The Permit

by William B. Scott

  Olek Krupa, an Army infantry veteran, growled, "Hey, asshole… !"

  Greel cut him off with a raised palm, then craned his neck, checking the portico roof.

  "Got it. Now… . How 'bout the video surveillance system? I see one camera. Any more integrated with those domed light shields?"

  Hajji gave a quick summary of the outside camera configuration, pointing to several hidden ones.

  "We got cameras throughout the interior, too. Wanta see 'em, sir?"

  Greel shook his head. "Is the recording system operational?"

  Hajji nodded eagerly.

  "Oh, yes, sir! We capture video data from… like… twenty cameras. Somethin' like that. Record it on a DVR. We don't miss one damned… "

  "Any backup? Auto-streaming of video off-site? A feed to corporate headquarters? Real time or delayed?" Greel asked sharply, dropping into machine-gun mode.

  As expected, Hajji recoiled, off balance.

  "No… like… I mean, yes! We record on site and stream real-time video to our contractor's office… and to corporate. They're up in… you know… like, Oregon. That's up in the northwest," the security guard stammered.

  Greel nodded absently, eyeballing the cameras. He let a strained silence hang, aware of his officers watching closely.

  "Sir… . Do you want a bottle of water? I'll go get… ," Hajji asked weakly.

  Greel froze the little toad with a frosty gaze, then forced a lopsided half-grin. Positioned to Greel's ten o'clock, Malovic shivered. The captain's cold, menacing smile reminded the rookie of a cobra, fangs exposed, hood flared, poised to strike. He glanced back to the security guard.

  Stupid maggot. No clue that he's being set up, Malovic thought. He actually felt sorry for the Ho's guard — but only for a micro-flash. Taseer had caused this nightmare, and a man had died as a direct result of this idiot's terrible mistake.

  Greel purred, "No thanks. But I would appreciate you doing one thing for me: copy the last two hours of video data onto a blank DVD. Just one, please. And bring it to me. Only me, okay?"

  Hajji yes-sirred a couple of times, then headed for the Ho's security room. Greel noted that the out-of-condition lowlife was knock-kneed and waddled.

  To nobody in particular, Greel muttered, "Cop wannabe. Couldn't get hired by a real department. In his own little kingdom here. Big minnow in a tiny puddle."

  Greel turned and scanned the concrete. "I count seven casings. Who fired, and how many?" he demanded.

  "Only two rounds, sir," Krupa reported.

  "Not sure. Four, five… ," Akaka shrugged. He turned to Malovic.

  "I fired once, sir. I didn't see any… I mean… Officer Krupa fired two quick ones, then Kale opened up. I assumed they saw something I didn't, so I… I fired once. One round, sir," Malovic rambled.

  Greel stared at the rookie's name tag. Malovic. Then the big Hawaiian's. Akaka. The senior officer made a snap decision, a judgment founded on years of gut-level intuition. That sixth sense was his forte, one of many reasons he led Metro's elite Critical Incident Response Team.

  Malovic could be a problem. Akaka was solid. Krupa? He was a dumb ass, who managed to repeatedly wind up in messy situations. But also a committed Metro drone, who never asked "why." No worries there.

  "Awright, let's get this straight, boys," Greel said, hands on his hips. "Officer Krupa was the senior officer on-scene. He was in the best position to assess the situation. Krupa, you say the suspect pulled a weapon and pointed it at you. Fearing for your safety and that of innocent bystanders, you fired.

  "Officer Akaka, you, too, saw the suspect pull a firearm, and you fired in support of your fellow officer."

  He fixed the other rookie with a cold gaze. "You, Officer Malovic, were not in position to see what the suspect was doing, but acted to protect Krupa and Akaka. Precisely as you were trained. That's exactly how it went down. Correct?"

  Greel's black eyes shifted to each officer, in turn, until he received a nod. Only Malovic hesitated a few seconds, his mouth gaping in disbelief. He finally nodded.

  Reluctantly, Greel observed.

  "You have a problem with that, Malovic?" The captain's voice was soft, but with an unmistakable edge.

  "No, sir." The rookie shook his head slowly and dropped his eyes. Despite the 114-degree heat, a cold shiver rippled from his neck to waist.

  Oh, Lord in Heaven… , Malovic prayed.

  The screech of brakes attracted Greel's attention. The cop he'd dispatched to intercept that AMR ambulance ferrying the victim's corpse opened a patrol car's driver-side door, glanced fore and aft, then slipped out. Two quick steps and he surreptitiously handed Greel a small bundle. Wrapped in a blue cloth stamped "AMR" was a Kimber Ultra Carry .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol jammed tightly into a nylon holster.

  Greel barked at another uniformed officer standing guard near a strand of crime-scene tape, then motioned at a shopping cart. Stacked with yellow bags of water softener and topped with boxed items, the cart had been abandoned in the melee that erupted, after the three officers fired. That cop maneuvered the orphaned cart to within feet of a blood smear on the concrete, as Greel herded several other officers closer.

  When surrounded, Greel squatted, unwrapped the .45 pistol, and flicked the blue cloth with one hand, drawing attention to it. Shielding his other hand with a knee, the captain surreptitiously placed the victim's semiautomatic on the concrete, still in its holster.

  In a single, smooth motion, he made a show of spreading the cloth over a fluid pool of dark-red blood. Standing, the bombastic captain pointed and ordered, "Get this mess mopped up, before that stuff congeals. In this damned heat, it'll stain the concrete and ol' Ho won't ever get it clean!"

  A ripple of nervous laughter answered. An officer tentatively grabbed a corner and dragged the cloth through the pool, careful to avoid touching the thickening fluid. Another yelled at a Ho's employee, who hustled into the store for a mop.

  People were still milling around, but most of the shell-shocked customers had fled to the parking lot and departed. Officers had herded ten-to-fifteen individuals into the Ho's tire department, where they would be detained, until Homicide detectives arrived to take witness statements.

  * *

  Inside the store, Hajji Taseer collared a wide-eyed, jittery young stock clerk, who doubled as the Ho's-Summerlin information technology guru. Hajji whispered an order and slapped the kid's back.

  Solo, the clerk slipped into the store's security office, a long, narrow room dominated by a bank of six TV monitors, and closed the door. Each screen displayed a section of the warehouse store, its image switching every three seconds to automatically access a different camera. The IT technician slid into a chair and hunkered over a keyboard, ignoring a Metro cop and tall woman arguing at the far end of the office.

  Katrina Hart couldn't stop crying. "Where're they taking him? Is he still alive?" she pleaded, frantically glancing at the security monitors over her shoulder. "Why won't you tell me?"

  Via those monitors, she'd spotted paramedics load Erik's body into an ambulance and depart. Her witnessing even that tidbit had prompted a sharp rebuke from her Metro-cop guard, who demanded she turn her back on the bank of TV screens.

  "You've got to let me go!" she cried again.

  "Ma'am, as soon as we take your statement, you'll be allowed to leave. Detectives will be here any minute now," a uniformed officer said, trying to soothe the young woman.

  She pivoted in her chair, stealing another frantic glance at the row of monitors.

  "Don't look at those!" the officer yelled. "Do it again, and I'll have to arrest you!"

  Over Kat's shoulder, the cop had seen Captain Greel pointing and issuing orders, then squatting, surrounded by a tight cluster of brown-shirts. He'd seen CIRT take over a crime scene before and had an inkling of what was unfolding in the Ho's entryway.

  Kat flared, angry. "Why the hell can't I look? What're you guys hiding? I've got to know what happened to Erik! Is he alive?" she sho
uted, jumping erect. The wheeled chair spun into a wall and ricocheted.

  "Is he going to live?" she screamed.

  The officer grabbed Kat's upper arm, roughly jerking her close. He caught a hint of expensive perfume, as she lost her footing and stumbled. The cop yanked her arm, preventing a fall. She twisted free, and thrust her face close to his.

  "Don't touch me, you son of a bitch!" she screamed. Her eyes were red, tear-smeared mascara leaving charcoal tracks on each cheek.

  "You killed him, didn't you? You killed him!"

  "Look, ma'am," the cop said, lowering his voice. "I don't know what happened to your… your significant other. I'll try to find out, if you'll… "

  "Shut up!" Kat bellowed, her long hair whipping the cop's face as she spun away. Again, the officer grabbed her, pulling the woman from the row of security monitors.

  A shocked Ho's employee seated at a console recoiled and shot the cop a frantic glance. The guy was retrieving a silver disk from a digital recorder, the officer noticed.

  Kat twisted free and slumped into another chair, burying her face in both hands. She sobbed, anguished. The cop knelt in front of the shapely woman, trying to console her.

  Kat wiped tears away, eyes flicking to the officer. "I… Please… I have… to know… ," she sobbed, shoulders heaving.

  She sat erect, pulled a ragged breath and announced, "And I have to go to the bathroom. Where's the ladies… ?"

  "No! You can't do that!" the cop insisted, standing over her.

  "Fine! I'll pee right here, and you can clean it up!" Kat fumed.

  She headed for the door, trailing the Ho's employee. The guy was carrying two square envelopes, the officer observed, as he seized Kat's upper arm.

  "Hold it!" he ordered, then hesitated, unsure. "Alright, lady. But I'm staying with you. I can't let you go alone."

  Kat whirled. "Oh, really! You have to watch me take a piss! You'd like that, wouldn't you? Pervert!"

  She marched from the Ho's security office, heels clicking. The cop followed her into the ladies restroom, then stood outside a stall door. Kat soon flushed the commode and flung the door open.

  "Thanks. I was getting desperate."

  She'd regained a smidgen of control, but her voice was still weak, strained.

  The cop nodded and looked away, embarrassed. He felt sorry for the dark-eyed beauty, but had his orders.

  Hajji Taseer, waiting outside the Ho's office, accepted two DVD disks from his IT expert. Pocketing one, he carried the other outside and caught Captain Greel's attention. Greel acknowledged with a nod, said something to one of his officers, then joined Hajji.

  "Here's the video, sir," the security guard announced. A broad, proud grin revealed a crooked row of whitened teeth. "Proof that the perp pulled a gun. Right there, sir. We got us a slam-dunk here!"

  The excited little bowling-pin-shaped twerp danced from one foot to the other. In his twisted mind, he was now a Metro insider, a dream come true. Through a fluke, he'd become a critical element in a high-profile, important incident, and was now working with his heroes, Metro law enforcement officers!

  And he was responsible for taking down a dangerous Army dude. Hell, they'd probably give him a medal! For sure, his Afghan countrymen would hail him as a hero.

  Greel wanted to choke the simple-minded weasel, but restrained himself.

  "Thanks, Mr. Taseer," he purred. "One more thing," he added, resting a hand on the young man's shoulder.

  Hajji nodded enthusiastically, a wide-eyed puppy anxious to satisfy its master.

  "Just in case that video doesn't show what we expect, I think we should take some precautions." Greel then outlined, in detail, what Hajji should do with the security surveillance video recording system.

  "A Metro Homicide team will be here in a few minutes," Greel concluded. "Do not let them take that recording system, understand? Make sure they know it's been out of service since last Thursday. And that it's Ho's proprietary equipment. Tell Homicide they can not confiscate the DVR! Got it?"

  Hajji repeated Greel's directives, clearly excited and eager to please.

  Greel patted the guard's arm. "Hajji, you take care of this and I might be able to pull some strings on your behalf," he smiled, emphasizing the guy's first name.

  We're buds now, the captain implied. "Metro is always looking for good people… " Greel let the come-on dangle in the heavy summer heat, a baited hook twitching before a hungry mackerel.

  "Yes, sir!" Hajji enthused. "I'll take care of the DVR. Nooooo problem!"

  Greel shook the little twerp's hand and shooed him away. Not trusting the half-wit to effectively disable the Ho's video-surveillance system, the captain made a mental note to call Ho's headquarters in Oregon. A smart vice president of security would take care of it — once the mutual risk factors were properly explained.

  Greel had underestimated the young Ho's guard, though. Las Vegas Metro's brilliant, go-to cover-up architect had no idea Hajji Taseer possessed a second copy of that video data, a two-hour clip of stark truth, captured in vivid, high-definition color. That error in judgment ultimately would doom Metro and its cohorts.

  CHAPTER 5

  COUNTERINTELLIGENCE

  "Do not participate in the unfruitful deeds

  of darkness, but instead expose them."

  Ephesians 5:11

  RESTON, VIRGINIA

  In the shade of an oversized umbrella, Gray Manor, code-name Bishop, sat cross-legged on a patio recliner. Tall, thin and rawboned, the retired Marine Corps two-star general wore a USMC T-shirt and faded khaki shorts. A late-afternoon Sun hovered high above a line of dense trees, refusing to slip below the horizon and relieve sweltering residents from the grip of another stifling, humid July day.

  Once a model of Northern Virginia's picture-perfect planned community, the Manors' 1970s-era home was showing its age. The rambling expanse of redwood deck begged for a fresh coat of stain, and the ends of several two-by-six planks were beginning to curl. Deck maintenance would have to wait, though.

  Manor tapped an Apple iPad's maze of codes, unlocking a Special Access Required or "SAR" database, an ultra-classified section buried deep in the highly modified tablet's memory. He scrolled through curtly worded, bare-bones reports, updating his knowledge of a classified, off-the-books unit's recent activities in Las Vegas, Nevada.

  As Director of the Domestic Operations Team, Gray Manor's name never appeared on a Department of Homeland Security organization chart. Nor did a code name of the department's covert "black" unit that he headed, Checkmate.

  Manor scanned Erik Steele's file. Although the ex-Army officer had been in the field only a short time, Steele had a stellar record: three kills, one "ready." Precisely the quality of agent Checkmate desperately needed, if the unit were to succeed. Intelligent, a flexible, innovative self-starter, who planned each move and routinely developed Plans B and C, Steele was a top-flight operator with a promising future.

  Was. Manor grimaced, gut tightening. His brain was still reeling from Castle's stunning report that Steele had been shot and killed. What a stupid, senseless tragedy!

  Manor forced himself to focus. He had to act quickly, before a staggeringly corrupt Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department managed to cover its tracks. Over the next few hours, its damage-control artists would be scrambling frantically. Metro also would be vulnerable, though, before its cover-up wizards could plug holes and tie up loose ends. Manor was acutely aware that time was evaporating—and Metro had a head start.

  Based on data he was digesting, Manor harbored no doubts that the Metro machine was already in full-blown cover-up mode. Streaming Internet video from Vegas TV stations had proven that. Some Metro captain had given a surprisingly detailed statement about the Steele killing, claiming Erik had been "acting erratically" inside the Ho's-Summerlin store.

  Of course, Comet had been armed with a concealed weapon, which had been spotted by an employee, who placed an emergency call to Metro. The portly, arrogant spokesman�
��a late-forties officer named Michael Greel—claimed "the suspect pulled a weapon, forcing our officers to fire." The suspect might have been "on medication or drugs that caused him to act erratically."

  Manor shook his head in disgust. What a crock! That shifty-eyed Metro spokesman had exuded the credibility of a skunk swearing he didn't stink, because he used a leading brand deodorant.

  The head of Checkmate lifted his eyes and stared, unseeing, at a dense stand of broad-leafed trees. The forest pressed against a faded cedar fence that marked the boundary of Manor's large, impeccably landscaped yard. Cicadas were wailing, their synchronized cacophony rising in volume, peaking, then fading. A heavy, moisture-laden breeze carried the scent of hot, rotting vegetation.

  Decision made, Manor rapidly typed a series of bullet points into the iPad. He studied the screen, expanded a few, rearranged them and tapped Save. The Checkmate director pulled a highly modified iPhone from his shorts' cargo pocket, touched a number and waited.

  "Watch officer. Krepps speaking. Secure line," a voice clipped.

  "Secure here. Hey, Danny. Gray Manor."

  "Yeah, saw your ID pop up. What's on the Grays' grill this fine Saturday?"

  "I lost an agent in Las Vegas a few hours ago. Shot to death by three dumb-ass cops. Major screw-job, it appears. Consequently, I need your help."

  "Christ! That's two folks within… two, three weeks?"

  Manor's lips tightened to a thin strip. "Right. Both killed in Vegas by Metro police officers. Both under very suspicious circumstances. And both of my guys supposedly 'pulled a gun.' That's total bullshit, but I don't have time to explain. I need your help ASAP. Time's short."

  "Always is. You got it," Krepps said, all business.

  In short, efficient phrases, Manor outlined his requirements. Krepps read them back, verifying he hadn't missed anything.

  "Obtaining clearance from the Air Force for Gremlin support might take awhile, but I'll task our spooks to work the cell phone issue right away. I'll get back to you, as soon as it's active." The watch officer hesitated, then added, "Sorry 'bout your agent, Gray. We'll nail these bastards. Count on it."