Kat thought about the cool indifference with which Arturo Taccone had threatened her father’s life, and added, “And really stupid.”
Hale was silhouetted against the streetlamp’s yellow light, but the glint in his eyes was unmistakable. “Remind you of anyone we know?”
12 Days Until Deadline
Chapter 7
There are a lot of reasons people come to Las Vegas. Some come because they want to get rich. Some come because they want to get married. Some want to get lost, and others found. Some are running to. Some are running from. It had always seemed to Kat that Vegas was a town where almost everyone was hoping to get something for nothing—an entire city of thieves.
But as Kat and Hale rode the escalator from the casino floor to the conference rooms above, she realized those reasons probably did not apply to the International Association of Advanced Mathematics and Research.
“I didn’t know there were this many math guys,” Hale said as they stepped onto the crowded concourse. Kat cleared her throat. “And women,” he added. “Math women.”
Everywhere Kat looked, she saw men wearing bad suits and name badges, mingling and laughing, oblivious to the slot machines and cocktail waitresses only a floor below. Kat supposed the keynote speaker must be as brilliant and riveting as the rumors said. If you were interested in derivatives, theorems, and polynomials, that is. Kat and Hale followed the crowd into the dim ballroom where the man was lecturing. They found seats in the back row.
“So these are the smartest people in the world, huh?” Hale whispered.
Kat scanned the crowd. “At least one of them is.”
Hale’s gaze was locked on the conference program he held in his hands. “Where is he?”
“By the projector. Fifth row. Center aisle.”
At the front of the room, the professor rambled on in a language that only a few people in the world could truly understand.
“You know”—Hale’s breath was warm against Kat’s ear in the chilly ballroom—“I don’t know that both of us really have to be here. . . .” The slide changed. While hundreds of mathematicians waited with baited breath, the boy beside Kat whispered, “I could go make some calls . . . check on some things. . . .”
“Play some blackjack?”
“Well, when in Rome . . .”
“Rome is tomorrow, babe,” Kat reminded him.
He nodded. “Right.”
“Shh.”
“Do you understand any of this?” he said, pointing to the lines and symbols that covered the massive screens.
“Some people understand the value of an education.”
Hale stretched and crossed his legs, then settled his arm around Kat’s shoulders. “That’s sweet, Kat. Maybe later I’ll buy you a university. And an ice cream.”
“I’d settle for the ice cream.”
“Deal.”
They stayed in the overly air-conditioned ballroom, listening to the entire first lecture and part of the second. By the time she saw a member of the hotel’s audiovisual staff slink out the back doors, Kat’s hands were frozen and her stomach was growling. So she didn’t think twice about grabbing Hale and slipping through the open door.
While the math genius droned on inside Ballroom B, three teenagers gathered secretly in the empty casino hallway.
No one overheard Hale say, “Hi, Simon.”
“So you tell us, how was the lecture, Simon?” Hale paused and read the name tag of the boy in front of him. “Or is it Henry?”
But the boy just smiled as if he’d been caught—which he had—by two of the few people on earth whose opinions actually mattered to him.
“How’d you find me?” Simon asked. Hale just raised his eyebrows, and Simon muttered, “Never mind.”
Soon the escalator was taking them away from the PhDs and carpeted ballrooms; the silence gave way to ringing machines and screaming tourists. Kat practically had to yell as she asked, “How’s your dad?”
“Retired,” Simon answered. “Again. Florida this time, I think.”
“Retired?” Hale didn’t try to hide his shock. “He’s forty-three.”
“People do crazy things when they hit the prime numbers,” Simon explained with a shrug. He leaned closer.
“He’s actually been consulting with Seabold Security.”
“Judas,” Hale teased.
But Kat barely heard. She was too busy scanning the casino. Tourists in fanny packs sat in rows at slot machines. Waitresses glided through the crowd. It was easy to feel alone there, lost in the chaos. But Kat was a thief. Kat knew better.
She patted the cylindrical case in her hands and looked at the boys beside her. “Let’s go find a blind spot.”
As they walked through the maze of the casino floor, Kat couldn’t help but notice a slight bounce in Simon’s step as he chatted on about the lecture, the advances in technology. The geniuses and legends who’d given talks that morning at breakfast.
“You know you’re smarter than all of them, right?” Hale said flatly. “In fact, if you wanted to prove it . . .” He glanced at the blackjack tables.
Simon shook his head. “I don’t count cards, Hale.”
“Don’t?” Hale smiled. “Or won’t? You know, technically, it’s not illegal.”
“But it’s frowned upon.” Sweat beaded at Simon’s brow. He sounded like someone had just suggested he swim after eating . . . run with scissors. . . . “It is seriously frowned upon.”
They found a table outside, near the edge of the crowded pool, away from cameras and guards.
Simon dragged his chair beneath an umbrella. “I burn,” he explained as Kat took the seat across from him. He took a deep breath, as if working up the courage to ask, “Is it a job?”
Hale stretched out on a lounge chair, his eyes hidden behind dark shades. “More like a favor.”
Simon seemed to deflate, so Kat added, “For now.”
The desert air was dry, but there was no denying the smell of chlorine—and money—as Kat rolled the blueprints out onto the glass tabletop.
Simon leaned over the plans. “Are these the Macaraff 760s?”
“Yep,” Hale answered.
He whistled in the same way Hale sometimes whistled, but Simon’s sounded more like a wounded bird.
“That’s a lot of security. Bank?” he guessed. Kat shook her head. “Government?” Simon guessed again.
“Art,” Kat said.
“Private collection,” Hale added.
Simon glanced up from the table. “Yours?”
Hale laughed. “I wish.”
“Is it our objective to make it yours?” Simon’s eyes grew wide.
Hale and Kat exchanged a look. Hale’s grin seemed to admit that the thought had crossed his mind. Then he leaned closer and said, “It’s not exactly a typical operation.”
Simon wasn’t fazed; his mind was too full of theories and algorithms and exponential alternatives for typical to have any meaning for him anymore.
He studied the blueprints in silence for ten minutes, before looking up at Kat. “In my professional opinion, I’d say it’s a pass. Unless this place is Fort Knox. Wait a second.” His eyes shone. “Is it Fort Knox?”
“No,” Hale and Kat said in unison.
“Then I wouldn’t hit it,” he said, pushing the blueprints away.
“It’s already been hit,” Kat confided.
“Your dad?”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Kat exclaimed.
Hale took off his sunglasses to look Simon in the eyes. His voice barely carried over the sounds of the laughter and splashes from the pool. “We would like very much to know who hit it.”
“Who hit this?” Simon jabbed his finger at the center of the blueprints. “It’s not a big list, I can tell you that.”
“The smaller the better, my friend,” Hale said with a pat on Simon’s back. “The smaller the better.”
“Can I keep these?” Simon asked.
“Sure,” Kat said. “We’ve got a spare set. And, Simon . . . thanks.”
She was already standing and starting to walk away, when Simon asked, “This is why you’re back, isn’t it?”
Kat squinted against the bright sun. She felt a million miles from the gray-skied campus of Colgan.
“Yeah.” She glanced at Hale. “It’s kind of . . .”
Simon waved her away. “I don’t need to know. I was just wondering if it had anything to do with those two guys who have been following us since we left the lecture.”
Of all the people Kat expected to see on the Las Vegas strip, Arturo Taccone’s goons were not on the list. They hadn’t tried to blend in among the tourists and high rollers— hadn’t taken a place at the tables, or positioned themselves by the slots—and that, more than anything, infuriated her. Together, Goon 1 and Goon 2 were five hundred pounds of European muscle.
And yet Kat had missed them.
She worried what else she might be missing as she rushed Hale and Simon away from the pool.
When Kat looked back, she saw Goon 2 raising his left arm, pointing at his watch.
“Kat?” Simon asked.
“Keep walking.”
“What time is it?” Kat wondered aloud as she and Hale walked across the tarmac to the Hale family’s private plane. “Let me think . . . Twelve hours in the air . . . That’ll put us there—”
“High noon,” Hale answered. “Give or take.”
“Okay, first thing tomorrow we hit the streets around Taccone’s place. Somebody saw something.”
“I got it covered.”
“The DiMarcos might be in town.”
“Actually, they’re in jail.”
“All seven of them?”
Hale shrugged. “It was an interesting October.”
Kat shook her head and tried to tell herself that not everything had changed. “Okay, then we should call—”
“I said, I’ve got it.” Hale’s voice was firmer now. Kat stopped in her tracks and stared at him.
“Define got it.”
“Hey, I’m more than just a delightful travel companion, you know.” He grinned. “I’m not exactly friendless.”
“Who?” Kat asked.
But Hale kept walking. “A friend.”
Kat reached for his arm and stopped him. “A friend of yours? A friend of mine? Or a friend of ours?”
He broke free of her grip and stepped away, hands in his pockets and a dark smile on his face. “Are we going to have a problem, Katarina?” he asked, sounding eerily like Uncle Eddie.
“What?” she asked, feigning innocence. “I’m just wondering who he is? Someone you and the Bagshaws used in Germany?”
“Luxembourg, actually.” Hale paused and turned around. “Technically, the Bagshaws and I did a job in Luxembourg.” Kat started to say something—wanted to say something—but the words didn’t come. “You were gone, Kat.” Hale wasn’t teasing anymore.
