I slowed, and steered Jack closer to read the smaller print.

Protect yourself today, it said. Pay your dollar, and sign the list.

“Fuck,” Jack muttered. “What’s he gonna do? FedEx the cash?”

“And the list, don’t forget, because I’m sure the killer is checking ID first.”

“Con artists. Fucking bottom-feeders.”

I looked around. “I should notify security.”

“No time. People are stupid enough to pay…”

He didn’t finish, just shrugging as if to say that you couldn’t rescue people from stupidity, and he wasn’t about to waste his time trying. So I waited until he was in line to check in, then zipped off to the bathroom, with a side trip past the security office. Sure, you can’t save people from stupidity, but at least you can stop others from getting rich off it.

“You want the window seat?” I asked as we boarded the plane.

An odd look crossed his face. He mumbled a gruff “You take it,” grabbed my overnight bag and hoisted it into the compartment. By the time he lowered himself into the seat beside me, I was almost done straightening and rearranging the in-flight magazines. I pulled an overlooked empty peanut bag from under the seat in front of me, then glanced around for a place to put it.

The light came on for us to fasten our seat belts. As I reached for mine, I noticed Jack’s hands as he fastened his, fingers trembling slightly. I looked at him, but his gaze was down, intent on securing the belt.

We listened through the obligatory safety spiel, then the plane began takeoff. As I shifted, getting comfortable, I happened to glance Jack’s way. He’d gone dead white…almost as white as his knuckles, gripping the chair arms like they might fall off if he let go.

“You’re afraid of flying,” I murmured, lowering my voice. “Why didn’t you say—?”

“No choice. Too far to drive.”

“Can I get you any—?”

“Talk to me.”

That was one thing I could manage, so I did.

Once in Vegas, we had to make a few stops. First to a safe drop where Jack kept disguises and equipment, including guns. Then to a hardware store, where I could find the material I needed to carry out our plan.

The Fortuna was the kind of casino frequented by three types of gamblers: old pros who hate the glitzy big operations, problem gamblers kicked out of the big operations, and lost tourists. It was off the Strip. Dated from when the mob ruled Vegas, it looked as if it hadn’t been renovated since, and wore its age like a badge of pride. If you wanted flashing lights and fruity drinks and gorgeous girls you went elsewhere. The Fortuna was for gambling.