Max waited for Carlos’s text before stepping into the elevator and making his way to the first floor of his office building. He was nowhere near used to having Carlos around all the time, let alone his insistence on driving Max around the city on business, but he was playing along.

Carlos’s Audi was idling at the curb in front of the office when Max stepped out into the afternoon sun. He put on his sunglasses and stepped into the passenger seat.

“What’s the word?”

Carlos handed him a roll of papers bundled together with a rubber band. “Done.” He put the car in gear and pulled out into traffic.

“Nice work,” Max said. “Any trouble?”

“No trouble.” Carlos knew someone in the city’s planning office from his time with DeLuca. “Just cash.”

Max continued to be surprised by the layers of the city he’d thought he’d known. Apparently everybody and their mother took bribes in Vegas.

“Cash we can do,” Max said. “How detailed is it?”

Carlos’s eyes were hidden by his sunglasses as he watched the road. “Everything they had — building, security, fire, transportation.”

If the plans included everything Carlos mentioned, it was even more than they’d hoped for, encompassing every piece of the Tangier’s construction, every camera, every exit and sprinkler and fire alarm, every road leading into and out of the complex.

“Will it be enough?” Carlos asked.

Max hesitated, still in the habit of choosing his words carefully with everyone but Abby. In spite of his instincts to keep things close to the vest, Max had let Carlos in on the plans to eliminate Jason. As one of DeLuca’s former soldiers, it wouldn’t be the first time Carlos had been involved in a hit, and this one probably had more moral high ground than the others.

But that didn’t mean it was easy to fork over the details.

“If this isn’t enough, nothing is,” Max said.

They didn’t speak the rest of the way to the Bellagio. It was one of the things Max liked about Carlos — he didn’t talk aimlessly or ask needless questions.

They left the car with the valet and headed up to the Presidential suite. Max braced himself for Farrell’s smirking presence, but when the door opened, it was Nico who stood on the other side of it.

“Max, Carlos.” He opened the door wider. “Come in.”

Nico locked the door behind them — a precaution given the ever-present guard in the hall — and they continued into the suite’s living room. Max stopped in his tracks when he saw an unfamiliar man standing near the sofa.

“Sean Bolton,” Nico said, “this is Max Cartwright and Carlos Rodriguez. Max runs the Vegas operation, Carlos is his underboss. Sean is with the FBI.”

Max looked from Nico to the man named Sean and back again. “Care to explain?”

“Sean’s one of our sources at the Bureau,” Nico said.

The man held out his hand. “To be clear, I don’t work for the Syndicate. My first loyalty is always to the Bureau.”

Max reluctantly shook his hand. “Hard to see it that way.”

The man’s face hardened. “You’re entitled to your opinion.”

He had law enforcement written all over him, his dark hair cut short, a pair of aviators sticking out of his shirt pocket. His eyes were cautious and world-weary, the eyes of someone who’d seen it all, who would check for himself if you told him the sky was blue.

Nico looked at Max and Carlos. “Drink?”

“Not for me,” Max said.

Carlos shook his head. “No, thanks.”

Nico’s gaze dropped to the roll of paper in Max’s hand. “I take it those are the plans?”

Max nodded.

“Let’s sit,” Nico said.

Sean sat at one end of the sofa. Carlos took the other end while Max and Nico claimed the two chairs on the other side of the coffee table.

“I’m afraid we’ve had some bad news,” Nico said.

“What kind of bad news?” Max asked.

“Jason Draper turned state’s witness last night,” Sean said.

“How does that work, given that Jason is the one who’s a person of interest in the Tangier shooting?” Max asked, trying not to let the new information rattle him.

“He claims he has information about what really happened that day,” Sean said. “He’s insinuating you and Nico were the ones to pull the trigger on DeLuca and his guard.”

“Ballistics won’t back that up,” Max said.

“No,” Sean said. “But it opens the door on you and on your business.”

Max heard Jason’s voice in his ear the night he’d called.

See you on the battlefield.

He was playing a game of chess, distracting everyone from the pieces he was moving across the board to protect himself.

“It gives us a visibility problem,” Nico said. “If Jason gives them enough information to justify wire tap warrants and other kinds of surveillance, it’s going to be a lot more difficult for us to get to him without an audience.”

Sean nodded. “It’ll take time, but that’s where this will lead.”

Max looked at Nico. “Can’t our friends at the Bureau help?” He looked at Sean. “What about you? Can’t you do something?”

He leveled a cold stare at Max. “It’s not my job to protect you.”

“Sean is taking a risk being here,” Nico said. “This information is valuable, and we appreciate it.”

Max nodded reluctantly, recognizing the subtle rebuke for what it was.

Sean stared at him a moment longer before turning his attention to Nico. “We can buy you some time, drag our feet with some of the bureaucracy, but the minute Jason comes in for his first official interview as a witness for the investigation, the clock will be ticking.”

“When will that be?” Max asked.

“He’s scheduled to come in with his lawyers on Monday.”

Monday. Three days.

“How long after that until surveillance is a possibility?” Max asked.

Sean seemed to think about it. “Conservative estimate? A week. Maybe two if we slow things down.”

“Fuck.”

Sean leaned forward. “Listen, everyone at the Bureau knows Draper was involved in the shooting at the Tangier. He didn’t win any allies by running, and it doesn’t help his case that he’s got Bruce Frazier’s security outfit trailing him everywhere. Frazier has a dirty history of his own — a history outside our jurisdiction, but still dirty. Draper’s a snake and a liar. We all know that. But it’s our job to follow evidence of any federal crime. I don’t think he’s going to lean too heavily on the shooting at the Tangier — he’s going to want to steer us clear of that if at all possible — but if he delivers actionable information on the Syndicate, we’ll have no choice but to see where it leads.”

“Was that supposed to make us feel better?” Max said.

“Not my job to make you feel better either,” Sean said. “But I’m telling you if something were to happen to Jason — something that could be pinned on his suspected unsavory relationships — no one at the Bureau would be shedding any tears, and my hunch is they’d be more than happy to slap a Case Closed sticker on the Tangier shooting.”

“So we have a week, maybe two, to take him out,” Max said.

Sean leaned back. “That about covers it.”

Max walked to the big window overlooking the city. It was mid-afternoon, the sun glinting off the steel and glass of the surrounding hotels and casinos.

“How secure is DeLuca’s old operation?” he asked without turning around.

“It’s secure.” Carlos had been quiet during the meeting but now answered without hesitation. “The ones who wanted to stay have an incentive to remain loyal. The ones who didn’t have moved onto something else — and they’re not exactly the kind of guys to go work in a cubicle.”

It wasn’t a guarantee, but it meant the likelihood was small that soldiers from DeLuca’s dead business would come forward to help Jason.

It was something.

“What do you want to do?”

The question came from Sean. The answer came from Nico.

“This is Max’s territory. It’s his decision.”

Max scanned the city, spread out like a perverse playground. They only had two choices: give up on getting Jason and hope the Feds rose to the occasion, or go all in and stick with the plan of taking him out themselves.

He turned around. “We have a week to find a way into the Presidential suite at the Tangier. I suggest we take a look at these building plans.”