Road trip stop today at Cassie's request. She says she needs a day.
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I plan to check in at some old haunts -- don't expect much to find anyone still breathing, but I have a day to kill.
Checked my old residence in North Vegas. Phil and a couple of others used to have apartments there. The place was abandoned. Burned to the ground. Police tape still clung to the fences.
Also checked out a couple of industrial properties of ours. The West Coast Syndicate used them as clearinghouses for drugs and weapons. More tape, more ashes. Travis had been thorough.
I even sought out a couple of contractors -- people who didn't work directly for the Syndicate, but ran errands from time to time. There was a blackjack dealer at the Wynn, for example, who used to spy on the Russians for us. No one at work had seen him for days. Same deal with Reggie, a mechanic who worked on our vehicles and consulted for our auto-theft people -- vanished last week.
Travis knew way too much about the Syndicate's organization. I realized he must have help -- one of the Chinese, maybe. Perhaps he's getting information from the Russians, or the street gangs we often employed. I have to assume he knows everything now.
And that means he knows about the project in Los Angeles. And him knowing about that means nothing good at all. For any of us.
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