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The guy’s eyebrows raised skeptically. Vargas didn’t exactly laugh them out of his office, but he wasn’t far from it. She and Ian paused on the sidewalk in front of the hospital to stare at each other.

“We’re not crazy,” she declared.

“We may be. We have no actual proof that Las Vegas is the target except a helicopter sixty miles away. It’s pretty thin evidence.”

She huffed and mopped her brow. It had to be 110 degrees in the shade. The bottoms of her feet were actually getting hot just standing on the concrete pavement. “Now what?”

“Now we wait for further developments. Either the FBI will make Abahdi talk, or Alex will come up with something, or people will start dying.”

“And in the meantime?” she demanded.

He grinned at her. “We’re in Vegas. Do you need to ask?”

“You want to gamble while this attack unfolds? Isn’t that rather like Nero fiddling while Rome burned?”

“The big dogs are on this case. The investigation is out of our hands for the time being.”

They checked into an off-strip hotel and spent the remainder of the afternoon sleeping in the loud hum of an air conditioner that couldn’t quite keep up with the sweltering August heat outside. It was dark when Piper woke up to the sound of the shower running the bathroom.

Had things been better between her and Ian, she would have joined him. But as it was, she pulled on clothes and tuned the television to a news channel to see if the world had come to an end yet or not. So far, no one was reporting any alarming viral outbreaks or bombs anywhere in the country.

Ian emerged from the bathroom looking better than any one man had a right to. He wore a black t-shirt that was just tight enough to outline his seriously hot physique. It stretched tight across his biceps and advertised that he was not a guy to mess with.

“Going out?” she asked in surprise.

“There’s a place in town I usually check out when I’m here.”

“Vegas regular, are you?”

“My unit trains in the area every year or two.”

Probably some sort of desert combat or survival training if she had to guess.

“You wanna come along?” he asked.

“And be your wingman?” she asked wryly.

He grinned reluctantly. “You’re not exactly prime wingman material. You’ll attract too much attention to yourself.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. She pulled her hair back into a simple ponytail and skipped all make-up, opting only to splash a little cold water on her face and brush her teeth before they headed out. She wore jeans and a plain, white t-shirt considerably looser than his.

The place he took her to—way,wayoff the Strip—was a dive. It had low-ceilings and cracked linoleum floors, and it was dark and smoky and stunk of sweat and stale beer. The men in the place were mostly the silent, dangerous type, and the women utterly predictable.

Piper groaned. “You didnotbring me to a Special Forces groupie bar.”

“Nah. It’s not that exclusive a place.”

She looked around in disgust. “I know Special Forces guys when I see them, and these women are all but lying down on the pool table and spreading their legs.”

“It’s not that bad,” Ian replied, grinning.

“I hear panting. And that, right there,” she pointed at a wet spot on the floor, “is a puddle of drool.”

Ian bellied up to the beer and ordered a pair of beers on tap. He shoved a foamy glass at her and turned to survey the room. “Some decent action, tonight,” he commented over his brewsky.

Eyes narrowed, she scanned the room. She knew the female types. Bleached blondes. Busty. Tight jeans over juicy, wagging asses. High-heels to make them look that last ten pounds thinner. “There’s not an IQ in the lot that breaks triple digits,” she reported sourly.

“Guys don’t come here for the intellectual stimulation.” He was laughing outright at her, now.