Gold was less than a mile from Caesar’s when a dump truck crossing the boulevard slammed into a jitney and blocked the northbound traffic. He was stuck in the middle lane and couldn’t escape. He leaned on his horn a few times until he realized it was pointless.
Gold flashed his badge at the cars on his left and crept across the lane until a UPS truck blocked his path.
When Francone heard the lock in the hotel door open, he sat up on the bed with the hope that it was Anthony Rizzi. Maybe Rizzi had changed his mind. Maybe he was coming back to give Francone some money after all.
Or maybe it was the federal agents Francone had spotted at the hospital. At that point, he no longer cared which law enforcement agency found him. At least he wouldn’t have to go look for them.
Francone looked puzzled when the Hispanic woman in the maid’s uniform stumbled into the room. He leaned forward when he saw Nicholas Cuccia standing in the doorway holding a handgun. Francone drew back on the bed.
Cuccia pushed the maid inside the room. He checked the hallway before letting the door close behind him. He stood to one side of the door as he spotted Francone moving back on the bed.
“Joey-boy!” Cuccia yelled.
The Hispanic woman backstepped toward the window behind her. Her eyes were focused on the gun in Cuccia’s right hand. Her face was full of terror.
“Na-Nick,” Francone stuttered. “What’s up? How, uh, how’d you get out?”
Cuccia was enjoying watching his protégé stutter. “Same way as you, I guess. Except I had to kill somebody first.”
The maid gasped.
“Easy does it, signora. I no kill you.”
“Rizzi took off on us,” Francone said. “I was downstairs with him a while ago. He gave me this bullshit story about getting some money and split.”
Cuccia smiled.
“I swear it,” Francone said. “I was downstairs with him.”
“I guess I’m too late then.”
“Maybe we can still catch him at the airport. At least there’s two of us can look for him now.”
Cuccia looked from Francone to the maid. “Tie her up,” he said. “Fast. Let’s go.”
“Tropicana Avenue off I-Fifteen,” Walsh told the agent driving the car. “There’s a Super Eight there.”
Walsh set down the radio as the car jerked to the left and sped south on Paradise Road. Walsh called a set of backup agents over his radio. “Las Vegas police have a report of shots fired at a Super Eight Hotel on Boulder Highway. Converge at that location.”
“You want to back off the locals?” the agent driving the car asked.
“What’s the point? Let’s just hope this isn’t some estranged husband taking out his old lady and her boyfriend. This guy Cuccia gets out of Las Vegas it’ll be all our asses.”
“Jurisdiction?”
“That’s the least of it. That DEA agent, Thomas. I never should have let him take Cuccia. This is nothing but a Chinese fire drill right now. That kid dies… I don’t even want to think about it.”
“Hold on,” the agent doing the driving said. He whipped the car around a milk truck making a left turn. A taxi attempting the same left turn from the middle lane blocked them from crossing the intersection. The car screeched to a stop inches from the bumper of the taxi.
“Let’s go!” Walsh screamed at the taxi. “Let’s go!”