Page 63 of Savage Daddies

Wrangler and Bullwhip are meeting me there. Walking anywhere together in public at the moment prompts unwanted rumors, and Zoe already has enough on her back.

Up ahead, outside of the casino, stand clusters of guests chatting among themselves. I squint and shield my eyes from the sun. 8:30 AM reads the time on my phone. Paul’s casino opens bright and early at eight.

I speed-walk until I’m outside the doors. Police tape flaps in the wind, crossing over the doors to form an X shape.

“What the fuck?” I end up saying aloud.

“Average day in Vegas,” says some guy next to me.

“What happened?”

“It’s a mystery, like everything else in this goddamn city.” He leaves after that before I have time to question him anymore.

A line of cops stroll by, four abreast, in their sandstone-colored uniform. There’s no sign of blood, which has to be a good sign, although their bland faces scream danger. You know there’s trouble whenfourpoker-faced cops march past you, each wearing radios that fizzle every two seconds. I frown and concentrate on the static voices that speak, but teaching high school kids for years fries your hearing.

“Shit.” Wrangler and Bullwhip approach from behind. “Do we know what happened?”

“We should report back to Grizzly,” says Bullwhip, face in a staring competition with the yellow police tape instructing nobody to cross.

“Or…” I leap forward, rip the tape from the door, and bullet inside.

“HEY!”

Footsteps pelt after me. Briefly, I look over my shoulder and catch one of the four angry cops, chasing after me.

“Sir? This is a crime scene. Please?—”

THUD!

I glance over my shoulder just in time to see Bullwhip ground two of them.

Wrangler takes the third.

Turning back around, I continue my run. It’s easier to navigate without guests swarming the place, although the complicated carpet designs blur my vision and make the run harder than it needs to be. I scan the atmosphere.

They’re fussing over fucking nothing.

“Try outside.” Wrangler catches up to me. “There might be something there.”

Another thump sounds behind us.

I glimpse a gilded mirror, and we run past it to scale how far away the cops are. Bullwhip keeps them off, bare-knuckling them to the ground every time they manage to climb back up. One of them flings an arm around him, but he loosens the lock by kicking them in the groin.

Then he sprints.

“HEY! COME BACK HERE!”

“THIS IS A CRIME SCENE!”

Wrangler kicks open the back door, looks up, and freezes.

My intestines knot together. It’s something bad. His eyes widen in shock, and Wrangler’s a very unfazed guy. The last time something caught his attention like this was when Sheila died so unexpectedly.

Two polished shoes dangle midair.

I raise my head and see a pair of legs in suit pants.

A shirt ruined with blood.

---