Free Time of Attack by Marc Cameron Page B

Gray tights clung like a second skin to slender legs. A bloodred minidress hung off petite shoulders. Her manicured hand, matching her lipstick and the dress, rested on a cocked hip.
    Twenty feet away a blond Capitol Police officer with the earnest look of an Iowa farm boy loitered beside the bank of slot machines. A light golf jacket and khaki slacks helped him blend in some with the crowd of gamblers, but the flesh-tone earpiece and clear pigtail radio wire that disappeared at the back of his collar were dead giveaways. The slight bulge on the right side of his jacket would be his Glock. Pale blue eyes looked over the casino floor with mixture of boredom and disgust.
    A second agent, older, with an air of experience, sat at a small table near the Forum entrance, nursing a cup of coffee while he watched the crowd.
    Quinn’s source said no one on the detail cared much for Drake. They were, however, honor bound to protect him and would give their lives to do so. But in order for them to do that, the protectee had to cooperate in at least some respects.
    The Hispanic escort’s hand moved across Drake’s shoulder, caressing, but urging him to hurry. He gave an annoyed shrug, brushing her away. She let her hand drop and dug her toe into the carpet. The four-inch stiletto heel arced impatiently back and forth.
    She was getting bored.
    Quinn smiled within himself. This was going to be easier than he’d imagined. He knew Drake was staying in the Augustus Tower, but had no idea which floor or what room. He couldn’t very well ask the protective detail, and that same detail would make it nearly impossible to follow the Speaker without hurting one of the good guys.
    But now he wouldn’t have to follow the Speaker. He could follow the escort. It was a good bet the call girl had a room nearby, probably on a different floor, so he could sneak away from his detail without having to go very far. She’d leave first—and since Drake was winning, he’d let her.

C HAPTER 8
    Q uinn left the rum and Coke untouched along with a ten-dollar bill and a nod at the waitress. Wanting to stay ahead of Drake’s date, he walked quickly back under Cleopatra’s wooden cleavage, through the Palace casino, and around the corner to Diamond VIP registration. Thankfully, there was no line. He badged the girl with a Croatian accent behind the desk, explaining that he was conducting a routine advance for a protective operation on an Air Force three-star general. She was professional enough that she didn’t mention the Capitol Police detail already on site.
    “The general is very averse to the media,” Quinn said, hoping she’d afford him the same restraint when she spoke with any other protective agents.
    “Of course, sir.” The girl, whose name was Cetina, gave a conspiratorial nod and pointed to a map on the marble counter. “We have three vacant suites at the moment. I can get security to show you any or all of them if you wish.”
    Quinn took a deep breath, feeling a twinge of guilt for lying to this sweet girl. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I just need to take a few photos of stairwells, fire escapes, and whatnot. We’re still in early stages.”
    “Very well.” Cetina slid a key card across the counter. “This will give you access to the elevators around the corner.” She smiled, a splash of freckles accenting the pink skin of a button nose. “Be careful taking photos of our guests. Like your general, most are not very fond of publicity.”
    Quinn made it around to catch the elevator in time to see a flash of red as Drake’s buxom escort passed the restrooms down the hall, coming toward him. She was alone.
    Quinn got on the elevator without looking back and punched the button for the twenty-seventh and the forty-sixth floors to make certain the car would continue up when he got back on. He stepped off immediately at twenty-five, but held the door and watched the floor numbers above the adjacent elevator, which surely