Rarities Unlimited 02 - Running Scared

least she might get a chance to body-slam him against one of the vacant slots. Then she could get away without endangering crowds of people.
    Socks looked at the icon on the bathroom door. A skirt. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
    “To look for the gold.” Risa gave him a clear-eyed glance and prayed she hadn’t lost the skills Cherelle had taught her. Among them was how to lie: always meet their eyes. “Just like I told you. There’s a big ol’ vanity in there with a drawer she could have—”
    “But that’s a women’s can!” Socks cut in.
    “She wouldn’t hide it in the men’s, now, would she?”
    Socks chewed on that. “You got one minute to get back with the gold. Then I’m going to come in there and beat the shit out of you. And forget hiding in the stalls. I’m onto that bitch trick.”
    A look at Socks’s flat, dark eyes told Risa that a minute was fifty-nine seconds more than he wanted to give her.
    Sixty seconds wasn’t much, but it was better than what she had now.
    The instant his grip loosened on her wrist, she shot through the fancy gilt doors. By the time the doors closed behind her, she was sprinting toward the west entrance to the bathroom. She had only one thought—getting to the nearest employee elevator without attracting any attention, closing the doors behind her, and hitting all the alarms at once.
    She went out the other door with a long-legged stride that was almost as fast as a run and attracted a hell of a lot less attention.
    She might have made it all the way to the elevator if one of the slots hadn’t hit a big one just as she got close to it. Like everyone else in the place, Socks turned to look at the lucky jackpot winner. The first thing he saw was Risa quickstepping away from him.
    “Hey!” he yelled, yanking out his gun.
    Risa knew the layout of the casino by heart. The bozo in the Hawaiian shirt was between her and the doors leading to the street. The closest employee elevator was through the heart of the baccarat and craps tables, which lay like obstacles directly across her path.
    At least the action was light around the tables now.
    She hiked her skirt above her hips and ran flat out. Forget about going around. She vaulted up onto a craps table and then down the other side, darted between two other tables, missed her next vault, and scattered baccarat bets, bettors, and dealers in every direction. The fact that she was yelling the whole time—“He’s got a gun! Get down! Get out of the way!”—might have had something to do with the near absence of people in front of her.
    Socks’s first shot shattered a slot machine. His second one gouged a fist-size hunk from a craps table. His third exploded a drink glass on the baccarat table Risa had just hurtled over. She cut right and vanished behind steel ranks of slots.
    “Fuck!” he snarled.
    He might not have been an IQ wonder, but he was plenty street-smart. He knew if he wanted to spend the next few years of his life smoking crack and screwing women, he had to leave.
    Fast.
    With surprising speed for a man who had trouble standing up all the way straight, he turned and raced for the front doors. People ran in all directions to clear a path for him. None of the casino guards fired their weapons, because their orders from Shane—and the Las Vegas PD—in situations like this had been direct and unmistakable: don’t put civilians in danger.
    Before the first sirens started screaming toward the Golden Fleece, Socks was sitting in his purple baby, sweating and breathing hard. His abused crotch ached like a bitch. So did his head from trying to think. But no matter how hard he thought, he couldn’t see any way to get to the gold. One gun just wasn’t enough.
    But he was damned if he would let a bitch—two bitches—make a fool out of him.
    It was time to cut his uncle in on the action.
    He cranked the car to life. The radio came on at the same instant. A hot new retro-rap group was shouting their syncopated bile over the airwaves.
    Grinning and snarling along with the fuck-them-kill-them-eat-them music pounding out of the radio, Socks headed down the Strip.

Chapter 33
    Las Vegas
    November 3
    Afternoon
    R isa leaned against the wall next to the employee elevator and tried to get enough oxygen into her lungs. As she did, she silently vowed to take advantage of the employee gym more often. She should be able to sprint a few hundred feet without feeling like steel bands were squeezing her