Through the glittering wall of glass, he watched a feminine figure edge between white-linen tables. Her back was turned, but he read the posture immediately — shoulders lifted in a half shrug, chin tucked, hands lost to long sleeves, the wrists goosenecked in.
Fear.
She turned partway, and he caught her profile.
Morena.
He checked out the restaurant interior around her. It looked clear. He’d just risen to start toward her when his gaze swept the length of four windows, freezing him where he stood.
Danny Slatcher eased into view around a column, moving slowly toward Morena. He wore roomy acid-washed jeans and a Bubba Gump T-shirt, the perfect underdressed Vegas partaker.
Morena kept on, threading between tables, oblivious to the man behind her.
All around them diners chatted and ate, their mouths moving soundlessly as music crashed in on Evan from the lake—time to say goodbye—and the deejay—just gonna staaand there and watch me burn—the slot machines chiming, coins crashing, the bass speakers on the dance floor thump-thump-thumping. He was standing, hands on the glass, watching the tableau unfold across a stretch of sparkling water.
Slatcher kept on toward Morena. Clearly he had no idea Evan was within eyeshot, watching everything unfold.
Morena moved deeper into the restaurant, Slatcher matching her step for step. Though they remained thirty meters apart, the difference in size between them was astonishing, a grizzly stalking a fawn.
There was no noise Evan could make that would rise above the din of Las Vegas at night, and so he stood on the table and flagged one arm wide, a stab of movement to catch her peripheral vision. It did not, but one of the diners near her looked over, and then another, setting off a flurry of turning heads. Smiles gleamed, and then someone pointed — check out the drunk Vegas idiot standing on a table across the way. Morena picked up on either the diners’ movement or the chatter, because she finally turned, her head swiveling, then fixing on him. Even from this distance, he could see the recognition in her eyes. She raised a hand in shy acknowledgment.
Evan pointed violently, stabbing a finger behind her.
She turned abruptly, shooting a look across the restaurant, and went full-body tense. Slatcher noticed her spot him, and he slowed, one hand sliding beneath his T-shirt at the hip.
Evan could never get there in time.
A waitress was at his heels. “Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to—”
Focused on the scene across from them, Evan let her voice fade away.
Morena backed up to the window, edging away from Slatcher. He sidestepped a busboy, closing in slowly, cutting off her angles if she decided to run.
A hand clamped onto Evan’s ankle, accompanied by a much deeper voice. “All right, buddy. I need you to get your ass off the table or I’ll have to drag you—”
Evan glanced down as the no-neck bouncer reached for him with his other hand. Crouching to catch the wrist, Evan twisted the meaty arm across itself, locking the elbow, and planted the bouncer’s face neatly on the table. He stepped on the wrist, pinning him down, then straightened up again, returning his attention to Morena.
Her shoulder blades were now pressed to the window as she slid along the wall. Nowhere to go. Her palms, down at her sides, flat against the glass. Slatcher closed in. A trio of waiters whisked between them, bearing a birthday cake with sparking candles, and Slatcher used the distraction to skip closer to Morena. They were maybe ten tables apart now.
Beneath Evan’s foot the bouncer lurched, his other hand flopping awkwardly over his own head, trying to reach Evan. A few partiers at the fringe of the dance floor took note of the non-scuffle, but for the most part the blaring music and swirling movement provided sufficient distraction to buy him some time.
Slatcher was pursuing Morena only to get to Evan. Evan was the true target. And yet he was stranded here with two windows and a stretch of dancing fountains between them. Helpless.
He stared at Morena, willing her to turn around and look at him again. At last she did, her eyes wide. He pointed at Slatcher, then at his own chest. And then again.
Show him I’m here.
It was all he could think to do.
Beneath him the bouncer bucked and flailed.
Morena’s head swiveled back to Slatcher. He was closing in. Six tables away. Now five.
She looked directly at him, then lifted her arm and pointed through the window.
Slatcher’s stare turned slowly until it locked on Evan.
A frozen moment.
Evan held out his hands. Come get me.
Then Slatcher broke away from Morena, running for the door of the restaurant.
Evan watched the air leave Morena as she sagged with relief. He waited for her to look over at him again, then gestured for her to flee.
After this scare he doubted he’d be able to coax her into the open again, but right now he cared only about her safety. He gestured again, more emphatically. Finally Morena burst into movement and sprinted along the far wall, disappearing through the swinging doors of the kitchen.
Footsteps thudded behind Evan — heavy men running. He turned as two more bouncers ran toward him. He held an instant for them to reach the table, then jumped between them, sailing over their broad shoulders. He landed on the neighboring table, careened down and across the dance floor, and shot out into the casino between two high-limit blackjack tables.
A commotion echoed up the wide row of shops to the left, one of the radial corridors feeding into the gambling floor. Evan swung around in time to see two women knocked down hard, as if before a truck, purses wagging up on their arms. Slatcher bulled into view as they parted and dropped to the marble. He barely slowed, sprinting for Evan.
Evan reached past the blackjack players and swept their tall stacks of black chips off the felt, sending them airborne. The hundred-dollar chips rained down across shoulders and slot machines, bouncing through the walkways between tables. The gamblers surged. Chairs toppled, grown men dove, even passersby waded in, scrambling after the rolling chips on their hands and knees.
Evan shot past the ruckus, threading between approaching security guards talking into their radios. On the far side of the scrum, he turned and looked back.
Slatcher had hit a wall of security, closing off the zone from the far side. A head taller than the crowd, he glowered across at Evan. Trapped behind the temporary barricade.
Evan turned and bolted past the craps tables, hitting the next wide corridor, already crowded with security guards and onlookers drawn toward the disturbance. Pulling the brim of his cap low, he jogged through a flock of little-black-dress college girls ornamented with Santa caps. He had to get to an exit before word came down from the eye in the sky upstairs.
A woman with cropped blond hair swung around a roulette wheel and into the corridor. She wore a fitted black shirt tucked into dark blue jeans, showing off her curves. Her hand was in her Louis Vuitton purse, and Evan’s brain double-clutched before placing her alluring features.
Candy McClure, Slatcher’s associate, captured in a few grainy surveillance stills astride a Kawasaki.
Her hand whipped out of her handbag toward his face. Evan ducked, throwing his weight backward, his momentum carrying him on even as he dropped. An honest-to-God stiletto flashed past, missing his upturned face by inches. He landed in a forward slide on his knees, skating across the marbled surface, rotating around to face her. Her hand was already back inside the purse, replacing the knife. She offered Evan a pert, Well, I tried smile.