“Hey!” college boy yells. “Get some fucking manners, pigs!”
*
SARA KOH is struggling to understand the woman on the line with 911. The call is coming from the Wynn. The caller is hysterical.
“Ma’am? Ma’am,” Sara says, “I need you to speak slowly and tell me exactly what’s happening, okay? Who has your son? Are they holding him hostage?”
“He’s taking a video—right in front of them—my son is—they’re on the motorcycles—and the other ones—they’re robbing the store and—”
“Who is, ma’am? Is your son being robbed?”
“No, he’s just—he’s close—he’s right next to them and they’re with the other ones—the ones robbing the store. Are you sending help? Where are you? Where are the police?”
“Can you describe the men to me, ma’am? The police are on their way, I promise.”
*
BYRON SHERMAN and Mark Janowski are the first guards on the scene. Initial reports have been confusing: a fight near the Margeaux Ballroom, a distress signal from Graff, some assholes using the Esplanade as a racetrack. Mark goes first through a growing crush of guests, then stops short and says, “Fuck me.” Two riders strapped with compact assault rifles sit on racing bikes outside of Graff. Neither Mark nor Byron draws his sidearm. Guards with guns are mainly a deterrent here. In an armed-robbery scenario, their job is to get the perpetrators off the property as quickly and quietly as possible. Every poker chip, Swiss watch, and ounce of gold here is insured, and killing guests in a gunfight does not create value for the shareholders. Mark and Byron shepherd the gathering crowd away from Graff, pushing people into the surrounding stores and back the way they came, clearing the Esplanade.
“Holy shit,” Mark says, as three women duck into Cartier for cover.
A kid is standing ten feet from the bikes, between the riders and the exit, filming with his phone. Three guards and two undercover cops arrive at a run, pistols pointed at the floor in front of them. Riders 2 and 4 raise their rifles.
*
JEREMY IS frozen. People scream behind him as the men on bikes bring up their guns. Another armed man in a helmet emerges from the store and, after a brief pause, walks straight toward Jeremy, reaching for the phone. And then, as if he willed it, the boy is swept up and yanked backward by his mother. Rider 1 misses the phone by inches. He turns on his heel, adjusts his backpack, and mounts up. Engines roar. Jeremy is still filming as the riders accelerate toward the exit, scattering the crowd. He captures the receding yell of the engines before his mother wrestles the phone from his hand.
*
WITH HIS keychain Swiss Army Knife, Brian Dalmore saws frantically at the zip tie that binds Marty Stetson’s wrists. Engines scream inside the Esplanade, and Brian looks up as two bikes blow through the open door, their draft tugging at the polyester fabric of his shirt. A squad car and a SWAT truck come screeching around the left side of the landscaped center island as the riders make a sharp right turn and hit South Las Vegas Boulevard without touching their brakes.
*
THE CREW splits up. One bike rips around a ramp onto Spring Mountain Road while Riders 1 and 2 head north, using all three lanes and the shoulder. The glamour of the Strip fades quickly, name-brand resorts giving way to chintzy gift shops, liquor stores, and cheap hotels. A hundred yards ahead, two patrol cars block an intersection, bringing northbound traffic to a halt. Officers Pratt and Sullivan leave their vehicles, sprint between stopped cars, and fan out in the empty street, guns drawn, screaming for the riders to dismount and drop their weapons. The bike is twenty yards away and closing fast when Sullivan fires a shot that stiffens the right arm of the man behind the handlebars. The front wheel wobbles, and both officers dive for cover as Rider 2 locks up the rear wheel and sends the bike into a low-side skid. The men in the saddle are about to come unstuck when the motorcycle somehow rights itself, pulled up as if by invisible strings. Pratt and Sullivan scramble to their feet as the bike bangs up the curb of the center divider and shoots a gap between two palms. A quick ninety-degree turn brings the riders face-to-face with drivers stopped at a red light. The light turns green and horns blare as the bike flies straight into oncoming traffic. Rider 2 leans into a hard left turn that misses the front bumper of a Cadillac by inches. Half a mile later he turns right on Rancho Drive, weaves through a quiet residential neighborhood, then opens up the throttle one last time before releasing it completely. The bike coasts noiselessly for two blocks and turns into the driveway of a foreclosed ranch-style home. The garage door just misses Rider 1 as it comes down. A bald and bearded man, heavily muscled and tattooed, stands beside the silver pickup parked inside. Rider 1 dismounts and disappears into the house while Rider 2 rips off his helmet, eases the bike up a ramp into the truck bed, and lets it fall onto its side. The bald man spreads a fitted bedsheet over the motorcycle.
“Lose the leathers,” he says.
“Mate, my arm’s fucked.”
The bald man unzips the racing suit and strips it to the waist, revealing a Kevlar vest and a deep gash in the shoulder from the bullet. The garage door jerks open as Rider 2 climbs into the truck, removes his vest, and starts the engine with his good hand. He backs down the driveway and speeds off.
Rider 1 is pacing in the empty living room, slapping the insides of his arms against his ribs like a swimmer on a starting block. The bald man grasps him by the shoulders, sits him on the low stone hearth, and takes a knee. One hand cups the rider’s calf while the other unlaces the left boot, grips the heel, and frees the foot. He’s gentle but purposeful, like a trainer tending to a thoroughbred after a race. Once both boots are off, the bald man reaches under Rider 1’s jaw and unsnaps the chin strap. The helmet comes off easily, its pads slick with sweat.
“Everyone’s home safe,” the bald man says as he helps Rider 1 to his feet. “Let’s hit the road. I want to beat the traffic.”
*
REBECCA RYAN, the LVMPD’s forensic photographer, is on her knees in the Graff boutique when she spots the ring, a dome of pavé diamonds buried under bits of broken glass.
“Looks like they missed one,” she tells Detective Hector Ramirez, standing up to show her camera screen. “That’s, what? A fifty-thousand-dollar screw-up?”
“It’s a rounding error on this haul,” Ramirez says. “Can you ask Jon to bag that up?”
Ramirez is an amateur middleweight boxer, compact and athletic, his black hair slicked back above a boyishly handsome face that still gets him carded at the age of thirty-six. In a sharply tailored navy sports coat, bright white shirt, and polished loafers, he could be a Graff customer if not for the badge and gun. He pretends not to notice Special Agent David Harris of the FBI’s Las Vegas field office as the stocky silver-haired man unbuttons his ill-fitting tan suit jacket to duck under the crime scene tape that blocks the door.
“Christmas in July,” Harris says as he approaches.
Ramirez looks up from his notebook. “Not bad for three minutes of work. You’re Agent Harris?”
“Call me Dave.”
Ramirez knows the FBI has jurisdiction in a case likely to cross state lines and international waters. As head of the LVMPD robbery squad, he’ll assist with an investigation led by Harris, who ran the bureau’s Jewelry & Gem Theft program before transferring to Vegas. Ramirez knows the man by reputation: a formidable investigator and, in the words of another detective, kind of a dick.