The Permit

by William B. Scott

  "Happens to be the same cartel that took delivery of those heavy-duty weapons our patriotic ATF and Attorney General allowed to 'walk' over the border under the Fast and Furious program.

  "With help from Galocci and Captain Mikey Greel's secret cadre of rogue Metro cops, the cartel has quietly established a gang of brutal Mexican killers in Las Vegas. Stand by for bodies without heads showing up all over town.

  "Combine rogue cops and Mexican gangs, and what do we have? The deadliest terrorist sleeper cell inside Uncle Sam's borders."

  Manor nodded slowly, the full import of Todd's shock-jock briefing dawning.

  "And you want Checkmate to go after them, because some higher-up tagged them as terrorists."

  "Mmmm…sorta. Gotta think bigger, son. Mexican gangs infiltrating Las Vegas, aided and abetted by bad cops and gaming moguls, could be handled by the FBI — maybe. If the good senior senator from Nevada didn't cut 'em off at the pass, of course.

  "No, here's the issue that makes this a national security concern," Bright asserted. "If all these factors come together under the right circumstance—something as abominable as Steele's execution—all hell will break loose, and uncontainable violence will spread across the country.

  "A three-way shooting war among Mexican gangs, an army of pissed off citizens—including highly trained military vets—and gunned-up, over-aggressive cops just in Las Vegas would be bad enough.

  "But what if shooting wars also explode in Los Angeles, Detroit, Atlanta, New Orleans, Dallas, Houston, Birmingham, Miami, Philadelphia, New York, and—God forbid—the District of Columbia? We'd have a full-blown revolution on our hands. Whole cities would be torched, and we'd incur thousands of casualties. The stock market would crater, people would be afraid to go to work… .

  "Hell, son, America as we know it would cease… to… be!" The last words were emphasized by a clenched fist repeatedly pounding the high-gloss table.

  "And how's Checkmate supposed to prevent that?" Manor asked calmly.

  "Operation Gold Shield," Bright clipped. He called up a new slide. Over the next ten minutes, Todd outlined the most outlandish covert operation Gray Manor had ever encountered. Nothing in his Special Operations experience came close. Gold Shield was a high-risk, ruthless campaign unlike anything a U.S. military officer could imagine.

  "Sir, with all due respect," Manor began, his voice thin and strained, "this operation could be construed as downright seditious. Maybe even treasonous! Accepting this mission virtually guarantees every member of Checkmate could spend the rest of his life in prison. It's ludicrous!"

  "Maybe so. But a lot of very smart people with pay grades much higher than ours are convinced it's the only way to avoid a calamitous revolution that could rip the United States apart. Gold Shield forces the guilty parties to clean up their police departments on their own. Or else."

  "But… Our… ?" Manor was visibly stunned.

  He'd wandered into a Twilight Zone, another dimension, where darkness reigned and nothing, absolutely nothing, made sense. Combat he could handle. He'd killed Iraqi insurgents, Taliban fanatics and al Qaeda zealots, and ordered dozens more "takedowns" via methods that damn few sheltered, naive Americans could imagine. But three decades-plus in the Marine Corps hadn't prepared him for the insanity Todd Bright had broached.

  "Todd, I… I can't do this!" Manor sputtered. "It runs counter to every fiber of my being. Violates the oath… ."

  "Bullshit!" Bright bellowed. "You raised your hand and took an oath to protect the Constitution and this nation against all enemies, foreign and domestic! Remember that? Been a hell of a long spell, since U.S. troops had to live up to the 'domestic' part of their oath, but that time has come.

  "Son, America's very existence is threatened by this exceedingly dangerous enemy within. Checkmate is our only means of taking it out, and you, General Manor, are the only leader capable of executing Gold Shield!"

  Manor's glare silently screamed that he didn't buy Bright's argument. Not one whit of it.

  "Sir, if you're implying that this is an order, then I respectfully refuse on the grounds that I perceive it to be unlawful. 'Just following orders' didn't fly at Nuremberg in the forties, and it sure as hell won't fly in U.S. courts today!

  "I'm not going to be left hanging out there, swinging in the wind with a team of loyal Checkmate pros, when this crazy-assed Gold Shield shit hits the fan. And the evening news!"

  Bright rose, retrieved a single sheet from his desk, and spun it across the table.

  "You won't be alone," he grunted. "We'll both swing in good company."

  Manor intercepted the heavy parchment. A familiar seal and elegant gold lettering graced the top. He read a single paragraph quickly, then glanced at Bright, leathery features registering disbelief.

  "I'll be go-to-hell," he whispered.

  "Naw," Bright chuckled. "Super-Max in Colorado, maybe. But not Hell."

  "How in the Lord's name… ?"

  "Wasn't easy, for damned sure!" Bright growled. "I gave him the same briefing last Friday. The guy ripped several new orifices in my posterior, challenging every bloody point. You're a toothless kitten in comparison!"

  Manor nodded slowly, digesting an outrageous directive he knew he could not, would not reject: "… is hereby ordered to implement Operation Gold Shield in the most expeditious manner. The full resources of the United States government are at your disposal… . The gravity and criticality of your mission cannot be overstated. The nation's very survival is at stake… ."

  Yadda yadda…

  Manor stared at a bold scrawl across the order's lower-right sector. The signature was that of his commander-in-chief, the president of the United States of America.

  CHAPTER 11

  ALLIES & ANGELS

  "They wear so many faces,

  show up in the strangest places

  To grace us with their mercy,

  in our time of need."

  Angels Among Us

  by Alabama

  COLORADO SPRINGS, COLORADO

  Win Steele angled into his home's driveway and punched the garage door's remote. He parked, twisted the ignition key to OFF, leaned against the Volvo's head restraint and closed his eyes.

  Although exhausted, he'd hardly blinked, during the seventy-plus-mile drive from Denver International Airport. Sleep wasn't in the cards. Not as long as his brain incessantly replayed the god-awful movie of Erik being shot to death.

  Will that endless-loop, horror flick ever cease? Hell, will I ever sleep again?

  The anguished father climbed out, shouldered a briefcase and dragged a two-suiter into a spacious, warmly decorated kitchen. An orange-and-white cat with muted tiger stripes ambled into the room, greeting Win with an angry meow-grunt.

  'Bout time you got home, its grouchy tone implied.

  "Hey, Custer. Good to see you, too," Win muttered. He wheeled the suitcase around a natural-rock fireplace, checking furniture for cat damage. A peaked cathedral ceiling arced above a living room reminiscent of a mountain lodge. A wall of windows overlooked a needle-covered yard of fifty-to-seventy-foot-tall Ponderosa pines.

  Win parked the suitcase, detoured into his bay-windowed office, and dropped into a high-back leather chair. A desk phone's message light was blinking. Seventeen voicemails. They could wait.

  He punched a speed-dial key and waited for Layna's soft "Hello." For several minutes, he and his life-partner discussed unpleasant gotta-dos. She was still remarkably "together," although pain and shock were evident in her muted tone.

  Win repeatedly expressed concern about her well-being. As a master-degreed counselor and social worker, Layna had guided clients through the nightmare of losing a child and was acutely familiar with death's cataclysmic impacts. Now she had lost a son in a hail of bullets, one week after burying her father. How much could even this strong woman tolerate?

  True to form, though, the pretty lady was resorting to "Layna's List" as a survival strategy. Focusing on have-to-dos was how she co
ped, pushing the stark, awful truth aside in these early hours of shock, disbelief and agony.

  The couple discussed myriad tasks demanding attention: When and how should they each get to Las Vegas? Their other son, Kyler, had driven to Sin City that Sunday morning and was meeting with Erik's friends and an attorney.

  Funeral arrangements: When? Church or an alternative? Traditional religious and somber, or an upbeat, celebration-of-life memorial service?

  Because Erik's will and living trust dictated that the body he'd worn for thirty-eight-plus years be cremated and its ashes scattered over the Pacific Ocean, there would be no casket or viewing. Neither mentioned the too-painful possibility of seeing Erik's bullet-riddled body.

  Win scribbled a list, as Layna suggested clothes, pictures, artifacts, etc. that he should gather and take to Nevada. She also vetoed his plan to depart for Vegas that afternoon.

  "You have to get some rest," she insisted. "If you fall asleep and drive off a mountain road… . I wouldn't survive that."

  She was right, of course. A night of decent rest was highly unlikely, though.

  After strained good-byes and love yas, Win stared across a well-worn oak desk, not really seeing the fluttering aspens and stately ponderosas beyond his bay window. His body physically ached, as if he'd been karate-kicked. And his mind kept firing haphazardly, refusing to focus on a task for more than a few seconds.

  Remembering one of them, he retrieved the iPhone Violet had delivered, located its Contacts list, and tapped the only name that popped up. Doc Black answered on the second ring.

  "Hey, Doc. Win here. Just got home."

  "Win… Good Lord. I am soooo sorry, my friend. So sorry. I can't begin to imagine what you're going through. How are you doing?"

  Steele hesitated and drew a ragged breath, struggling for control. "Been better, Doc. How did you find out, anyway?"

  "Through Northcom [U.S. Northern Command]. Your new 'sponsor' talked to your publisher last night. You were in her office, right?"

  Win recounted the exchange with Violet, signing the contract, and being surprised to learn that Doc would be his contact.

  "I won't be working on Atlas Attacks for God knows how long," Steele warned. "Right now, top priority is getting to Vegas and finding out what the hell happened. Something went terribly wrong, Doc."

  "It damn sure did." Black hesitated, then continued, "Assuming Vegas has a professional police department, the chief will get in touch, as soon as he knows you're in town," he explained, choosing his words carefully.

  "The Vegas top-cop is a sheriff, I hear."

  "Okay," Doc replied. "Maybe a combined city-county department. Anyway, the sheriff will sit down with you, explain what he knows, and promise to keep you apprised, throughout the investigation. The officers involved—the shooters—will be put on administrative leave, until a determination of fault or justification is made."

  The former Colorado lawman gave a thumbnail sketch of processes and procedures Win could expect to encounter. Witnesses would be interviewed, forensic evidence scrutinized, and every officer who was on-site would be grilled about every conceivable detail by homicide detectives. In addition, the local district attorney might open a separate, independent investigation. That was the norm, when police officers were involved in a civilian's death.

  "Officer-involved shootings are taken very seriously," Doc concluded. "Every police chief and sheriff knows shootings like this invariably wind up in court, either as criminal cases or civil lawsuits. That's why the sheriff and DA will make damned sure they've nailed down every single fact. They have an obligation to make sure you and your family are kept abreast of whatever they discover.

  "Erik was killed almost twenty-four hours ago," Black summarized. "I guarantee the sheriff already has a pretty good idea of what occurred, and is stepping out to make sure those responsible for Erik's death account for their actions."

  None of that would happen.

  Doc Black and Win Steele were living in "Old America," a land of honest police officers, district attorneys and judges. A land of law and order, where victims were assured of justice, and the guilty paid for their crimes.

  But Nevada's wealthy power brokers had abandoned such naive, constitutionally guaranteed concepts long ago. Instead, they had instituted a bizarre, self-serving system that attracted, hired, shaped, coddled and protected a cadre of corrupt killers to ensure millions of dollars continued to flow into the city.

  Win Steele was about to enter an amoral nether world: Las Vegas, Nevada.

  * *

  MONDAY/EASTERN UTAH

  Interstate 70's four lanes stretched to the horizon. Dual bands of pavement climbed and dipped, then disappeared into heat-warped desert canyons and weathered ochre rock formations.

  A Douglas Preston audio-book thriller helped the time pass, but didn't keep that repulsive mind-movie at bay. Win's thoughts repeatedly strayed into a why and what-if labyrinth.

  Hard to believe, but less than seventy-two hours ago, Win had met and talked to Preston. The best-selling author had recalled reviewing Steele's coauthored Space Wars book and penning a complimentary cover quote for it.

  How could the world have flipped upside down so fast?

  Within hours, Steele had gone from the high of his first Thriller Writers International conference to the bottomless pit of his son being murdered.

  Murdered!

  A steady flow of e-mails and Internet articles—many with heart-wrenching accounts and quotes from Ho's customers, who'd witnessed Erik being shot to death—left little doubt that nothing he had done warranted being executed.

  Somebody screwed up, Win concluded.

  In Green River, Utah, he stopped for gas and forced a sandwich down. He still had no appetite, but the body demanded fuel, or it would give out.

  Accelerating up the I-70 on-ramp, Steele briefly paralleled, then slipped behind, a black BMW X5 SUV with Nevada license plates.

  Like the one Erik owned.

  The thought surfaced and was gone in an instant, but triggered another wave of sickening despair. He desperately craved a means of relief, something to curb the ceaseless torment. Tears would help, but they wouldn't come, supplanted by a seething anger that threatened to erupt as who-knows-what savagery.

  Win again whispered a prayer, asking for strength, understanding, relief… and clarity of purpose. He concluded with a haunting question: What am I supposed to do, God?

  In the span of a heartbeat, he heard the answer: Give it to Me.

  Words erupted, uttered aloud in a turbulent, strained torrent. "Lord, please take this burden from me. I give it over to you, God. If it's Your will, You hold accountable those responsible for Erik's murder. This war is too damned big for me to handle!

  "Use me as a tool, a vehicle for manifesting Your will here in the Earth-plane. I completely and totally release the accountability issue to You. You have the stick, Lord. I'm your back-seater, along for the flight.

  "And please, please protect my family and me from the evil we're being forced to confront. God, thank you for the protection, blessings and strength of your infinite love."

  The Volvo's humming tires sounded the same. The narrator's rich voice continued to advance the plot of Preston's gripping tale. The Sun still blasted the interstate highway's seamed and cracked concrete, heat-warping its lanes into wavy mirages.

  But Win's being was gradually, slowly transformed. A quiet calmness settled over the anguished father, a palpable manifestation of assurance from afar. Somehow, a weight was removed from aching neck and shoulders. The invisible band of steel around his chest remained, but relaxed a couple of clicks.

  Steele knew that feeling. The same quiet assurance had enveloped him the moment he'd jumped from that doomed Canadair Challenger business jet, seconds before it crashed and exploded. As it had then, a bubble of protection surrounded him, and a higher power whispered, You're going to be okay.

  Back then, the parachute had opened as advertised, and he'd e
xecuted a perfect parachute-landing-fall the second his boots hit the desert sand. Today, God and his angels again had reassured him that they were onboard, protecting and handling the big stuff.

  Then the miracles began, manifesting in God's subtle, yet unmistakable manner.

  * *

  Win again reflected on Doc Black's cryptic sign-off comment on Sunday: "You'll receive assistance from unlikely allies. Any messages you get on that iPhone, you can trust."

  Doc probably knew more, but wasn't cleared to share it. Nevertheless, Win had been simultaneously humbled and annoyed. Assistance from "unlikely allies" was greatly appreciated. But, unless he had some inkling of who was providing it, how could he trust information that magically popped up on the bat-phone? How would he know, for sure, that Northcom and other unidentified allies were really on his side? After all, Northcom was a government entity, and a smaller animal of the same species had executed his son.

  Win was convinced the Las Vegas police department was covering its tracks at lightning speed, erecting an age-old "Blue Wall" to protect its uniformed killers. Metro would be a formidable enemy, and would not hesitate to steamroll Win Steele and his allies.

  A bigger and badder gorilla than Metro. That's the ally I really need, he mused, changing lanes to pass a three-trailer FedEx truck. One name came to mind, a man who definitely qualified as "bigger and badder," given his background and deep-black associations. He had run covert operations around the globe.

  If Win's hunch was correct, this guy now headed a powerful, off-the-books force. And, by his own declaration, Mister Covert Ops was beholden to Win Steele.

  Their connection had come about through an unlikely fluke. He had met the man's daughter, Pam, and her two children in a life-and-death emergency. Years before, they'd been passengers on a Western Pacific Airlines Boeing 737, during a night landing in the midst of a snowstorm. Pam and the kids were sitting across the aisle from Steele.