COMET: Domestic mission. Monday, 12 July. Denver. Details per SOP.
I'd been tapped for another Checkmate mission!
Must be doing something right, dude! I smiled, relishing a tingle of anticipation, the rush of danger cloaked in secrecy.
About a year and a half ago, shortly after joining Cardiac Response's pacemaker division, I'd been approached by one of the company's vice presidents, while in Minneapolis-St. Paul for yet another round of training. He and a tall, silver-haired gent informed me that I was being "recalled to active duty."
As a graduate of the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, I was a "regular officer," and could be recalled at any time. You go to an American academy, you're on the hook forever.
Stunned, I had visions of being back in Army green, jammed into a dust-choked Abrams M1A2 tank. I could almost smell the jet fuel and sweaty GIs, while trying to decipher battle-net radio traffic over the screaming turbine engine.
Minutes later, after we'd all had a good laugh over that misfire, I was briefed into a mission so bizarre and brazen that even my fiction-writer father couldn't have imagined it. I wouldn't be back in olive drab, either. In fact, I'd keep doing exactly what I was already doing: selling pacemakers. Except I'd have this on-the-side extra duty. Evidently, I had "special skills" that were in high demand. I was trained to use a variety of weapons, and I spoke fluent Spanish, which was my major at the Point.
I deleted Checkmate's text message from the BlackBerry and fired up my Cardiac Response-provided laptop computer. Again I entered a complex, memorized code to access a special section of the hard disk that stored segregated software developed by the nation's chief communications spooks, the National Security Agency.
Scanning details of the mission, I couldn't suppress a broad grin: Fly to Denver on Monday, 12 July. Meet COBALT, who would brief me about the specifics. COBALT also was a medical sales rep, but specialized in radioactive tracers. As a result, he was Checkmate's go-to nuclear expert. For some reason, both his nuke expertise and my skill set were required for this next target.
With luck, I should be back in Vegas Monday night, snuggled up with Kat. Quick out and back, and, if I did my job right, a lot of Americans would sleep better.
I acknowledged, signed out, closed the computer, and stared out the window over my desk, wrestling with a dilemma that had bugged me for more than a week. Should I tell Kat about my other life? I hated the idea of keeping something from her, and my infrequent, pop-up "business trips" could spark unwarranted suspicions.
On the other hand, knowing what I did on the side almost certainly would put her in danger. Still, keeping secrets could destroy a relationship, and I definitely didn't want to go there.
I'll tell her a tiny bit tonight, I concluded, just as the lovely lady walked in, yawning.
"Hey," Kat said. "Why're you up so early?" Her voice had that extra-deep, smoky tone characteristic of one who'd just awakened—and who had talked too long the night before. Wearing nothing but a short, satin nightgown, she turned and sat on my lap, then planted a long, sensuous "Good Morning" on my lips.
"Just getting some work out of the way," I answered. I wrapped my arms around that tiny waist and hugged her closer. "Sleep well?"
"Ummmhuh," she murmured, raking her fingers through my sleep-tousled hair. "You need a haircut!"
I laughed. "Next week. Promise."
She caressed my cheek with the back of a soft hand. "Don't shave, though. I like my red-haired Viking rough and tough."
I smiled, losing myself in those dark eyes. I loved this woman. Fourteen years my junior, she was prime-time lovely. Secretly, I hoped I was man enough to keep her happy for the rest of our lives.
She jumped up and headed for the bedroom, dragging me with her.
"C'mon. Get your butt in the shower. We have a full day scheduled, remember?"
I groaned. "Shopping for household crap. Yeah, yeah," I groused. "Why don't we go shooting, instead? We talked about… "
"Hey, hey!" she interrupted, spinning and grabbing me around the neck, pulling her lithe body against mine. "We agreed to go shooting tomorrow, remember? My brother and his wife are coming over for dinner tonight, and you don't have two decent pots and pans to your name. We… are… going… shopping. Got it?"
She spun away, slipped through the toilet room door and slammed it. I caught a glimpse of an impish head-cocked smile. No arguing with that girl.
Damn! Somehow, I felt married again.
I sat on the bed and removed my fighter-pilot-sized 44mm Panerai Luminor GMT wristwatch. I enjoyed watches and had more of the expensive things than made sense. They were one of the few holdovers from those heady, lotsa-money years I'd enjoyed for a spell. I felt a familiar gut-tightening, as the memory of far too many worrisome days and nights flashed by.
Things were getting much better, though. Kat moving in was one more indicator that dark, lonely hours and financial nightmares were history. I placed the Panerai on the nightstand, then absently picked up a tiny pistol and palmed it. Too small for my meaty fist. I'd bought the diminutive .380 caliber Ruger LCP two weeks ago as a belated Mother's Day gift for Mom, but hadn't had a chance to get it to her.
I'll disassemble and ship it next week.
Or… maybe not. Kat had taken a liking to the small, easily concealed weapon, when she'd fired it at the Clark County shooting park a few days earlier.
Maybe I'll give it to her and find something else for Mom.
I had no inkling that tiny pistol in my palm would never rest in Kat's or Mom's purse.
Or that I had less than three hours to live.
CHAPTER 2
MUNDANE to MILESTONE
"You're either a cop or little people."
Harry Bryant
Blade Runner
* *
A man's life is marked by a smattering of significant milestones. Some, such as graduations, a wedding day or the birth of a child, are golden moments that take one's breath away and are tucked away as cherished, pleasant memories. Others are life-changing, shocking events that arise solely by chance, mere rolls of celestial dice or spins of an esoteric wheel. The latter tend to be far more profound than planned, anticipated occasions, altering futures by unleashing powerful forces that drag us into endless nightmares. Or to certain death.
For a small cadre of Las Vegas police officers and its innocent victim, that cursed journey began on a scorching Saturday in July.
LAS VEGAS/SUNCOAST CASINO
Officer Olek Krupa mopped up a pool of thick maple syrup, shoved the last bite of pancakes into his mouth, and pushed the plate away. He scanned the Suncoast employee's dining area, chewing rapidly. The usual mix of day shift casino workers. White-shirted dealers, a rotund security guard, and long-legged cocktail waitresses in skimpy skirts, fishnet stockings and spike heels.
Krupa made eye contact with a young Hispanic busing dishes nearby. The kid's expression registered momentary panic. Eyes downcast, the twenty-something busboy hefted a plastic tub of dirty plates and hustled off to the kitchen.
Damned illegal, Krupa smirked.
They were all over Las Vegas, low-paid, Spanish-speaking shadows who worked brutally long days and nights. They literally kept the large hotels, resorts and casinos humming efficiently. Exploited, pliable slaves from Mexico, Central America and who-knows-where else, they rarely caused trouble. That is, until they climbed the economic food chain and joined one of the many gangs spreading rapidly across the Vegas valley. Krupa smiled. Those Mexican gangbangers made great targets for Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department's finest.
Normally, uniformed police officers ignored illegal immigrants, the serfs who lived and worked in the seams and fault lines of Las Vegas, unseen coffee-skin ghosts just beyond the city's flashing neon and glitter. But now and then, Krupa and his brown-shirt colleagues would kick a little Hispanic tail. Rough 'em up a mite, just so the little devils knew their place and didn't get too "uppity," as Grandma Krupa would say.
Another cop-hating broad, Krupa concluded.
There was no shortage of her kind in Clark County, girls who'd been stopped on a back street late at night, questioned at length, maybe frisked… or worse. The smart ones knew better than to complain to Metro headquarters. The not-so-smart tattletales soon learned how things worked in Las Vegas and shut their traps. Or disappeared.
Krupa slid into a stifling hot, black-and-white cruiser, keyed a microphone clipped to his starched tan shirt, and reported to dispatch. Back on duty. He weaved slowly through the Suncoast parking lot, searching for anything out of the ordinary and aimlessly reflecting on the lifestyle he now enjoyed. About time, too. The Army hadn't worked out well, and gigs as prison and casino security guards had hardly challenged his talents and capabilities.
He loved being a street cop, and this was his kind of town. Unlike the chicken-shit, politically correct state prison system he'd worked for in Pennsylvania, Las Vegas Metro appreciated self-directed patrol officers. And Olek Krupa, by God, was definitely a get-it-done cop that didn't need a lot of mother hen oversight.
The only hiccup, at the moment, was his wife. She hated Vegas and was always gritchin' about wanting to move back East. Amy Krupa despised the dry heat and baked, yucca-dotted sand of the western desert, and pined for the east coast's profuse flower gardens, broadleaf trees and lush Kentucky bluegrass. Leaving Vegas was all she yapped about, and Officer Krupa was sick of her nagging.
She'd started blubbering about it again this morning, so he'd backhanded her across the chops. That would shut her up for a few days. Usually did. Krupa felt a twinge of regret for splitting her lip, but the damn woman was seriously getting on his nerves. She just didn't get it. This was where he belonged!
At forty years old, Krupa couldn't count on being hired by another police force or risk applying for a federal law enforcement slot, thanks to an unflattering record that certainly would raise too many questions. And he was anything but a steroid-bulked intimidator, the type of officer most departments preferred these days. Slight of build, narrow-shouldered and sporting a prominent middle-age pot gut, the five-foot-five cop simply did not command respect, even when wearing a thick bulletproof Kevlar vest.
But Krupa had other skills, plus a willingness to ignore the finer points of law, characteristics that Sheriff Uriah and his senior staff — assistant sheriffs and deputy chiefs collectively referred to as "The Tower" — clearly valued.
Besides, few metropolitan departments paid their patrol officers as well as Clark County did. And none could offer the unique side benefits available here. He'd found a home with Las Vegas Metro, and Amy could damn well accept it.
Then came the radio call that, ultimately, would mark the instant Krupa's life started a downhill slide, the first minute of his final days on Earth. Adrenaline surging, he responded to the dispatcher, switched on his cruiser's lights and siren, stomped the accelerator, and slid onto Alta Drive, tires squealing.
Show time!
* *
Two miles to the northwest, Officer Kale Akaka downed his third "GO!" power drink of the morning and tossed the tiny can into a trash barrel. He was dragging tail, after being up most of the night. The tall, broad-chested Hawaiian desperately needed rack time, but still had seven hours of an unexpected Saturday shift to complete. Some wuss had called in sick, prompting a West Substation sergeant to roust Akaka from bed at 0500.
Yeah, it was Saturday and supposed to be his first day off in two weeks, but rookies always got the weekend extra-duty call. Whatever. He'd be drawing time-and-half overtime.
Not that overtime pay really mattered. His financial situation had taken a positive turn of late, thanks to a stroke of unprecedented luck and opportunity. A veteran Metro detective had taken a liking to the Hawaiian rookie, after the two had worked a major drug bust together. Akaka had seen the detective pocket a small bag of prescription pills seized in the raid, but had said nothing. The detective was impressed by the rookie's discretion and "good judgment." The next day, he asked Akaka to "take a ride," after his shift ended.
Since then, the two men had confiscated and sold one hell of a lot of "product" - on the order of 600,000 powerful opioid analgesic pills. Demand for the pain medication was off the charts in Southern California, prompting the partners to adopt extraordinary measures.
Last night, Akaka had pulled a first — breaking into a CVS pharmacy on Charleston and cleaning out the store's supply of oxycodone and hydrocodone. For a street-savvy cop, it was remarkably easy to disable the CVS security system. The grab-and-go was executed in minutes, again impressing his detective partner. One more "take" like that, and Akaka would pay cash for that red, half-ton pickup truck he'd been coveting. Life was good and getting better by the day… or night.
He yawned, hoping the GO! drink's caffeine buzz would kick in soon.
Maybe today will be slow. He could hope, right?
Then the cruiser's radio came alive, erasing that unlikely dream of a no-event shift.
Although the big Hawaiian had no way of knowing, the final grains of sand in his hourglass-of-life started flowing, when he answered a dispatcher's call for "All units in the area… "
* *
Another Metro rookie was not having a stimulating morning. Officer Loring Malovic was in a cramped bathroom, monitoring a 72-year-old naked man sitting on the toilet. The gent was griping about something, but Malovic paid no attention. He was disgusted and embarrassed — and the room had begun to stink like a campground outhouse.
I signed up for this? the cop grimaced, trying to avoid watching the old guy strain.
Suddenly, the thunder mug resonated with gusto. The white-haired dude grinned, his face exploding into a web of deep-tanned wrinkles.
"You gettin' a charge out of this, son?" the senior citizen asked. "Real police work, huh?"
He laughed heartily, causing flaccid pectoral muscles to flutter. Malovic almost puked, as both nostrils and sensibilities were assaulted.
"Sir, finish your business and get some clothes on. You're going downtown."
"Like hell I am, kid! I'm goin' nowhere! Not 'til I finish takin' a crap, then I'm takin' a shower. You can park your young arse outside, or stay put and get an eye-full. I'm gonna steam up this place, and your cute little shirt creases are gonna wilt."
"Sir," Malovic tried again, "My orders are to keep you under surveillance. The sergeant explained… "
"Yeah, yeah," the old guy interrupted, waving a pale-pink palm. "You dumbarses are worried I'll hang myself in the shower or somethin', right? Well, I'm not gonna give that chicken-livered district attorney the satisfaction of goin' belly up. No siree." He grimaced, straining again.
Malovic felt a tad sorry for the guy. He didn't seem like a bad sort. In fact, the old dude hardly fit the profile of "mentally deranged," as the DA's decree claimed. Why the Clark County district attorney had deemed it necessary to send three Metro officers out here - on a Saturday morning, no less - to haul this poor man downtown for a "mandatory mental evaluation" made zero sense.
"Sir, it's none of my business, but why would the DA order a no-notice mental eval?" Malovic asked, shifting to a far corner of the cramped bathroom. A dark-brown stench was about to gag the officer.
The guy shook his head in anger. "'Cause he's a dumb dipstick. That damned fool DA wants to punish me by taking away my concealed-carry permit. And his justification? Because I reported my neighbors blowing off illegal fireworks last Sunday.
"'Course, that's 'bout the tenth time I reported the damned fools. They're running an illegal, unlicensed business
out of their home, and there's gotta be at least three families living over there! They're foreigners from some damned God-awful-a-stan, and must have donated lotsa bucks to that chicken DA's election campaign. Nobody in Clark County official-dumb will do a blasted thing about the stuff I reported!"
He erupted into a coughing fit.
Malovic knelt, worried. The gent waved him away, gasping for air. "I'm alright, son. Not gonna croak on ya, okay? Now, if you'd be so kind as to turn around, I'm gonna finish up here."
Malovic turned away, again wondering what had possessed him to become a Las Vegas police officer. A couple of side glances confirmed his fears. The old bugger was climbing into a glass-doored shower.
"Hey, kid!" he shouted. "Did that dumbarse DA tell ya anything about the dangerous old geezer you were sent out here to detain and haul downtown?"
"No, sir. Just what the sergeant said: We were ordered to take a Mr. Donaldson downtown for a mandatory mental evaluation. If you possess a concealed-carry weapons permit, and you've allegedly displayed unusual, erratic behavior, that's lawful reason to detain and require you to undergo a mental evaluation."
Even to Malovic, the DA's order sounded like a crock of dog-doo.
The old man's deep-throated chuckle emerged from the hiss of water. Fortunately, the glass door had steamed up, concealing the guy's white skin and sagging features.
"So, Mr. Woody-the-Dumbarse Ryns, our esteemed chicken-liver district attorney, never mentioned that I was a decorated former cop? Or that I'd retired 'with distinction' from the Minneapolis-St. Paul force after twenty-two years of professional service?"
"No, sir. No mention of that."
"Musta been an oversight."
Malovic felt even more stupid. A retired cop! What the… ?
He waited, but there was no follow-up. Smothering steam was engulfing the room, humidity and heat overpowering the air conditioning. The rookie was about to throw the bathroom door open, when the sound of spraying water abruptly ceased. Donaldson stepped out, displaying more than Malovic needed to see.
The Permit Page 2