"Like you. Like he had money and a cla.s.sy life."

Avery's cheeks colored. "Did you question him about his demeanor?"

"Nah. Didn't really care."

"Why did you tell him about the door?" Ronson said.

"I was drunk, you know? We sat around bulls.h.i.tting, talking about how life had wronged us. Schemed about how to make it right." Burrell ran his fingers over his scruffy face. "I'd forgotten all about the door, but then Snake mentioned robbing a bank. The short crackhead laughed and said that was impossible nowadays. Couldn't escape the cops."

"But you had a way," Ronson guessed.

"I wasn't going to act on it. I ain't no hard criminal."

Ronson waited.

"So I piped up like an a.s.shole, and said I knew of a secret pa.s.sage out of WestOne. Snake and Crackhead, they laughed and told me to cut myself off. But the tall one-I can't remember his f.u.c.king name-got real interested. Until then, he'd been pretty quiet, just hanging out. But man, he jerked forward and got right in my face. 'What are you talking about?' he asked. He looked like a junkie himself then, his eyes all wide and his fingers twitching. I figured he must be hard up to get back to his fancy life. So I told him about the door."

"And what was his response?" Ronson asked.

"He wanted to know everything: where it was located, where it led to, who knew about it, what was in it-he went on and on. 'Cracky' went over to get high, and Snake pa.s.sed out. But the stranger just kept asking questions, trying to figure out where it led."

Nathan stepped away from the gla.s.s. "So how did the Taker know the tunnel connected to the storm drains? He had to have gotten access from inside the bank, or someone did it for him."

"Unless Burrell is omitting something," Johnson said.

"I know when someone's lying, and he's not. He came here to get it off his chest because he feels responsible," Nathan said.

Inside the interrogation room, Burrell rose from the padded chair. "Look, I know it sounds bad, but I never took the guy seriously. I forgot all about him."

"Did you ever see him again?"

"A few times, just pa.s.sing through. He always smiled real big-freaked me out."

"Why didn't you report this right after the attempted kidnapping?" Avery said.

"I didn't hear about it for a few days. Was working the casino circuit. Then I was scared s.h.i.tless, afraid I'd be pinned. I didn't have nothing to do with it."

"I believe you," Ronson said. "Could you I.D. this man if you saw him again?"

"Yeah."

"Excuse us for a moment." She motioned for Burrell to sit back down and headed out of the room.

Avery paused at the door. "Find anything when you were credit hustling at the casinos?"

"Find anything?"

"Every night. Biggest score was six hundred bucks."

Ronson led the way out of the observation room. "He's telling the truth."

"And you have two more witnesses," Johnson said.

"What do you think?" Ronson looked at Nathan.

Nathan ignored Avery's glare. "The Taker isn't a tunnel dweller. He was down there looking for a place to hide Emilie and lucked out. He's probably educated and a functioning member of society. And he's got help from someone other than Burrell. He had to find out where the bootlegging tunnel went from inside the bank. It's the only thing that makes sense."

"I agree." Ronson nodded. "We need to find Snake. Burrell can take us into the tunnels and help us look. I want you to go with us."

"What?" Nathan and Avery chorused.

"Your instincts on this case have been spot on, Madigan. I want your impressions when we're in the tunnels."

"Agent Ronson." Avery's face had turned beet red. "Madigan is not a detective. The police department has jurisdiction, and this is my case. I won't allow it."

"Correction, detective; this was your case." Ronson's calm voice held a tone of warning. "We've had a press leak since the beginning, and it's hurting the investigation. I called the police commissioner and voiced my concerns. Given the media attention on the case, he thought it was best the FBI take jurisdiction. He faxed over the paperwork immediately. And after the way you dinged Burrell in there, you're lucky you're still on this. We could have lost him."

"You have no right," Avery spluttered.

"It's done. You'll still be working the case. But final call goes to me." She turned to Nathan. "You in?"

"It'll have to be off-duty," Johnson said. "With Adam still out, I can't spare any men."

"Understood. Nathan?"

The last thing he wanted to do was go back into the tunnels. But if going back helped Emilie, he only had one option. "I'm in."

Chapter Eighteen.

Emilie locked the door to her office. Her third day back at work was over. It had been easy to hide in her office while she caught up, but tomorrow she'd have to venture outside its protective walls.

Agent Ronson had called an hour earlier to tell Emilie about a witness who'd given the Taker information in the storm drains.

"But the Taker had to have additional help," Ronson cautioned. "We're still trying to figure out how he knew the tunnel led to the storm drains."

Could Lisa have known? Emilie couldn't see Miss Fashion Queen exploring the bootlegging tunnel. She'd be too afraid of breaking a nail.

Jeremy was the only one left inside the bank. His door was closed, and he was on the phone. Another business deal. Emilie crossed the lobby to wave goodnight, but her attention was drawn to her left. The hallway the Taker had dragged her down was brightly lit and looked about as unthreatening as a newborn kitten. She moved through the hallway, running her hands along the freshly painted drywall. Its texture was a shock to her system. She'd clawed at the wall as she was pulled, trying in vain to free herself from the Taker.

Several pieces of tile had been replaced near the top of the stairs, their new surfaces shining brighter than their aged counterparts. The SWAT member had bled here. Was he out of the hospital yet? Emilie had been too self-absorbed to find out.

There was a miniscule, dark gray stain on one of the older tiles. On Emilie's second day as branch manager, she'd dropped an entire cartridge of ink and splattered the black goo everywhere. Only the tiny spot remained. She had joked the hallway was cursed for her and vowed never to make a trip to the storage room again. The old bas.e.m.e.nt had always given her the heebie-jeebies.

She put one foot on the stairs. Her brain demanded she turn around, but Emilie plunged forward. The storage room door was locked. She stuck her key in and turned it. The door pushed open with a creak. Emilie stared into the dark room.

Dizziness. Sweat beading on her forehead. Her stomach churned the way it had when she was a kid and played on the swings. Deep breath, force the fear away.

Emilie slid along the wall and flicked on the light. The room had been reorganized and some of the old junk taken out. In the far corner, the door waited.

She didn't realize she'd crossed the s.p.a.ce until she was standing in front of the door. She ran her hands along the faded wood.

"Ouch." A splinter dug into her finger.

A padlock had been fitted over the rusted latch. Jeremy planned on having the door removed and the tunnel sealed once police gave him permission. But for now all that stood between Emilie and the Taker's escape route was a piece of metal purchased at a local hardware store.

An imperfection in the aged wood caught her attention. Emilie knelt down. The bottom third of the door had a small knothole.

She dug in her bag until she found her phone. She dropped it.

"G.o.dd.a.m.nit, get a grip and get it over with."

Emilie picked up the phone and shined its light into the hole. She peered into the tunnel. She saw dirt, wooden posts, and more darkness. A crab spider scuttled across the ground, startled by the phone's light.

This was the fate the Taker had meant for her-to drag her through that rotten hole for G.o.d only knew what purpose. Sick of the torment, she slammed her hand against the door. What had she done in those ten minutes of conversation at the Bellagio to set the Taker off? What right did he have to s.n.a.t.c.h her away?

A memory rose in her head. She smelled Joe's stench, felt the Taker's possessive hand on her back.

The man guided her behind the teller counter, away from the other hostages. "You'll sit here with me. I'd hoped it wouldn't come to this, but we'll have to wait it out. Soon enough."

Soon enough. Emilie had thought the Taker was referring to getting out of the bank, but now she knew the truth.

Nathan's words from the other day came back to her. Had she sunk low she would allow the Taker to s.n.a.t.c.h her away without a fight? Was her life worth nothing?

Meme would be so disappointed. Everything she'd done for Emilie wasted because of her own inability to cope.

"I can't hide anymore." Her voice sounded small in the large room. "I've got to do something. But I need help."

Nathan came prepared this time. In his backpack was an extra Mag-Lite, batteries, a second clip for his Glock, and an additional pair of boots. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. Just beyond the tunnel opening was sheer darkness.

Near the Strip's famous 'Welcome to Las Vegas' sign and just out of sight of the tourists lay one of many entrances to the storm drains. Judging by the amount of trash and needles lying around, the location received plenty of foot traffic.

"Keep your weapons available, but don't make it obvious." Ronson wore jeans and combat boots and carried a small rucksack. "I've got a digital recorder and extra batteries. I want to make sure we record any information we get."

Beside her, Avery was pasty white. He still wore a suit. He'd shed the heavy jacket and donned a pair of Nike running shoes. Even his tie was still tightly knotted.

Locals were going to love him.

"Avery, at least take your tie off," Ronson said. "You look like a lost accountant."

"Where's Burrell? Wasn't he supposed to meet us here?" Avery tore off the silk tie and stuffed it in his pocket.

"I told him noon."

"Should we wait?" Avery looked around with nervous eyes.

Before Ronson could answer, heavy footsteps splashed in the stream behind them. Nathan reached for his weapon.

"Just me." Burrell held up his hands. "Was working the casinos, lost track of time. You ready?"

"Lead the way." Ronson turned on her flashlight.

She stayed behind Burrell while Nathan fell into step next to her. He shined the Mag-Lite into the deep as they followed Burrell into the east tunnel.

Darkness swallowed the group. Nathan heard Avery hiss behind him. p.u.s.s.y. Shining his light on the walls, Nathan saw the drain was similar to the tunnel near Fremont Street, decorated with graffiti, trash, and c.o.c.kroaches. The smell, while not as pungent as the previous tunnel he'd been in, was still foul.

"This stink is atrocious." Avery's voice was m.u.f.fled, most likely from his hand. "How do you stand it?"

"You get used to it," Burrell said. "Better than being unsheltered in the heat."

"Just keep moving," Ronson said.

"How far in are the camps?" Nathan asked. "The night SWAT searched, we only went a few hundred feet."

"Depends on the tunnel," Burrell said. "This one's a busy place."

The path curved left. A small pinpoint of light glowed in the darkness. Nathan's chest tightened. He adjusted the Glock on his belt. It was impossible to know who was waiting for them.

"Who's there?" a female voice called.

A woman? Of course he knew women lived down here, but hearing a woman's voice call out of the dark was jarring.

"Angel, it's me, Rod."

"Who's that with you?"

"They're cool."

"Cops."

"They ain't here for petty s.h.i.t. Lookin' for a bad dude."

The flicker of light grew stronger as the group approached. A bright flash made Nathan see red spots. Tucked in a small nook sat the woman named Angel. In the dense blackness, the camping light she'd turned on seemed as powerful as floodlights on a football field. A small cot was propped up on cement blocks, and a large box sat on another block, presumably full of Angel's possessions. Next to her sat a large bucket of water and a can of what appeared to be beef stew, a tarnished fork stuck in its center. In the corner was another bucket, a roll of toilet paper beside it.

"This is Agent Ronson from the FBI," Burrell said.

"The FBI?" Angel stood up from the black crate she'd been sitting on. Nathan could see a baggie of something underneath it-drugs. Barely five foot, Angel wore dingy clothes, and her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail. Track marks and meth burns marked the woman's skin. Guessing her age was impossible.

Angel glared at Burrell. "What the f.u.c.k you doin' bringing the FBI down here? Trying to get killed?"