The Permit

by William B. Scott

  "Sir, Comet is dead. He was shot to death about an hour ago… ."

  Rico Rodolfo, code name Castle, choked and tears threatened to engulf the tall, handsome figure. He pulled a ragged breath, fighting for control.

  "Good Lord," Bishop breathed. "How? What happened?"

  Rodolfo briefly recounted what little he knew, concluding, "We don't have many specifics, sir. A spokesman for Metro, the local police department, was on TV a few minutes ago, and he said the shooting had something to do with Comet carrying a concealed weapon. I'd heard the news, but had no inkling the… the… victim was Comet!

  "One of our mutual friends, Max, was tracked down by a Clark County social worker," Rodolfo continued, "who was trying to get a phone number to notify Comet's family. The worker told Max that Erik… uhh, I mean… Comet, had been shot and killed. Max called me right away. Neither of us have been able to reach Comet's girlfriend, and Max is trying to locate a brother. I thought I'd better let someone at Checkmate know ASAP, sir. I couldn't get through to Rook."

  The Las Vegas-area team leader's code name was Rook. Rodolfo was speaking with Bishop, the director of a small, ultrasecret unit, code named Checkmate. He, Castle, had never met Bishop, but every agent in America knew Bishop as the tip of Checkmate's highly effective covert spear.

  The link was silent for long seconds. "Good Lord," the voice repeated, almost a whisper. "Rook's on a special mission. You were right to call me."

  Again, a long silence. Rodolfo waited, elbows on knees, thumb and forefingers squeezing the bridge of his nose, struggling to stem a flood of tears.

  Damn it! Although shocked to the core of his soul, he'd been somewhat functional, until having to utter those atrocious, impossible-to-grasp three words: Comet is dead.

  "Castle, it's imperative that you obtain and forward every bit of public domain information about Comet's killing, as soon as possible. But be careful. No off-the-reservation inquiries that might arouse suspicion about motives. Whatever you can glean from media reports will suffice, at least for now."

  Rodolfo blurted, "Sir, this makes two fatalities in less than a month! Have we been compromised?"

  "Possibly," Bishop said, rich tones now firm and steady. "My instinct says 'no,' but I can't be sure, until we know more. Initially, this strikes me as random, but there are too many unknowns to pass judgment."

  Another long silence. Rodolfo waited.

  "Castle, this is an extremely grave development. In Rook's absence, I want you to notify every member of your team that all missions are on hold, until we get a handle on Comet's killing. Every man-jack's to go quiet, until further notice. Understand?"

  "Will do, sir."

  Rodolfo waited for long moments. He'd about decided the call had dropped, when Bishop softly added, "I suspect that Comet's murder will take us to an entirely new level. I'll be in contact soon. Until then, I want everybody to go comm-out. No missions, no discussions of pending or past operations. Copy?"

  "Got it, sir. Understand."

  "And please accept my condolences, Castle. I'm aware that you and Comet were close. Later… ." The encrypted connection clicked off.

  Rodolfo stared at the highly modified Apple iPhone in his hand. He wanted to throw up. Emotions raced between gut-wrenching agony over the loss of a dear friend and white-hot anger. Back and forth. One extreme to the other. One second, he wanted to kill the bastards who'd shot Erik. Then he wondered whether he, Rico Rodolfo, might be their next target.

  Metro cops had killed two Las Vegas-based Checkmate team members within three weeks. A valuable, deep-inside informer, and now Comet, an experienced field operator.

  Who the hell knows about us?

  CHAPTER 4

  SCREW-UP COVER-UP

  "Oh what a tangled web we weave,

  When first we practice to deceive!"

  Sir Walter Scott

  Marmion: A Tale of Flodden Field

  LAS VEGAS

  Aw, shit!

  Officer Oleg Krupa stared at a cell phone resting on the concrete, it's black-glass screen glaring at him; arched rows of tiny keys hinting of mocking smiles. For an instant, he was paralyzed, oblivious to the screams and chaos of people pushing and shoving, tripping over those who had dropped to the ground, desperately scrambling for cover. Shouts and earsplitting screams of fear drowned the echo of gunfire. A pungent odor of gunpowder tainted the air, accompanied by wisps of blue-gray smoke beneath the Ho's covered entrance/exit portico.

  A tall, dark-haired young woman a few feet from Krupa was screaming, "You stupid son of a bitch! Why did you shoot him? You didn't have to shoot him! He's an Army officer! He didn't do anything!"

  She stepped toward the redhead's body, then retreated, afraid to get between the cop and her loved one, shrieking hysterically.

  "You bastard!" the woman shouted into Krupa's face, her eyes wide with angry, pained disbelief. A model's sharply defined features were twisted in anguish and rage, framed by hair that draped her shoulders.

  "Get her outta here," Krupa growled, flicking a nod at a tan-uniformed officer.

  The cop gripped the frantic woman's bicep, barked something, and firmly dragged her away from the crime scene. She was crying, yet continued to scream obscenities over her shoulder. Resisting the cop, she stretched a palm toward the victim's crumpled form.

  Krupa holstered the Glock, reached across his chest and keyed a shoulder mic. "The guy pointed a four-thirteen at me," he radioed, knowing every senior Metro officer on the net would hear it. The comment also would be recorded on a police dispatcher's tape, "proof" that might ultimately save his ass.

  "Where's that four-thirteen? The gun?"

  The big Hawaiian officer, Akaka, was at Krupa's right shoulder, weapon at low-ready position, clamped in a two-fisted grip. Akaka's eyes were locked onto his target's muscular form. Another Metro police officer advanced from Krupa's one-o'clock position, aiming a shotgun at the motionless figure lying on the dirty concrete.

  No threat, Krupa flashed, again feeling a current of abject panic shoot through his body. Legs were weak; arms heavy. Sour bile hovered at the back of his throat, forcing him to repeatedly swallow. He desperately needed to pee.

  The suspect wasn't moving. Arms sprawled, legs twisted at unnatural angles. His head had slammed onto the hot pavement of Ho's covered entryway. Face turned to the left, lifeless hazel green eyes open, staring blankly. A pool of dark red expanded from beneath the body, the arc of its leading edge creeping toward the cops' boots.

  "He pulled a gun. Pointed it right at me," Krupa snapped.

  Akaka turned slowly, holstering his weapon. His dark eyes radiated skepticism. Towering over the much shorter Krupa, Akaka's presence was menacing.

  "Yeah. Sure. But… Where the hell is it? I don't see no sorry-assed gun!"

  "It's under him," Krupa assured. His heart was racing. He swallowed, panic born of raw exposure producing a metallic taste. Dozens of eyes bored into him. Accusing, hateful. Each pair a potential witness.

  Competing emotions gripped Krupa, a mixture of heart-thumping fear, naked aloneness and giddy, adrenaline-pumped excitement. Fear that he'd made a terrible mistake competed with a surge of keen ultra-clarity of mind, the pure ecstasy and high of killing a human being.

  As he'd discovered in combat, he was addicted to the pounding thrill of anticipating, then facing death, and living to fight again. However, at this instant, he also was conscious of being very alone. Of being on trial.

  "Why'd you fire, dude?" the third shooter, Malovic, asked in hushed tones. He'd side-stepped over to the other officers, his weapon's muzzle also pointed downward, index finger aligned in register or "safe" mode, outside the trigger guard. Malovic's eyes were wide, and he kept licking dry lips.

  Krupa ignored the rookie shooters and walked to the victim's body. Face impassive, the cop roughly planted a knee in the dead suspect's lower back, yanked the left, then right arm back, and bound both wrists together with a plastic wire-tie. He jerked the tie, maki
ng sure it bit into the man's ruddy skin.

  Krupa stood and swaggered back to the huddle of cops. It now included a fourth officer, who rested a black, pump-style shotgun on his shoulder. All eyes were on Krupa, all questioning.

  "Okay. Uh… there's a semi-auto in an inside the waistband holster," Krupa reported, struggling to keep a tremor from his voice. "He musta pulled a second gun."

  "Holy Mother of God," Malovic breathed. The rookie was visibly alarmed. He kept staring at the motionless, twisted body. "We killed an innocent man, because he was holding a BlackBerry? Oh Lord… ."

  Krupa couldn't speak. His mouth was cinnamon-dust dry. His eyes were flicking left and right, as if fearing the crowd of at least fifty people might attack. Fortunately, cops swarmed the area, pushing the curious away, demanding they disperse.

  Krupa watched a well-dressed Hispanic man approach the suspect's body, stop and stare. He cocked his head, then circled, assessing the corpse. The man glanced up and locked eyes with Krupa. A flash of fear crossed the witness's dark, mustachioed features. He backed away, glancing once more at the redhead's still form.

  Krupa took a deep breath and glared at the officers huddled around him. "The captain'll be here in a few. He'll know what to do."

  "Hey, you're… You shot some other dude a coupla years ago, didn't ya?" Akaka declared. "That perp who wouldn't get outta the car. Hell, you put six, seven slugs in him?"

  "Nine," Krupa corrected, searching the crowd for Captain Greel. He'd straighten out this mess. Just like he did in oh-six.

  "Captain Greel?" Malovic this time. "Why would 'Vader' get involved?"

  Behind his back, the black-eyed, mean-spirited head of Metro's West Substation was routinely referred to as Darth Vader. Hardly as imposing as the Star Wars villain, he didn't wear a black helmet and long cloak, but the short-tempered Greel was equally feared by his subordinates. Smart cops gave the humorless captain a wide berth, ensuring they never hit his radar screen.

  Krupa shot Malovic a withering look. "He runs CIRT. That's why."

  Metro's Critical Incident Response Team was a handpicked group of officers trained to intervene, during standoffs, to "talk-down" amped-up suspects. Ostensibly, CIRT was formed to de-escalate tense situations and avoid the use of lethal force, if possible. In fact, every officer, from rookie to the sheriff, knew better. CIRT's primary purpose was to clean up embarrassing or legally dicey messes. Like officer-involved shootings and other massive screwups.

  Malovic's eyes widened. "Aw, geez. We're in real trouble, aren't we?"

  The rookie was starting to annoy Krupa. Damned religious freak. Couldn't say shit if he had a mouthful, Krupa thought, shooting Malovic a dark "shut-up" glance.

  "Not if Captain Greel's on it," Akaka declared. "Do what he says, and we'll be alright."

  The big Hawaiian glared at Malovic, underscoring words with what could only be interpreted as body-language threat.

  "If Officer Krupa said the suspect pulled a gun, the dude pulled a gun. We had to shoot him. Got it?"

  Malovic looked away and shook his head. He fought the urge to puke. They'd killed an innocent civilian! For what? Why? “Dear God, please forgive me, for I have sinned…,” the young officer muttered.

  Captain Michael "Mikey" Greel ducked under a band of yellow crime-scene tape and skirted a smear of blood. He took note of an ambulance easing through the crowded Ho's parking lot, lights flashing. No siren.

  Dead suspect, he surmised. Greel marched up to a cluster of tan-shirted officers, and ordered, "Okay, listen up. What do we have, guys?"

  Everybody looked at Krupa, who gave a brief recap of events. "The ambulance just left, sir," he concluded, pointing.

  "Suspect status?" Greel clipped, watching the square-body American Medical Response ambulance arc onto an access road and turn south, toward Charleston. A siren's wail then pierced the still, superheated Las Vegas air.

  Krupa cleared his throat. "Expired, sir. We… . He took six, seven rounds. I fired first. Center-mass, double-tap. Officers Akaka and Malovic fired in support."

  Greel's eyes swept the area, settling on a BlackBerry cell phone between him and the smear of blood.

  "Where's the suspect's weapon? One of you bozos better not have… "

  "No, sir," Malovic jumped in. "There wasn't any weapon. The guy only had that BlackBerry in his hand."

  Greel slowly turned his head and leveled a withering gaze at Krupa. "You said he pointed a four-thirteen at you, officer. Heard it over the net. So, tell me: Where's the perp's firearm?"

  "Sir, it was still on the suspect's body, when they put him in the ambulance," Akaka said. "It was in a soft-sided holster, tucked inside his jeans."

  He hesitated.

  "And… ?" Greel urged.

  "A hell of a lot of civilians saw it, sir. Several people were right there. They saw the gun. Some even said so."

  "Holy shit," Greel murmured. He stared silently after the ambulance. "Did a Metro officer accompany the suspect?"

  That was standard procedure, but he had to ask. These idiots had already jacked things up so badly…

  "Yessir," Krupa said quickly, adding the officer's name. "He went with the AMR crew."

  "Probably to University Medical," Greel said absently.

  He stepped away from the other cops, pulled a cell phone from his pocket, scrolled through a list and tapped the screen. Holding the phone to one ear and jamming an index finger into the other, Greel circled the bloody spot where the victim had been. He then eyeballed expended ammunition casings scattered around the area.

  "Hey! Captain Greel. You're riding with the victim, right? East on Charleston… ?" He waited, nodding. "You got it in hand? … Good! Now, listen up. I'm sending a cruiser. Stop that damned ambulance, and stay put till the cruiser catches up. Give the perp's gun and ID to the officer I'm sending, then stay with the suspect's body all the way to the hospital. Don't leave until…

  "I don't give a rat's ass what the EMT says! The guy's dead! What the hell's the hurry? Getting that gun back here ASAP is a lot more important. Got it? Out! "

  Greel punched the phone's glass face.

  "You!" Greel pointed at the officer carrying a shotgun. "Move out. Lights 'n' siren. East on Charleston. Catch that ambulance, snag whatever our guy gives you, and get your ass back here immediately! No radio traffic, either, ya hear? You have problems, you call me by phone—and only me! Got it?"

  The captain shoved a business card at the dumbfounded cop and waved him away. The officer sprinted for the Ho's parking lot.

  Greel wiped a rivulet of sweat running down his cheek. The rotund officer stretched to make five-foot-six and, because he was at least forty pounds overweight, suffered mightily in the desert heat. Dark stains spread from his armpits, and blotchy patches ran vertically along the back of what had been a crisp, tightly stretched uniform shirt. Thinning, prematurely gray hair was sweat-matted across his forehead.

  "Where's that undercover security guy?" Greel demanded. "The sumbitch who started this god-blessed goat-rope?"

  Krupa spun and searched the thinning crowd, then hooked an arm at Hajji Taseer. Hovering nervously near the roll-up entrance door, Hajji grinned and trotted over to the cop-huddle. Krupa introduced him to Greel, explaining how Hajji had pointed out the suspect, after the big redhead and tall woman had slipped past Krupa.

  Greel assessed the nervous figure before him. Soft, pudgy facial features. Twenty-something, maybe early thirties. Indian or Pakistani heritage, he guessed. Out of shape, with a good twenty-five pounds hanging over his belt.

  "What happened inside, Mr. Taseer? Just the facts, please," Greel ordered.

  "Well… this big dude was acting kinda… you know… like… weird. Strange, shifty. Opening packages. Like… sorta throwin' stuff around. I watched him and… you know, he… Just didn't look right. Sorta off. Maybe on… like… some kinda drugs or something."

  "Did you approach him? Ask any questions?"

  "Ah… no, sir," Hajji said, dan
cing from one foot to the other. Hands jammed in his pockets one second, then waving, simulating the victim's actions.

  "I'm a loss prevention security officer, sir. We have to stay… you know… discreet. Kinda undercover. Just watch and report strange behavior to a, like… a manager. I called Joe and he talked to the big dude."

  Greel didn't answer. He nodded, coal-black slits of hooded eyes boring into Taseer's.

  What a worthless sack of pond scum, the captain decided. We killed a man, because YOU thought he was 'acting strange?'

  "And… ?"

  Hajji's tongue flicked across thick lips. Eyes darted between Greel and Krupa.

  Tin god rag head, Greel concluded. Disgusted, he wanted to choke the life out of Taseer, but smiled and nodded, instead, coaxing more details.

  "Uhh… Joe talked to the… the suspect, and, you know… the guy sorta mouthed off. Said he was an Army… like a Green Beret or whatever. Dangerous type… had that big gun. Never know 'bout them. 'Specially when they're acting, like… sorta dodgity."

  Hajji took a deep breath, smiled broadly and added, "I made a… like… a command decision, sir, and called three-one-one. I just had a feeling… ya know… . The guy wasn't right!"

  Greel nodded, returning Hajji's nervous grin. The captain felt gut-roiling revulsion for the toady.

  Dodgity? What the hell?

  Greel weighed his response and opted for honey rather than a club.

  I may need this cockroach.

  "You did the right thing, Mr. Taseer. Never know these days. The perp might have pulled his weapon and started shooting customers. But… . Did your supervisor, Joe, ask the guy to leave? Maybe take the weapon to his car?" Greel pressed.

  "Ah… like… no, don't think so, sir. Joe just talked to him, then said he was…like an Army dude," Hajji stammered. "Those Green Berets are trained killers, you know!"