59

The tunnel began vast, stretching about fifty feet across with towering ceilings. As they went deeper into the sewers, the space grew more constricted. The sound of flowing water echoed below, its vibrations humming under Lazarus’s shoes. The air was thick with the pungent mix of fecal matter and the unmistakable odor of rotting wildlife.

Riley said, “I called it in. We should wait.”

“And let Tactical handle it? Aren’t you Tactical? You’d just be back in here.”

“But with six other guys.”

“You sound like you don’t trust me.”

“It’s hard to trust someone that’s not scared of dying.”

Lazarus ran his flashlight over a dark corner and saw nothing there. “Don’t even know if he’s here. We should make sure before we call in your Cocaine Cowboys.”

Lazarus kept his pistol in the holster. People lived down here, and he wouldn’t put them at risk. They’d been through enough in life without getting accidentally shot by the police.

Riley said, “I hate the dark.”

“Just pretend it’s light.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Being afraid of the dark when you’re the size of a tank don’t make sense either.”

“I didn’t say I was afraid. I said I hate it.”

A set of stairs led farther down, and before long they were in a narrower tunnel. The rushing water was louder. He could see people lying on a sleeping bag. An older Asian woman with a man who wore a Las Vegas Raiders cap. Lazarus approached them. The woman was up and stared at him quietly.

“I’m looking for this man,” he said as he showed her the picture on his phone.

She shook her head.

“He’s got a camp here. You got a guess where it could be?”

She cast a brief look down the concrete tunnel to her right.

He nodded once and said, “You two need to go up. He’s dangerous.”

Lazarus watched as they gathered their things and left silently. He turned his flashlight to the corridor the woman had pointed to.

“Stay here,” Lazarus said to Riley.

“So you can catch one in the back? No.”

“If I don’t see him, as soon as I pass he’s gonna run, not shoot. I need you out here.”

“No, this is stupid.”

“You can only tell that in hindsight. This is just probably stupid.” He double-checked the magazine of his weapon. “If I’m not back in fifteen, you head up and wait for Tactical.”

Lazarus began walking deeper into the tunnel.

The corridor opened up and then narrowed again. It was an access tunnel to get farther down into the sewers. There was a pair of double doors with a padlock and a warning sign that there was high voltage behind the doors.

Farther down, the hallway split into two sections. He couldn’t hear his footsteps because of the rushing water, and it was only getting louder.

He swept the flashlight from left to right. Refuse gathered in corners. A tattered sleeping bag, empty bottles of booze and used syringes. An old magazine. He moved things aside with his foot and didn’t see anything else.

Lazarus walked a little farther on and then paused, straining to hear beyond the roar of water. Swiftly drawing his pistol and holding up the flashlight, he descended a set of metal stairs. They led to dim, concrete pathways flanking a river of human waste. The stench was overwhelming. Warm and putrid.

Lazarus looked at a faded red sign on the wall but couldn’t read it. He slowly moved to a corner and peeked around. The corridor kept going and split into different paths farther ahead, and then nothing but darkness. He checked his phone: no signal.

Lazarus thought that if there was a hell, this might be its back door.

The corridor stretched straight ahead, allowing him to move faster. The roar of rushing water drowned out all other sounds, leaving him navigating darkness without being able to hear anyone approaching.

The tunnel ended in solid metal grates, locked with thick chains. A sign read “City of Las Vegas Personnel Only.” Even a determined Owen Whittaker couldn’t squeeze through the narrow gaps. Lazarus, with no other option, followed a path marked by a faded toxicity warning.

The tunnels narrowed into tight passageways. As water sounds faded, his footsteps echoed on concrete. He emerged into a dimly lit space with tents, cots, and a fire burning in a trash bin, smoke escaping through grates to the city above. Lowering his gun, he observed a few people milling around their makeshift camp.

They didn’t acknowledge him, but one man paced farther away in the dark. Lazarus could see some stripes on his sneakers that reflected the firelight. Vegas had a massive homeless population living underground, and some of them were wanted men who had found a place the police didn’t go. They wouldn’t tolerate strangers.

He put his gun away and took out his wallet. He held up a couple twenties, all the cash he had left, in the beam of the flashlight.

“Forty bucks for whoever gives me thirty seconds of their time.”

Nobody moved, nobody said anything. As though he wasn’t even there.

A male voice from under some blankets said, “Turn off ya light.”

Lazarus approached the voice, spotting cropped hair beneath a blanket. Pulling it back, he revealed a man with scabs on his face, wincing in the light.

“Money first,” he said.

Lazarus placed the twenties next to the man. He quickly snatched them and pulled them under the blanket.

“What do ya want?”

Lazarus showed him the photo. “You seen him?”

He shook his head.

“You sure? You barely looked at the photo.”

“I ain’t seen him.”

Lazarus scanned the large space again. “There anywhere else folks sleep down here?”

“No. It’s closed off. You gotta go around and go into that side from the Boulevard.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

As he left, he saw the man pacing holding something now, but it was too dark to see what it was.

Lazarus walked faster down the corridor.