THE PERMIT
by
William B. Scott
.
Smashwords Edition
Published By William B. Scott on Smashwords
Copyright 2012 by William B. Scott (Second Edition – July 2014)
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which has been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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The Permit was inspired by the actual event of my son, Erik Scott, being killed in Las Vegas, Nevada, on July 10, 2010 (www.erikbscott.com). Although certain elements are true, this is strictly a work of fiction, a product of my imagination, and all characters bear no relationship to actual persons, living or dead. However, a number of technologies and weapon systems depicted herein do exist.
William B. Scott
July 2014
Table of Contents
PREFACE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
EPILOGUE
PREFACE
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
"Police! Open up!"
"Lashawn!" a woman shouted. "Cops are at the door!"
The woman was inside, near the modest stucco home's front entrance, a sergeant noted.
An unintelligible response, a man's voice, was farther away.
"Go! Break it down!" the team leader ordered, stepping aside.
Two officers in tan uniforms swung a steel battering ram underhanded, smashing the lock and doorknob. Another delivered a vicious kick, and the flimsy wooden door exploded. Two officers leaped inside, semiautomatic pistols extended in two-handed grips. One moved left, the other right, sweeping a dimly lit, air-conditioned room.
A large-screen television faced an L-shaped sofa, where a wide-eyed black woman stood, clutching a blanket-wrapped bundle.
"On the floor! Now!" a cop yelled.
His pistol's red laser dot danced on the woman's throat. Screaming for mercy, she dropped to her knees, clutching the parcel to her breast. A chocolate-colored head appeared above the blanket.
Detective Brad Oswald ignored the cries of fear, quickstepping through the living room, an AR-15 assault rifle shouldered and at the ready, scanning a narrow zone ahead of him. Oswald's right index finger was crooked around the weapon's trigger.
Eyes and rifle barrel swinging side-to-side, Oswald pressed deeper into the house, senses hyperalert. A hint of baby powder emanated from an open room. Task-focused, he ignored the woman's terrified pleas and fellow officers' shouted commands behind him. The rifle's front sight centered on a closed bathroom door at the end of the hall. The officer heard an unmistakable whooshing sound—a toilet flushing.
Destroying evidence!
Oswald slammed a boot against the door, demolishing its latch and jamb in a shower of splinters. The cramped bathroom's only illumination was a glowing night-light. It was enough. The cop's rifle settled on a thin, black man facing the toilet, pulling up baggy, long-legged shorts. As the whites of large eyes set in smooth, coffee-colored skin snapped toward the officer, Oswald's vision shrunk to a red dot centered on Lashawn Miles' forehead.
Time distorted to slow-motion, fractions of a second seeming to stretch into minutes. Miles raised both hands, palms out, his mouth gaped in a large oval, exposing perfect teeth. All at snail’s-pace, cold-molasses speed.
Oswald squeezed the trigger and felt the AR-15 buck, recoiling against his right shoulder. He was temporarily blinded by the muzzle flash but pulled the barrel down, sights aligned on the figure's torso, ready to fire again.
Three feet from the rifle's front sight, the handsome black man's head burst. Blood and gray matter sprayed the wall behind him. The slight, diminutive figure rose, arms flying, then collapsed in a corner, head cocked at an unnatural angle. His eyes were open — a disbelieving, lifeless stare. Incongruous odors of hot cordite laced with air freshener hung in the tiny enclosure.
"Clear! One down!" Oswald yelled over his shoulder.
He was vaguely aware of the woman howling hysterically. Something about her baby. Holding the rifle by its segmented Blackhawk Quad Rail, barrel pointed at the bathroom's low ceiling, Oswald ripped open a Velcro-flapped cargo pocket on his outer thigh. His right hand slipped inside and closed around a compact, .380 caliber Auto Kel Tec P-3AT pistol.
"What the hell have you done, Oswald?"
The team leader, a tall Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department sergeant, was looking over the shooter's left shoulder. He pushed the junior officer's rifle aside and squeezed through the doorway.
"Aw, shit!"
Oswald hesitated, panic rising. He gripped the Keltec, but dared not remove it. The handgun was supposed to be on the floor, proof that Miles had threatened the cop, necessitating use of deadly force. Putting it there was no longer a viable option.
"The guy pointed a gun at me, sarge," Oswald said. "It was dark… ."
The sergeant's eyes flicked around the room, then to the AR-15 in Oswald's hand.
"Wasn't your tac-light on?"
A black SureFire 6PX Tactical LED flashlight mounted on the AR-15's Blackhawk accessory rail was dark.
"Doesn't work," Oswald lied. "It did, during pre-mission checks. Batteries must have died."
It sounded weak, even to him. Excited, he'd simply neglected to turn it on. The sergeant didn't buy it, either, but pointedly changed the subject.
"Well, the only damned weapon in here is yours. And forget about 'Plan-A' in your pocket, detective."
The sergeant stared hard into Oswald's black eyes. "No throwdowns on my watch. Copy?"
Oswald swallowed, nodding.
"Get outta here. You totally screwed the pooch, kid. Just like your last stupid-assed shooting. Good God a'mighty… ."
The sergeant swung a leg around the toil
et and knelt beside the late Lashawn Miles, a five-foot-five, slender African-American man of about thirty-five years.
Outside, Detective Brad Oswald stood apart from a cluster of Metro police officers, well away from the Miles home. Pulling a cell phone from his uniform-shirt pocket, he punched a speed-dial number.
"Go!" a sharp voice ordered. No identification, per standard operating procedure.
"Raven Two-Five, sir," Oswald said, turning his back to the other cops. Speaking clearly was difficult. His mouth was extremely dry, as if filled with desert dust.
"How'd it go?"
"Target was successfully engaged and neutralized, sir."
A long pause left Oswald holding his breath.
"I see. You're absolutely sure he's… ."
"Confirmed fatal. Medical's on-scene now, sir. EMTs have verified there are no signs of life."
"Good job, Two-Five. Anything else?"
Oswald licked his dry lips. "Uhh… yeah. I thought Miles pulled a gun, but… uhh… . Sarge didn't find a weapon. He was right there, after I fired… ."
"Damn! No weapon found at the crime scene?"
"No, sir. No time. No opp to… uhh… "
"Got the picture," the voice interrupted. "That complicates the situation, but I'll handle it. Stick to your story: It was dark, you thought Miles pointed a gun at you, and you fired. No choice."
"Will that play for a coroner's inquest jury, sir?"
Oswald was on the verge of panic. He had to take a leak, and his hands were trembling.
The voice chuckled. "Of course! Don't sweat that. The inquest is a slam dunk. You've been through it before, and know damn well we take care of our own."
Oswald ran a hand through short-cropped dark hair. It came away wet.
"Uhh… copy, sir, but still… ."
"Don't sweat it, Two-Five! Got it covered! You'll have at least two months of paid administrative leave, before the inquest hearing. Go home and get your head on straight. But keep that phone handy, understand? May need you again."
The connection dropped, leaving Oswald feeling very alone and hardly reassured.
Acute uneasiness was warranted. Although Oswald had no way of knowing, killing Miles with a single head-shot was a bloody signature on the cop's own death warrant. Pulling that AR-15 trigger had activated a cosmic countdown clock. Las Vegas Metro Detective Brad Oswald, a two-time killer, had only months to live.
CHAPTER 1
MISSIONS and PLANS
"Love is a kind of warfare."
Ovid
(Ancient Roman classical poet)
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
The last day of my life dawned like most mid-July Saturdays in Las Vegas: Bright sunshine, no clouds and the guarantee of hundred-plus-degree temperatures by 10 a.m.
My condo bordered a Summerlin golf course, and one of the few downsides of that enviable location was a guaranteed early wake-up. When the summer Sun topped scorched, treeless mountains east of the Vegas valley, its searing beams immediately struck my master-bedroom's window. No alarm clock could wake Erik Steele — that would be me — as surely as that blast of brilliant desert sunlight.
I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. Crap. We'd been up late the night before, and I really wanted to log a few more hours of Z-time. But years of West Point and active-duty Army conditioning had made it almost impossible to sleep in, once ol' Sol made an appearance.
I listened to the quiet, broken only by Katrina's soft, deep breathing. Lying on her stomach, left arm crooked beneath a pillow, her long, dark hair almost hid a model's stunning features.
God, you're beautiful, I breathed.
I marveled at her perfect shape. A thin sheet couldn't hide long, sculpted legs, a tiny waist and…
Okay, settle down, bro! The girl needs her beauty sleep.
Hands clasped beneath my head, I stared at the textured ceiling and took stock of the current situation. Life had improved dramatically, after Kat called out of the blue a couple of months earlier.
We'd met… What? Three, maybe four years ago? She'd been the office manager for one of many doctors I called upon as a cardiovascular sales rep for Cardiac Response Corporation. We'd always bantered a bit, as I waited to see her doc-employer. Because I was happily married, nothing progressed beyond friendly chitchat. I subsequently took a several year detour from medical sales into commercial real estate, and we'd lost contact.
I loved the real estate business, and it had treated me quite well. As sales manager for One Queensridge Place, I'd worked my tail off for several years, selling every luxury condominium in the twin high-rise towers. Those efforts were recognized in a local glitzy magazine's story that had dubbed me "The King of Queens."
Completing the One Queensridge Place project, exacerbated by the imploding Las Vegas economy in 2007 and 2008, brought my real estate career to an abrupt halt. I'd made a lot of money during the previous boom years, but I also screwed up by investing heavily in single-family rentals. And, like other "smart folks," I was leveraged to the hilt and lost my shirt, when Vegas real estate crashed.
Consequently, I updated my resume, made a few calls and was rehired by Cardiac Response, landing a sales position with their prestigious pacemaker unit. The eight-month initial education period, followed by months of field training, were brutal and demanding. I made the cut, though, and was on track to become a full-fledged sales representative by the end of this year. The compensation was good, but long hours and always being on call dictated drastic lifestyle changes from those heady, free-wheeling days of million-dollar real estate deals.
A messy, expensive divorce from a wife who had become accustomed to living well further strained my financial state. To drastically cut living expenses, I'd moved from a stunning twelfth-floor condo at One Queensridge Place to this much smaller golf-course condominium. I'd chosen to rent, until the red-ink economic decks were cleared and I was back on my feet.
Descending the lifestyle ladder, after years of hard work and enjoying the high life, was embarrassing. Consequently, I became a hermit. Studying every spare minute and being the on-call new guy for cardiac cases turned many days into exhausting twenty-four-hour marathons. I simply didn't have the motivation, time or money for a serious relationship.
Therefore, the past eighteen months had been hard, especially for an incurable optimist forced into super-busy days and dead tired, solo nights. Except for sporadic get-togethers with loyal friends, I'd been holed up in this man-cave for almost a year.
Somehow, Katrina had heard I was back on the singles market and sent me a "howdy" message via Facebook. I really didn't "get" Facebook, and rarely checked my page. Her message, fortunately, was relayed to my BlackBerry smartphone and I'd been bright enough to call her back. Following our first casual dinner, we'd seen each other almost every day for the past two months.
I'd told my dad, Winfield Steele, a week earlier that I thought Kat may be the one. At this stage of my life, I was tired of the singles scene and really wanted to settle down. Be a normal guy. Wife, kids, a nice home in suburbia. The whole family thing.
Kat and I had clicked immediately. Despite a hard core personal rule to never get serious, until I'd known a woman for a couple of years, we were already talking about getting married — and soon. Hell, at thirty-eight, I couldn't afford to delay the daddy-deal much longer!
My BlackBerry was buzzing. I twisted and tried to raise myself onto an elbow, when a sharp, excruciating pain in the lower back almost caused me to soil my Jockeys. Teeth clamped, I eased back to horizontal and waited for the wave of pain to diminish.
Time for a pill.
On the second try, I meticulously followed Doctor Z's strict procedure for moving from prone to sitting. I log-rolled onto the right side, placed my left palm on the bed and slowly pushed my torso erect, pivoting both legs off the bed.
Doc Z was a pain-management and rehabilitation specialist I'd been referred to last spring, and he had literally saved my life. Until he found the
right cocktail of powerful pain-killing medication, I'd been a basket case, able to work only a few hours at a time.
I'd take one of the low-dose tablets prescribed by my primary care physician, and it would ease the lower back pain for a few hours. When it wore off, I had to go horizontal, until the clock said I could take the next dose. I'd been miserable, ultra-worried that I couldn't keep up with the demands of a stressful, always-on-duty job.
Although I didn't know it at the time, I'd managed to break off forty percent of my L5 vertebra, during Army airborne training. I recalled my back hurting, after one of the five required parachute jumps at Fort Benning, but didn't pay much attention to it. Everybody in the class had some kind of injury, and wussing out wasn't an option. We all pressed on, received our jump wings and maroon beret, and went home, proudly wearing an "AIRBORNE" shoulder tab.
A Las Vegas specialist said the fracture hadn't bothered me much for all those intervening years, because the spine was well-aligned, and hundreds of hours in the gym had kept my back muscles exceptionally strong.
Then a woman herding a massive GM Suburban swerved to avoid debris in her lane, slammed into my two-bit company car, and literally ripped off the left-front wheel. The severe side impact wrenched my back, changing the spine's geometry and triggering what quickly became debilitating pain.
Thereafter, life changed dramatically — until I found Doctor Z, a superb pain-management specialist with an Eastern European name impossible to pronounce, who not only understood, but knew how to mitigate my back condition.
I ignored the buzzing BlackBerry and carefully shuffled into the bathroom. After downing one of Doctor Z's magic pain meds, I slipped on a pair of jeans, retrieved my smartphone, and eased from the bedroom, quietly closing the door. I padded into the kitchen and poured a glass of morning go-juice, a blended concoction of fresh blueberries and Living Fuel powder. Settling into a roll-around desk chair, I keyed in the BlackBerry's security code and clicked on a text message.
Alright!
Rather than the dreaded, Saturday morning call-to-duty of an emergency cardiac case, a cryptic message read:
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