Same guys I saw earlier.

  Could that really be the Tony Mafia?

  “You think Honest Abe was actually being honest for once?” Roy asked.

  “First time for everything. How do you want to play this?”

  “The SkyTower actually sounds like a smart play. No guns, and there will probably be extra security up there.”

  “If it’s TM, they may have a piece of this hotel.”

  Roy nodded. “So security will turn a blind eye. We’d be on our own. A thousand feet above the street. When you’re being followed, is going up ever the smart move?”

  “We stopped being smart the moment we landed in Las Vegas. Let’s head to the SkyTower, see if they follow.”

  “As good a plan as any, I guess. But I gotta say, I feel like a character in a bad movie doing dumb shit because the writer wrote it that way.”

  I know what you mean, buddy. I feel that way a lot.

  Tom and Roy strolled through the casino, trying to look casual, and the matching mobsters stayed behind.

  “They could be waiting for Abe,” Roy said. “Maybe we should stick around.”

  “And ruin this streak of bad decisions? Abe said SkyTower. If he meets us there, fine. If he doesn’t, we did what he told us to do, no regrets. He gets grabbed by Tony Blowtorch, it’s on him.”

  It took them a few minutes to walk to the SkyTower, which was accessed through a mall. As Abe predicted, there were metal detectors in front of the elevators. Feeling slightly better about this unwise decision, Tom passed through the security check with Roy and three other tourists, and they took a quick trip up to the outside deck, the lift moving fast enough for Tom to feel it in his legs.

  “Day-am.” Roy stepped out into the open air. “You ever get this high before, Tom?”

  Tom paused. Not because of the ball-busting, but because he didn’t much care for heights. Stretching out into the night, the lights of Vegas looked like a miniature film set. He followed Roy over to the edge, and a squirmy feeling in his stomach seized him as his friend touched the fence railing and leaned over it.

  He can’t fall. There’s another fence a meter beyond the first fence, in case some kid or drunk or unhappy gambler decided to take a stroll off the side.

  But, wow, this tower is a lot taller than it appeared from the ground.

  And the wind is fierce.

  “Someone lost a ball cap.” Roy pointed to the ledge between the fences. “Should I hop over, grab it?”

  Roy gripped the railing, pretending to vault over the edge, and Tom felt his heartbeat treble.

  “You’re funny like cancer is funny,” Tom told him.

  “Certain types of cancer are funny. If I had dick cancer, I’d expect people to laugh at it.”

  “If they could even see it.”

  “Maybe I already got dick cancer, and maybe I’ll slap you upside the head with my tumor right now and give you a concussion.”

  “I’ll get my binoculars so I can see that tiny thing coming.”

  Roy seemed ready to reply, then his eyes got wide as he spotted something behind Tom.

  Please don’t let it be the Tony Mafia.

  I don’t want to deal with the Tony Mafia.

  It wasn’t the Tony Mafia.

  It was Number 1, the clone of Abraham Lincoln, stepping out of the elevator and onto the skydeck.

  He had the signature Lincoln scraggly beard, straight off the five dollar bill, which looked incongruous with his camo shorts, purple Vans, and T-shirt.

  The shirt read, “Wanna See My Lincoln Log?”

  Roy shook his head. “Every time we run into him, it’s still weird.”

  “The fact that he’s an unhinged whackjob?”

  “Yeah. That. Plus the way he looks. He’s Lincoln, man.”

  “I know. Like going back in time.”

  Abe scanned the deck, spotted Tom, and smiled wide.

  That’s so odd. I don’t recall a single historical photo of Lincoln with him showing his teeth.

  Makes him look… shady.

  “Tom! Roy! Good to see you!”

  Abe spoke like you would guess Lincoln spoke, low and bombastic and full of presidential grandeur. Arms open, taking big strides, Abe closed the distance between them within seconds, but before embracing Tom he stopped short, appearing alarmed. “Wait! Are you Tony Plastic Surgery? You gotta admit it if you are. They can do wonders with plastic surgery these days.”

  “You’re still on this?”

  “So it was you at my hotel door?”

  “Are you stoned?” Roy asked.

  “Not at the moment.” He winked. “But I have some joints. Seven years ago I scored four. Get it? Gettysburg Address joke.”

  “Funny.” Tom raised an eyebrow. “Do you really have joints?”

  “Oh, friends, my heart bursts with joy to see you again after so much time.” Abe threw open his arms again and hugged the men. “Tom, did you get the wedding gift I sent?”

  “The used Mr. Coffee from 1983 that smelled like meth?”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Vintage coffee makers are the easiest way to make meth.”

  “It was very kind of you.” Joan had immediately thrown it out when it arrived. “We think of you every time we brew a pot of amphetamines.”

  Abe held Tom at arm’s length. “You know, I never received a thank you note.”

  “It was probably lost in the mail. You tend to move around a lot.”

  “One step ahead of the hangman, my friend.” He turned to Roy. “Roy, were you Black the last time we met?”

  “Naw. Been taking Afro pills. My fadeaway jump shot has improved by forty percent.”

  “It’s a good look on you. Did you know the hotel has a free buffet?” He smiled and clapped Roy on the shoulder. “Free is wonderful, isn’t it?”

  “You use that joke every time we see each other, Abe.”

  “But it’s such a good one, because I’m Lincoln. Also, I don’t have any other African American friends.”

  “What a shock,” Roy deadpanned. “Makes me want to buy you theater tickets.”

  Abe laughed, heartily, and actually slapped his thigh. “You use that joke every time we see each other. It’s truly magnificent to see you, and I’m pleased you aren’t the Tony Mafia, here to hurt or kill me.”

  “How much do you owe them, Abe?”

  Abe’s eyes narrowed. “I made a few bad bets. Nickel and dime stuff. I’ll make the money back. I just need to find gainful employment.”

  “How much?”

  “Five.”

  “Five grand?”

  “Hundred. It’s five hundred K.”

  Tom whistled. “That’s more than just a few bad bets.”

  “Everyone knows addiction is a disease. Gambling losses should be covered by Medicare.”

  “You should write to your representatives in Congress,” Tom suggested.

  “How do you expect to pay back that kind of money?”

  “I heard Starbucks pays pretty well.”

  “You’ll need to work at Starbucks for forty years to make that.”

  “Does that count tips?”

  “You’re an idiot,” Roy told him.

  “So you gentlemen were telling the truth, about flying out of here and looking for other clones?”

  Tom nodded. “We need to leave immediately. How fast can you pack?”

  “I’m ready right now. I’ve never been much for earthly possessions.”

  “Like socks?” Roy glanced at Abe’s bare ankles.

  “Socks and underwear are unnecessary barriers between our God-given bodies and our outer garments, unnecessarily binding us and restricting our movement. Honest Abe likes his junk hanging loose and swinging, so the sweat can dribble off.”

  Roy made a face. “There’s an image I can’t unsee.”

  Abe winked. “You think this beard is impressive, you should see my man bush.”

  “Pass,” Roy said.

  “Does it wear a tiny top hat?” Tom asked.

  “It does not. But I like how you think. Is the transportation ready to go?”

  “Plane is waiting.”

  “Then let us be off,” Abe announced. “I may need to borrow a few dollars for various sundries and essentials, but I’m otherwise ready to roll. Do either of you fellows have six hundred bucks?”

  They all began to walk toward the elevator, and the door opened.

  The four goons in the matching shirts.

  “The Tony Mafia!” Abe squealed, immediately announcing his presence.

  The quartet looked their way, and all four of them reached into their jackets—

  —placing their hands on their shoulder holsters.

  “And they brought 3D printed guns that they used to get through the metal detectors!” Abe declared.

  Tom grabbed Abe’s shoulder and tugged him to the left, breaking into a run. “You knew they had 3D printed guns?”

  “I knew Tony 3D Printer was working on them, but I didn’t think he’d solved the firing pin problem. Unless you can print plastic stronger than steel. Maybe Tony Plastic helped him.”

  “Then why the hell did you meet us at the top of a tower with only one exit?”

  “I love the view. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

  Tom pushed back his homicidal urges and pushed forward through a long line for one of the thrill rides, tourists shooting angry glances as they were shoved aside.

  Where are we supposed to go? The skydeck is round. If we do a lap, we’ll wind up back at the elevators. It’s the literal definition of running in circles.

  We’re screwed.

  FABLER

  Oklahoma Panhandle

  Halfway through the ten hour drive, Fabler pulled into a gas station and told Grim to fill the tank, allowing him to be alone in the Jeep with Presley.

  Presley was a former soldier, a decent hacker, and she maintained a high level of competence and efficiency. Her only flaw was that she married Fabler’s jackass brother-in-law.

  Which might not be a flaw. Just a tiny lapse in judgement.

  He waited until Grim started the pump and went inside the store to buy snacks, and then Fabler stared into the rearview mirror at the back seat, catching Presley’s eyes.

  “I’ve got a quick question that I didn’t want to ask in front of Grim.”

  Presley didn’t respond, which Fabler respected.

  I prefer people who only speak when absolutely necessary. The world needs more of that.

  “I’m having some minor coordination issues.”

  Presley remained impassive. “How minor?”

  “I used to juggle pretty well. Now I’m having trouble.”

  “Can you fight? Shoot?”

  She cuts right to the point. “I think so.”

  “You should have told us this before we left Kansas.”

  “I know.”

  “What are you asking? For me to hold your hand in the field?”

  “I’m asking you about Grim. Is he… okay?”

  “You mean is he also having coordination problems?”

  Fabler nodded.

  “You think it had something to do with looking for Lori.”

  “Some strange things happened.”

  “I know. I’m sharing a home with a giant, prehistoric ground sloth. We had to buy a snow shovel to clean up the yard. Our compost pile is as tall as the roof.”

  “Did Grim tell you everything?”

  “Does anyone ever tell anyone everything?”

  Good point.

  “Grim’s fine. No problems. How are things at home?”

  “They’re good.”

  “You sleeping?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  Presley studied Fabler’s eyes. “Are you avoiding sleep?”

  I hadn’t considered that might be a cause.

  “Yeah.”

  “You have to sleep. Or else it fubars your mind.”

  “When I sleep I have nightmares.” Fabler felt weak admitting it.

  “Are you… taking anything for it?”

  “Yeah.” But not in the way she assumes.

  “You tired now?”

  “A little.”

  “How about I drive for a while, you take a nap, see how you feel after some sleep?”

  She’s not asking. She’s telling.

  I made the cardinal mistake of leadership. I let my team know I’m vulnerable.

  He nodded again, then got out of the car. Presley also extricated herself, and as he stepped aside to let her pass, she pivoted and threw a left jab at his side.

  Slow enough for him to see the motion, to predict where it would land. But when he raised his arm to block, he missed.

  Presley only tapped him, but she might as well have broken ten ribs.

  “Minor coordination problems?” Presley frowned. “If I did that a week ago, I wouldn’t have touched you. I’d be pinned to the Jeep in a chokehold.”

  Fabler tried to play it off. “It’s probably sleep deprivation.”

  “We’re a team, Fabler. We need to cover each other’s backs. If I think you’re putting me or Grim in danger, I’ll grab him and go home.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

  Grim bounced out of the gas station, carrying three bottles of water and a large bag of chips. He raised an eyebrow. “Did I miss something?”

  “Did he miss anything?” Presley asked Fabler.

  “I’m having some issues with my reflexes,” Fabler told his best friend.

  “What kind of issues? Like you can’t shoot an acorn off my shoulder on a fast draw anymore?”

  “You guys actually did something that stupid?” Presley asked.

  Grim waved it off. “Don’t act all high and mighty. We were young. And drunk.”

  “That makes it better?”

  Grim squinted at him. “Fabler? What kinds of issues?”

  “Some hand/eye problems.”

  Without warning, Grim tossed a bottle of water at Fabler—

  —who reached out and caught it.

  Whew. Maybe it’s not as bad as I—

  The next bottle of water bounced off of Fabler’s chest, then hit the cement.

  “That’s a joke, right? Fabler? You’re kidding. Right?”

  Fabler didn’t answer.

  Grim looked at Presley. “He’s kidding, isn’t he? He could have caught that. A kid could have caught that.”

  Fabler reached down, snatched up the bottle, and climbed into the back seat.

  A kid could have caught that.

  Christ. What kind of bad situation am I leading my friends into?

  Presley pulled out of the gas station and back onto the highway.

  Fabler closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

  Sleep didn’t come.

  WEEJY

  Area 57 – New Mexico

  Weejy unlocked her handcuffs and shoved them into her back pocket with the keys.

  I have two choices.

  Go back for SoJo and Charles and try to break them out of the cell.

  Or escape and bring help.

  Weejy ached to get the hell out of there, an urge that was stronger than any she’d ever had.

  But I wouldn’t want SoJo to leave me behind.

  I can’t leave without her.

  Terrified as I am, I’m going to save my friend.

  Weejy tried to retrace her removal from the cell, tried to recall every step, every push, every stumble, every missing light bulb, weaving through the dimly-lit, industrial corridors. It was a maze of straight hallways and concrete floors and plaster walls and wooden doors with occasional metal doors and big overhead ductwork and vents and bare, hanging bulbs, reminding her of an indoor storage facility that had fallen into disrepair and hadn’t been cleaned in a decade. She slowed to a walk to better count her footfalls, came to a split in the hallway, and hesitated.

  Left or right?

  My donor, Sacagawea, guided the Lewis and Clark Expedition across eight thousand miles, from St. Louis to the Pacific ocean and back, and I can’t even remember forty steps.

  Noise, from behind, coming closer.

  Tork, grunting and huffing. He’s running after me.

  Getting close.

  Left. I need to go left.

  Weejy went left, trusting her instinct, her muscle memory, her DNA, and continued to follow her gut through the next two turns. Best as she could tell, the underground facility had been designed like a grid, each long hallway with doors on each wall and on either end. Some doors led to rooms. Others, to more hallways.

  But she recalled the pattern in the overhead lights, some on and some dim.

  I think I can do this.

  Please let this be right. Please oh please oh—

  She sighted the familiar steel door, too scared to feel relieved that she’d found it. Upon opening she saw SoJo and Charles, thankfully not having sex, sitting on the floor of the cell.

  SoJo sprang to her feet. “Weej! My girl! You’re packing! Tell me you also got the key!”

  Weejy held it up like a first prize trophy.

  Ten seconds later the trio was heading back down the hall. Weejy took a different route, hoping to navigate them to the elevator they’d arrived in, praying her sense of direction was true.

  “You pop Ziggy and the fat guy?” SoJo asked as they ran.

  “Bullets are wax.”

  “Shit. That fat son of a bitch scares the hell out of me. I never want to see that piece of—”

  Tork abruptly appeared around the corner, spreading out his massive arms and filling the hallway, his face a bloody mask of rage.

  Weejy skidded to a panicked halt and raised the gun.

  Eyes. Hit him in the eyes.

  She aimed fast and fired once—

  —too high, the shot going over Tork’s head.

  The slide on the gun stayed open.

  Out of bullets.

  Tork advanced, stomping toward them, growling.

  I’ve never heard a person actually growl before.

  It’s freaking terrifying.

  “You work out all the time,” Weejy told SoJo as the three of them backpedaled. “You’re strong.”

  “Damn right. I didn’t buy these muscles at Walmart. I can bench 150, squat 300. You want me to deadlift this guy? How will that help?”

  “How are you in a fight?”

  “I can hold my own against some bigmouth checkout-line Karen. Tork, no way.”