Time of Attack by Marc Cameron Page A

on the torquing bike.
    The man in the hoodie darted left to keep from becoming trapped by an oncoming group of Chinese tourists. Quinn gunned the throttle, drifting the rear tire in a squalling rooster tail of smoke to get the bike pointed in the right direction. Hotel patrons turned to watch what many thought was some incredible Las Vegas attraction. Some had to scramble out of the way as Quinn followed his target straight into the casino.
    The shooter cut left, yanking an older man off a stool at the champagne bar before darting up the middle of the casino floor. The Ducati’s tires found easier traction on the carpet, and Quinn flicked the bike easily back and forth between casino patrons. He gained quickly on the runner, nearly catching him at the high-stakes blackjack tables. Feeling Quinn behind him, the man grabbed a cigarette girl and shoved, sending her flying into a cursing tangle of cigar tray, tiny dress, and boobs, directly into the path of the oncoming motorcycle.
    Quinn jagged to the right to avoid the spitting girl, narrowly missing a row of roulette players with his knee as he fought to keep the bike on two wheels. Men in dark suits began to materialize from every pit and shadow of the casino. Some identified the man in the hoodie as part of the problem, but most converged on Quinn.
    Quinn poured on the gas to keep out of the grasp of a particularly large, baldheaded pit boss who vaulted over a craps table after him.
    Speeding up on a straightaway between the tables, he watched the man in the hoodie flee the casino for the lobby and jump on the escalator beside a huge, floor-to-ceiling waterfall. He bounded upward, jerking other riders to the side as he bulldozed his way past. He reached the top at the same time Quinn reached the bottom.
    With a virtual army of security behind him, some in suits, some in the comically loose Italian gendarmerie blues worn by hotel security, Quinn yanked up slightly on the handlebars and goosed the Ducati into a low wheelie.
    No motorcycle was purpose-built for climbing escalators, but the Hypermotard came close, making the tooth-jarring journey to the top in time for Quinn to see the runner shove his way through the protesting crowds. He brutally yanked a young girl to the ground as he ducked under the arch into the adjoining Venetian Canal Shoppes.
    Quinn rolled off the gas again at the top of the stairs, planted a foot to turn the bike toward the Shoppes, then accelerated smoothly on the slick marble. It looked as though he would make it until he hit a puddle of melted milkshake, part of the wake of shoppers and food left by the fleeing man in the hoodie.
    The front wheel flipped sharply left, handlebars slapping the tank. The Ducati went down hard, bucking wildly and throwing Quinn over the front. He landed on his shoulder, rolling like a bowling ball through a crowd of gawking onlookers to send them scattering in all directions.
    The armor in the Transit jacket took the brunt of the impact and Quinn was on his feet in an instant, running. He reached instinctively for his waist, touching the butt of his Kimber to make certain it had survived the crash.
    Humidity and the swimming-pool smell of the indoor gondola ride hit him in the face as he rounded the corner. The man with the hoodie had cut to the left of the canal, darting between the milling crowds that stood at the rail, watching the singing gondoliers and waiting for their turns for a boat ride.
    Quinn scanned the area ahead, spotting an approaching wedding party that blocked the runner’s path. He cut to the right of the canal. The man in the hoodie, realizing he’d been cut off, tried to cross the small footbridge that arched over the water. Quinn met him halfway across.
    Wanting to buy time away from the approaching security, Quinn crashed into the hooded gunman, hips low and rising like a football player off the line. He used the man’s energy to spin him, driving him sideways, then backward over the concrete