The Permit

by William B. Scott

  "It's okay," I assured. "I have a concealed-carry permit, and this is registered with Metro."

  With an elbow, I touched the .45-caliber pistol.

  "Doesn't matter. You can't have it in here," Joe insisted. "It's Ho's policy: No guns in the store."

  His eyes locked onto mine.

  "Look," I said, annoyed, "there are no signs anywhere, inside or outside, banning guns in the store."

  I always check for No Firearms signs, before entering any business establishment, hospital or government building, when I'm carrying.

  "I just filled out a Ho's membership application, and there's not a word in there about guns, either. I'm a former Army officer. When I was stationed in Texas, we carried sidearms into Ho's all the time. If it's okay in Texas, why isn't it in Nevada?"

  Yeah, it's true. Back when I was a tank platoon leader at Fort Hood, I did have a Ho's membership. Seemed like a good idea at the time, because I was living on a second lieutenant's salary, and "cheap" was high on my list.

  Joe scooped up the empty water bottle package.

  "I can't speak for Ho's in Texas, but that's the policy here. No guns in the store."

  Again, his dark eyes held mine. What the hell did he expect me to do?

  "Look, we're about done shopping. We'll be outta here in a few minutes."

  Kat reappeared, parking the shopping cart behind Joe. I stood and took the empty, opened box and cardboard packing offered by the Ho's manager. Changing the subject, I politely asked, "Sir, could I leave these bottles in the cooler and just give the empty boxes to the checkout cashier?"

  He glanced at me, gave Kat a long, appreciative once-over, and immediately became more accommodating. That happened a lot. The woman was unusually tall, had a model's elegant figure and was damned attractive.

  "Sure, no problem," Joe said with a smile. "Give the clerk that packaging, and open the cooler so she can see the bottles."

  "I need nine bottles, total," I said, regaining Joe's attention by pointing at the shelf behind him.

  He snatched two three-packs, handed them to Kat and departed. Maybe Kat had helped Joe sorta forget about my Kimber. I gave the shirttail a firm yank, ensuring the semiautomatic was concealed.

  * *

  Joe glanced over his shoulder. The redhead and his hot lady were ignoring him, as he strolled over to Hajji, the undercover security guard.

  "No problem," Joe said. "The guy's just fit-checking those bottles and cooler. I noticed that he's carrying a pistol, so I informed him about our no-guns policy. He said he had a concealed-carry permit and the gun's registered. They'll be leaving shortly."

  Joe winked at the guard. "And he's a former Army officer. Don't sweat it. The guy's not a nutcase."

  "A gun? No shit!" Taseer said, impressed. "And an Army dude! Like, a Green Beret or something?"

  Joe shrugged and flicked a palm.

  Hajji Taseer continued to monitor the redhead and his stunning lady friend. The guy was rearranging their piled-high shopping cart, making room for an empty cardboard-and-plastic box, balancing it atop a heap of other products.

  Wearing a tight T-shirt, the big dude was a magnificent physical specimen. Thin cotton material was stretched taut around huge biceps and across broad, chiseled chest muscles. Standing six feet tall, he was clearly a dedicated gym freak. He laughed, revealing a row of superwhite teeth, as he and the girl briefly approached Hajji, then turned into the next aisle. His weapon was well covered, but a lump under his T-shirt was noticeable.

  Hajji instantly hated the guy. In a flash, the Ho's undercover guard was acutely aware that the well-built red-head was everything Hajji Taseer would never be. No well-sculpted body, no tall, attractive girlfriend or wife, no high-dollar career. The twenty-nine-year-old felt a surge of irrational, all-consuming fury born of jealousy. A familiar hatred erupted within, inflaming every molecule of the guard's being.

  Outwardly, Hajji displayed none of that white-hot rage. Long ago, he'd mastered its control, keeping it stuffed inside, hidden in a dark, deep place, unseen and unsuspected. Soon, though, that would change. Hajji would be in a much better position to serve Allah by attacking such infidels openly. Soon, he would be a real police officer.

  Green Beret, huh?

  Hajji Taseer absolutely despised the American military, and Green Berets were the most despicable of all. Those commando types were heartless fiends, killing innocent men, women and children in Northeastern Afghanistan. His people!

  Hajji had been born in the United States, years after his parents fled Afghanistan to escape the Russian invaders, but that didn't matter. He felt a strong kinship to his tribe, the proud, tough people living in the remote Korengal Valley, a wild, beautiful land now occupied by brutal American invaders.

  He didn't know a soul in the Korengal region, but devoured every TV news report from that part of Afghanistan. He had become incensed that U.S. Army soldiers, particularly paratroopers, were despoiling his people's land and ruthlessly killing Taliban freedom fighters by the hundreds.

  And Green Berets were paratroopers, right?

  In the blip of a heartbeat, Taseer declared the buff redhead an enemy of his people. Therefore, Red was Hajji's enemy. Even if circumstances precluded joining Allah's mujahideen and Taliban fighters in-country, he, Hajji, could bring the war to one of the invaders. Right here in Las Vegas. Right now.

  You’re mine, infidel! Taseer said to himself, fighting to suppress anger that flushed his dark features.

  As an undercover security professional, Hajji was blessed with a small measure of absolute power, and he relished using it. No Ho's-Summerlin employee dared cross him, and Hajji made sure all feared him.

  The guard flipped open his cell phone, punched three numbers and hit Send.

  Let's see how you deal with my cop buds, you arrogant, gunslinging asshole! he thought. Allah ak-bahr!

  * *

  "Can you believe it?" I stage-whispered to Kat. "That manager dude said guns aren't allowed in the store! Supposedly Ho's policy. 'Course, they don't post any signs and don't bother telling their customers. Damned Commies! This is the last time I spend a dime in this pinko joint!"

  Kat rolled her eyes.

  "And you said… ?" she replied, reversing direction and pushing the shopping cart around the corner, into the next aisle.

  "I told him I had a permit, my weapon was registered, and that we'd be out of here in a few minutes. He liked you, so maybe I'm off his radar," I said, laughing.

  "Well, we're not going to be 'outta here in a few minutes,' because we have more to pick up. But we need another basket. Would you run up and get one?" Kat flashed a sweet "purty-please" smile. "I'll meet you down there, in the kitchen area."

  "No sweat."

  I hooked it for the giant warehouse's entrance, where all the oversized carts were parked, under Ho's high-roofed canopy. However, I spotted a stray off to one side, stutter-stepped, jinked to my right like a broken-field running back, and snagged it.

  My BlackBerry vibrated, as I spun the shopping cart around and headed toward the kitchen aisle. I poked along, reading a new text message. Head down, I was thumb-typing an answer, when the cart halted abruptly. Kat was facing me, both hands on the cart's leading edge.

  "Erik! They're evacuating the store."

  I glanced left and right. Sure enough, people were streaming past us, in the opposite direction, toward Ho's garage-like, roll-up entrance and exit doors.

  "How come?" I asked.

  Kat shrugged.

  "Suppose it's because of me?" I asked, a twinge of concern flashing across my brain. In retrospect, it was a premonition.

  Kat smirked. "Probably! Who knows? Some lady came around and said we had to evacuate, but wouldn't say what was going on. Maybe there's a fire in the back… ."

  Shoulder to shoulder, we walked calmly to the store's exit door, where the crowd slowed to a shuffle. I wound up slightly ahead of Kat, off to one side. Kat glanced to the right, as a tubby, unkempt guy with a cell
phone to one ear shouldered against her.

  He pointed across her midsection and said, "That's him."

  Tubby was pointing at me, but I didn't know it. Cell phone dude was alerting a cop, who I'd already walked past.

  * *

  Olek Krupa was that cop. He had positioned himself to one side of Ho's exit door, his Glock .45-caliber weapon in a two-handed grip, muzzle down. Krupa was scared. Very scared. Racing to Ho's, he'd grown increasingly anxious as a Metro dispatcher radioed tidbits about the situation. She indicated the perp inside was acting erratically, possibly on drugs, and might be exhibiting symptoms consistent with "excited delirium." Krupa could be walking into a much more-serious situation than he originally anticipated.

  Fortunately, other officers were responding, too. He wouldn't be in charge, which was damned good. Krupa was a solid foot soldier, but hated making decisions in a pinch. He simply couldn't think straight, when adrenaline was flowing — even though he loved the rush.

  He was the second officer to arrive at Ho's. To Krupa's dismay, the first cop on-scene was a rookie, Officer Kale Akaka. Because Krupa was now the ranking officer on-site, he asked the tall Hawaiian for a status brief. Akaka did so in clipped sentences: The suspect was still inside, armed and possibly barricaded.

  However, according to a Ho's security guard, the suspect claimed to have a valid concealed-carry weapons permit. A female lieutenant, who was still inbound, had suggested Ho's start an orderly evacuation. She assumed the suspect was holed up inside.

  "The perp's a Green Beret?" Krupa asked, increasingly worried. He was sweating profusely and trembling. "Any hostages?"

  Akaka shook his head. "Dispatch said the dude that called claimed the suspect is a Green Beret. Nothing about hostages."

  "Do we have somebody inside? Any eyes-on?"

  "Yes, sir. A Ho's undercover security officer's following the suspect. He's still on the phone with dispatch."

  Krupa had positioned Akaka and another rookie from the West Substation, Officer Malovic, at the entrance door. They would wait until the store was evacuated, then initiate a sweep of the interior.

  Perspiring and breathing heavily, Krupa fervently hoped that damned lieutenant would arrive soon. He fought to control shaking hands, gripping his service pistol firmly. He scanned the store, looking beyond dozens of faces streaming past him.

  Then a pudgy guy with a cell phone to his ear made eye contact with Krupa, pointed and said, "That's him."

  Oh shit! He's outside!

  Krupa panicked, spun around, raised his semiautomatic and instinctively started shouting orders.

  * *

  I heard somebody yell, looked left and right for the source, then turned to find a short, pot-bellied Las Vegas Metro police officer in a tan uniform pointing a pistol at me! I froze, stunned. Maybe fifty-to-seventy people were milling around under the crowded, high-roof foyer, all attempting to stay in the shade. Everybody was talking, creating a din that echoed throughout the confined zone.

  I couldn't process whatever the cop was yelling, but looking down the barrel of a Glock .45 scared the bejesus out of me. I struggled to decipher what the stubby, fitness-challenged cop was yelling, simultaneously scanning memory for what we'd been taught in concealed-carry-weapon or CCW training:

  Acknowledge you have a weapon and are a CCW holder.

  I swallowed and stated clearly, "I am armed! I have a CCW permit!"

  All hell had broken loose. Kat was yelling, but I couldn't understand a word she said, either. My eyes were riveted to that massive black-hole of a barrel pointed at my chest, as the world shifted into slow motion. The cop's lips were moving, but whatever he was screaming came from far, far away. I couldn't understand a damned word.

  With my left hand, I reached across and lifted my shirt tail to expose the holstered Kimber on my right hip, still tucked inside the jeans' waistband, turning slightly toward the cop. Simultaneously, I elevated my right elbow, arm bent ninety degrees. I still had the BlackBerry smartphone in my right hand.

  The out-of-shape, acne-pocked cop, wearing dark, wraparound sunglasses, screamed again — and fired.

  BAM! BAM!

  Two seconds, max, from the first shouted command, until he fired twice. Hell, I barely had time to turn and face the frightened little bastard, let alone think and react.

  The first .45 slug hit me in the chest. Another slammed into my right thigh. As if I'd been smacked with a ball bat. Shock, but no pain. Both arms involuntarily flew up and forward, back arching in recoil. My BlackBerry crashed to the concrete and skidded toward the cop, who was still yelling.

  I heard nothing, now in absolute, total, all-encompassing disbelief. My right leg wouldn't move. It collapsed, twisting my body. I looked at Kat, as I went down.

  What the hell happened?

  I fought desperately to breathe, gasping, starved for life-giving air, legs collapsing. I was conscious, but knew I'd been mortally wounded — and that I couldn't do a damned thing about it. I was dying. Eyes refused to focus. Field of vision contracted. And I kept falling, falling… .

  As the world I'd known for thirty-eight years faded, I heard another volley of gunfire and felt multiple rounds smash into my back. I jerked as each slug slammed into me, gasping for air… choking… vision fading to a gray blur.

  Why shoot me? I mentally screamed.

  Blackness draped over consciousness, as I sank into the darkest dark.

  Then my perspective suddenly shifted, and I could see again! I was hovering above, looking down on what I soon realized was my body. This new being, although unable to comprehend what had just occurred, was vaguely aware that Erik Steele was dead. People below me were screaming, running, stumbling over each other, diving to the concrete, shielding children. Total chaos. Faint clouds of blue smoke drifted between me and that grotesquely twisted, crumpled figure on the foyer's concrete pad.

  I just floated there, suspended beneath the Ho's entryway roof, watching the pot-bellied cop holster his weapon, plant a knee in the small of my body's back, roughly yank both hands, and tie-wrap them together. He didn't bother to administer first aid or frisk what had been "me" seconds ago.

  The Kimber was still holstered, clipped inside my waistband. A second magazine of .45 ammo was still in my left pocket. Only my BlackBerry lay on the concrete, a few feet to the left of my bleeding body.

  I was in a state of utter shock and disbelief, yet strangely detached, as if watching a movie.

  What the hell was that all about? And why? I didn't do anything, for God's sake!

  Kat was off to one side, screaming at three cops congregating near that stiff—my body, sprawled in a growing pool of blood. One of the officers barked an order and a fourth brown-shirt grabbed Kat's arm and dragged her away.

  An ambulance arrived and emergency medical technicians swarmed my body. Tan-uniformed cops blanketed the foyer area, some carrying shotguns. A helicopter wop-wopped overhead, ominously circling the Ho's parking lot.

  American Medical Response EMTs and a dark-uniformed firefighter checked my body for vital signs. Damned useless exercise. There was no chance I'd be getting back into that body again.

  I'd worked extremely hard to keep my physique in great shape, and I'd been proud of it. In two seconds, though, a trigger-happy, pot-gutted cop suffering from a fat-boy complex, a being who had probably never darkened the door of a gym, had destroyed it. The other quick-to-shoot cops didn't do it any favors, either.

  One of the EMTs tugged that super-fat wallet, now smeared with fresh blood, from my front right pocket and handed it to a cop, who removed my driver's license. The Metro officer scanned it and spoke into his radio's shoulder mic.

  I couldn't hear a thing. Just a weird, unintelligible background murmur, as if I were underwater. However, I could see and sense everything going on, seemingly in all places simultaneously, hyper-aware of each person's activity. Cops were herding Ho's customers, pushing them away, making sure they couldn't view my body.

  The
now-expired Erik Steele was surrounded by at least a dozen police officers and EMTs, effectively shielding my corpse from view. Very considerate of the jerks. They'd just murdered me in the midst of several dozen innocent bystanders, but letting an old lady or two see a dead stiff was just too much for sensitive cops.

  Shooter Number One clipped the tie-wrap binding my hands. A few seconds later, the lifeless, limp body was strapped to a stiff board, face up, and loaded into the ambulance. One of its arms flopped and hung off the side, prompting an EMT to roughly throw it across the bloody T-shirt's chest. I also noticed a large blood smear on the right thigh.

  I was vaguely conscious that I was no longer thinking of that body as me. My real self was up here, floating above it all.

  I never saw the firefighter EMT again, but AMR EMTs and a Metro cop rode with my corpse to the hospital, albeit with a brief stop en route. At the University Medical Center, docs and nurses jammed needles and IVs into my body, then sliced the chest open, working frantically. What a joke. Life was long gone, and they knew it. Did they flood my system with medication and God knows what else? I have no idea. Didn't care, at that point.

  "Erik! Erik! Go to the light!"

  What in the… ? I became aware of a gold-tinged, extremely bright radiance engulfing my new self. Without effort, I floated higher, and the terrestrial scene faded, as if a cloud were forming between the Earth and my perch.

  Instinctively, I glanced skyward, and there it was: The most loving, welcoming entity a human could possibly envision. Was it Jesus? The figure didn't resemble the bearded young man, whose beatific profile adorned classroom walls at my Catholic high school. But I knew that loving figure of light was the Christ, and it was beckoning to me. I moved toward it, not frightened, in surprised awe.

  I couldn't believe I'd been killed. And I had no idea why.

  * *

  LAS VEGAS/FORTY-SEVEN MINUTES LATER

  "Sir, Castle here. Verify secure."

  A long pause ensued. "Bishop's confirmed secure. Go ahead."

  The cell phone conversation could no longer be monitored by an outsider. Digital packets of compressed data were being encrypted and frequency-shuffled at the speed of light, then beamed through a commercial network of cell phone towers, servers and microwave links. Scrambled data packets flashed from Las Vegas to Washington, D.C., virtually instantly.