CHAPTER NINETEEN
Kya
I got to the cabstand, still feeling confident. Fenton was upstairs asleep, and I could get back before he woke up. I would not even have to tell him I was the one that left to get his things. I stopped for a moment and considered asking Kev Casey to do it for me, but the last thing I wanted was to owe that man a favor.
"Is Mike here?" I asked.
The uniformed man at the cabstand shook his head. "No, he's off-duty. But I suppose you could call him. He's a sucker for requests."
"No, he deserves a little time off," I said. I got into the first cab in line and handed the driver the white card. "Can you take me to this address?"
The driver nodded without a word and slipped into traffic. He drove fast, with no music on and none of the chatter I had come to expect from cab drivers. He only gave me one sullen glance in the rear view mirror and then concentrated on the road.
In the silence, I had plenty of time to second-guess what I was doing. If Fenton woke up and found me gone, he would be angry. Not only was I off and, according to him, more likely to get myself in trouble, but I was still trying to impress him. I had to make sure he knew it was for him, not the business deal.
The cab slammed to a stop before I could figure out how to convince Fenton I was not just another sneaky agent. The driver handed me back the little white card and tapped the digital meter.
"How much if you wait for me?" I asked.
The driver handed me a smudged business card with his cab company's number on it.
"You can't wait a few minutes? Leave the meter running," I said. "Seriously, I'll be right back. I don't want t
o call another cab and wait."
The driver shrugged and took my cash. As soon as I got out the car, he drove off. A nervous chill slipped down my back. I missed ol' Mike and could see him shaking his head at me. I had told myself this was a simple gesture, something nice to do for Fenton, but I was getting the feeling I was only going to make more trouble. I shivered on the street, feeling exposed, and looked around for the address on the card.
The Wynn Casino and Hotel was lit up nearby, and as I looked around, I started to feel better. It was busy section of the strip. Lots of shops were still open, catering to the late-night shoppers of Las Vegas. There were blindingly bright neon signs leading partygoers to food and drink. And, there were knots of people heading this way and that, enjoying their Vegas vacations.
You're fine, I told myself. Still, I had the uneasy feeling I was being watched.
It’s a silly thought, I tried to convince myself. No one would be after me. I was a low-level agent, clearly not a high roller. Even if they knew me from the luxury suite at the Tropicana, they could see I had nothing on me.
I turned quickly and rang the bell next to the street number that matched the card. The door was otherwise unmarked and I was relieved when a uniformed concierge opened the door. The logo on his crisp white shirt matched the card and I stepped forward, happy to get off the street.
"I'm sorry, this is a private club," the concierge said.
"I realize that," I said. "I'm just here to pick up something for a member. You can bring it out to me, but I'd really rather come inside." I stepped forward again, feeling a rising need to get off the street, even though I could not see anyone suspicious behind me.
"We operate very exclusively. I cannot let you inside," the concierge said. "For the safety and privacy of our members."
I glanced back at the street. A tour bus parked by the curb and let a steady stream of people out to swarm into the nearby souvenir shops. I was being silly – there was no one out there but tourists. I figured the paranoia was because I was tired. I just wanted to get Fenton's phone and get back to the suite as soon as possible.
"I know, I mean, I'm sorry," I handed him the card. "I'm just here to pick up Fenton Morris' things. He is staying elsewhere tonight."
The concierge's lips quirked up, but he nodded at the card and let me inside. I trotted into the all-white lobby, ridiculously glad to be inside.
"What exactly are you picking up?"
"Mr. Morris would like a clean change of clothes and most importantly, his phone," I said.
The concierge disappeared through a white unmarked door. I jumped a foot into the air when a voice behind me said, "Mr. Morris?"
I turned and came face to face with Mario Peretti, Fenton's MMA rival. Up close, he was just as fierce and intimidating as all his posters portrayed him – until he smiled.
"I'm Mario, nice to meet you . . .?"
"Allen. Kya Allen," I said.