shot around the Hot Babes panel van, squirting between traffic. His knee was just inches from the wrought-iron fence along the curb. The light changed on the street somewhere up ahead, and Quinn felt the wind from a passing side mirror graze him as a Hummer sped by.
The man in the hoodie shot a glance over his shoulder as Quinn bore down on him under the Palazzo portico. Spying the oncoming bike and certainly the look of death on Quinn’s face, the man redoubled his efforts and sprinted toward the open double doors to the hotel. Less than ten meters behind, Quinn held his breath as he sailed through the same doors and into the lobby of the Palazzo.
Crowds of milling hotel patrons scattered like quail at the machine-gun blat of the oncoming bike. The marble interior of the huge, columned rotunda seemed to shake with the captive roar.
Quinn’s target slid along the floor, squatting low to regain his traction on the slick marble.
Behind him, Quinn fared little better. He planted a foot and let off the gas to maintain some semblance of control
The Hypermotard, Ducati’s version of a dirt bike for the street, was built for speed and maneuverability in all terrains, perfect for Quinn’s needs at the moment. He caught sight of the gray hoodie’s head through the back window of the cab, craning backward to see if he was being followed. Quinn pulled to the side of the road, in the shadow of a Hummer limousine.
The hoodie jumped out of the cab after less than a block and began walking again. Quinn often used the same trick to see if anyone was following him. The short ride made the drivers mad, but a good tip got them over it in a hurry.
Quinn slowed the bike to a rumbling putt, falling in with the flow of stop-and-go traffic while he watched the hoodie bob its way north with the sidewalk crowd. This man had shot Hartman Drake, likely to shut him up before he could tell Quinn anything useful. He’d had enough resources to find out what room Drake was in and the juice to get a key to that room. Had Dolores not assisted by plowing into the guy, Quinn might have thought she was involved.
Quinn veered right, nearly forced into a line of palm trees by a big-haired redhead paying more attention to her cell phone than the path of her shiny Coupe de Ville. The mere act of riding a motorcycle in such traffic brought an extra level of awareness that only added to the intensity of the chase. Not only did he have to worry about keeping the man in the hoodie in sight, or that same man turning to shoot him, but half the vehicles crammed onto the Strip seemed hell-bent on grinding him into the pavement.
“Where are you headed?” Quinn mused to himself as he leaned on the handlebars and watched the gray hoodie bob across the small service street on the other side of Denny’s and Casino Royale. The shooter continued walking in front of the Venetian, answering his cell in the flickering green glow cast by the outdoor gondola canals.
Quinn knew that phone would contain a wealth of information.
Still moving, the man in the hoodie turned to look over his shoulder while he spoke, his bob becoming more animated. Turning again, he scanned the pedestrian bridge that crossed Las Vegas Boulevard to Treasure Island, then back over his shoulder. His head on a swivel, the man’s eyes shot back and forth, looking behind him, then up at the bridge. Twenty meters back, partially hidden by the Hot Babes panel truck that had caught up with him in traffic, Quinn couldn’t hear the conversation. But he didn’t need to. Someone was telling the shooter that he was being followed, warning him.
Instinctively, Quinn began to scan the area, eyes combing the windows above. When he looked back, the man in the gray hoodie hunched his shoulders—and ran.
C HAPTER 11
R olling on the throttle, Quinn shot around the Hot Babes panel van, squirting between traffic. His knee was just inches from the wrought-iron fence along the curb. The light changed on the street somewhere up ahead, and Quinn felt the wind from a passing side mirror graze him as a Hummer sped by.
The man in the hoodie shot a glance over his shoulder as Quinn bore down on him under the Palazzo portico. Spying the oncoming bike and certainly the look of death on Quinn’s face, the man redoubled his efforts and sprinted toward the open double doors to the hotel. Less than ten meters behind, Quinn held his breath as he sailed through the same doors and into the lobby of the Palazzo.
Crowds of milling hotel patrons scattered like quail at the machine-gun blat of the oncoming bike. The marble interior of the huge, columned rotunda seemed to shake with the captive roar.
Quinn’s target slid along the floor, squatting low to regain his traction on the slick marble.
Behind him, Quinn fared little better. He planted a foot and let off the gas to maintain some semblance of control
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