The Permit

by William B. Scott

  "You bet! Stux-Kilo's scarfing up some great stuff at Metro! Check the server for juicy internal e-mails I've been firing to ya. The cop-roaches are reeling from Joe-public's outrage over Steele's shooting!"

  Characteristically, the hyperactive Preston jinked and changed the subject.

  "Hey! Want me to get you a hotel room?"

  "No, thanks," Manor said. "I'll stay at Nellis."

  A retired general officer would warrant VIP lodging—and treatment—at the Air Force base northeast of Las Vegas. At one of the high-rise Strip hotels, he'd be just another faceless guest.

  "One thing you can do, Nat. Find us a quiet, out-of-the-way place for the team briefing. Make sure it's private. Very private."

  "You got it. Wanta shoot me some prelim info on the new gig, so I can get spooled up? You called it… ?"

  "I didn't. Code name is Operation Gold Shield. And it's ultra-classified. There will be no e-trail or hard copies of anything to do with Shield. Understand?"

  Nat was silent a long moment. "No-shit deep-black op?"

  The DHS liaison was too flippant and glib for Manor's taste, but the guy was smart.

  "Yes, it is. And that brings me to the last item. As soon as possible, go directly to Sheriff Alex Uriah and give him this message: 'DHS intel has reliable information that Las Vegas is in imminent danger of a near-term biowarfare attack by sleeper cell terrorists. The bio agent is an extremely dangerous, genetically modified strain of the H5N1 avian flu virus, which can be easily deployed as an airborne vector.'"

  "Holy shit, Batman! What's Uriah going to do?"

  "Tell him that a DHS courier will be hand-carrying a limited supply of protective vaccine to Vegas this weekend. The Department of Homeland Security has decreed that this vaccine be administered only to high-ranking, key first responders. We simply don't have enough serum available to take care of all two-thousand-plus Metro police officers.

  "Therefore, Uriah should identify his fifteen-to-twenty most critical people, and have them in his office at oh-nine-hundred next Monday morning. A team of DHS personnel will be there to inoculate the selected officers."

  "Will our team be getting one of those shots first?" asked Preston, obviously concerned.

  Manor laughed. "Nat, there's no damned bird flu danger. And you sure as hell do not want any of the 'vaccine' I'm bringing. This is the first phase of Gold Shield."

  "I see! And you're the courier? Cripes! That must be super-bad juju!"

  "I'll brief you and the rest of the team on Sunday. You make sure Uriah and all of his bad boys are in that office Monday morning. And Nat… ," Manor paused for effect.

  "Yes, sir?" Preston was locked-on.

  "I'm sure Uriah will choose his most loyal, most corrupt, inner-circle staff members. But do whatever you deem necessary to make sure two specific bodies are in that room with their sleeves rolled up: Sheriff Alex Uriah and Captain Michael Greel. Got it?"

  "You got it, boss. What about the assholes who shot Comet? Want them, too?"

  "No. They're too low on the totem pole. Uriah wouldn't buy that. For now, the three shooters are irrelevant."

  "Shit. Well, if those three little pigs ever pop their heads out of the 'irrelevant' slop bucket, I'll be glad to turn 'em into bacon," Nat fumed. Although a DHS liaison and brilliant techno-geek, Nat liked to think of himself as a field operator.

  Manor chuckled, "You're alright, Nat. For now, just make sure we have Uriah and his tier-one criminals lined up. Copy?"

  Nat assured him that Metro's finest would be in place Monday.

  Manor broke the connection, then tapped another name on the iPhone's short roster. Rico Rodolfo answered with the Checkmate operator standard: "Yes?" No name or identification, per protocol.

  "Bishop here. Confirmed secure," Manor said.

  "Castle's secure. What's up, sir?"

  "First, a big thanks for loading all those news stories about Erik's case onto the Checkmate server. They've been very helpful. Your interviews have been excellent, too."

  Manor hesitated. "Erik was obviously a good friend."

  "Yes, sir. The best." It was a strained reply. "I'm in the process of uploading photos and video clips I took at Ho's today."

  Rico capsulized Kat's descriptions of Erik's actions inside, as well as the gut-wrenching, fatal encounter with Metro cops.

  "I'm a hundred-percent sure Erik did not touch his weapon, sir! Hell, he didn't have time to do anything!"

  Manor strained to hear, while an eighteen-wheeler roared past his Range Rover. He decided against telling Castle about the Ho's video Nat Preston's Stux-Kilo worm had snagged from Metro's network. Rodolfo was a proven Checkmate asset, with successful kill-missions to his credit, but he also was emotionally fragile right now. An accidental leak, during an interview or conversation, could compromise Operation Gold Shield. He couldn't take that risk.

  "Then the Ho's video data will prove Erik was murdered," Manor said tersely. "Meanwhile, we have work to do."

  The Checkmate director outlined his plan to be in Las Vegas over the weekend, and why.

  "Rook's still out of the country, so I'm relying on you as our Vegas point man for this initial phase. Please notify the team that I'll be briefing everybody on our new mission at a meeting on Sunday. Time and location will be posted on the secure Checkmate website."

  "Got it," Rico said. "Sir… . Are we going after the bastards who killed Erik?"

  Manor paused a few seconds. "We are. But our new tasking is much bigger than Erik's murder. We're dealing with a critical national security threat. This operation's been in the planning stages for a while, but Erik's slaughter was definitely the spark that lit the fuse."

  Manor outlined the first element of Gold Shield—inoculations of Metro's leaders on Monday.

  "You're a qualified EMT, right?" Rico confirmed that he'd trained and worked as an emergency medical technician, while in college. "Then you're the designated DHS med-tech giving shots to those cops on Monday."

  "Gladly, sir. Will we be briefed about the 'bugs' you're bringing?"

  "Only top-level info for the other agents," Manor clipped. "You'll get an in-depth briefing, because you'll be handling the 'vaccine.' I guarantee you don't want to accidentally stick a hypo in your thumb."

  The men reviewed logistics details, then signed off.

  Rodolfo touched a photo of a handsome, smiling Erik Steele taped to the computer's brushed-aluminum frame. When Rico showed up at Metro's headquarters on Monday, he would be Castle, Checkmate's most experienced cardiac expert, a counterterrorism covert operator with five off-the-books kills.

  But it would be Rico Rodolfo—Erik's friend, hunting buddy, confidant and Cardiac Response Corporation teammate—who jabbed needles into the arms of senior Las Vegas Metro cops.

  I hope every one of those bastards dies a slow, painful death, he thought.

  Several would.

  CHAPTER 15

  RESTRAINT

  "He who is slow to anger

  is better than the mighty.

  And he who rules his spirit,

  than he who captures a city."

  Proverbs 16:32

  LAS VEGAS

  Unable to sleep, Win Steele wandered through the compact living room of his late son's rented condominium. A sliding-glass door opening onto a golf course admitted faint predawn light. Faux-marble flooring was cool and soothing beneath his bare feet. The master-bedroom door was closed. Maybe Kyler was getting some much-needed rest.

  Win spotted a copy of his coauthored book, Counterspace, on an expensive marble coffee table. He opened it to the title page and read a handwritten inscription. He'd signed it shortly after the novel's release the previous September. A dog-eared page suggested Erik had not finished the techno-thriller.

  So much unfinished, Win agonized. The condo still held a hint of Erik's presence, like a shadow that somehow persisted, after the body that created it had vanished. The air had a distinctive scent that reminded Win of his son.

&
nbsp; Near the front door, a desk was cluttered with the tools of a young professional's trade: Leather Franklin planner, laptop computer, to-do lists compiled in Erik's distinctive bold scrawl, a container of pens, several notebooks and a pile of Cardiac Response Corporation technical brochures.

  A plastic file box, sandwiched between a gas-log fireplace and an expansive, nine-foot-tall bookcase, was overflowing with neatly labeled folders. A couple of unwashed drinking glasses were in the kitchen sink and a half-full pitcher of blueberries blended with Living Fuel protein powder sat in the refrigerator. A Canon multifunction printer's control panel was illuminated.

  Every item was waiting, frozen in time, locked in gut-wrenching suspended animation. Although silent now, the residence and its contents fairly shrieked, I'll be right back!

  But Erik would never again walk through that door, sit on this sofa, drink the rest of that blueberry-and-Living Fuel concoction, watch the news or a movie on that big-screen TV… or finish Counterspace. His life had been abruptly, cruelly terminated in the span of a few heartbeats. Not paused, not interrupted. Ended!

  Detritus of a stolen life, Win thought, scanning the room. Why, Dear God? Why was Erik murdered?

  Fighting tears and crushing chest pain, he stood at a counter separating the dining area and kitchen. He absently examined items the Clark County Public Administrator's office had confiscated, then returned to Kyler. The random nature of those articles was striking.

  Why would the PA snatch these, while leaving high-dollar watches in the closet and a stack of valuable, collector-grade rifles under the bed? Totally illogical—unless one accepted that the PA and his Metro sidekick had found and stolen precisely what they wanted: Several of Erik's firearms. But why?

  From a second bag, Win retrieved a tube of ChapStick lip moisturizer fortified with SPF-15 sunblock. His fair-skinned, red-haired son always carried protective lip balm. Win removed the cap and studied the pale, waxy substance. Its edges were rounded off.

  This touched Erik's lips. His DNA is on that stick, Win thought, staring at the balm. He felt an overpowering urge to smear the salve on his own lips. It was macabre, almost obscene, but he desperately wanted that cream-colored gel in contact with his own lips. It was a connection, a way to touch Erik one last time.

  That's too damned weird, he concluded, angrily jamming the cap in place. God, I'm going nuts!

  For perhaps the thousandth time, he wondered how a parent could survive such heart-searing pain—the absolute impossibility of facing another day, knowing that a priceless son had been seized without mercy, snatched from life, never to return. And for no sensible reason.

  "Hey, Dad." Kyler appeared behind his father. Eyelids were puffy, and bloodshot brown eyes stated the obvious. "Get any sleep?"

  "Damned little. Kat's account was too graphic. The high-def mind-movie wouldn't stop. Played all night, over and over.

  "How 'bout you, son?"

  Kyler yawned and ran a hand through pillow-scrunched dark hair. "If I did, it wasn't much. I finally got up and worked on this."

  He extended a yellow legal pad.

  Win glanced over a long list of tasks.

  Just like his mom.

  "Good plan, Big Guy. Can you handle most of it? Link has me lined up for a batch of media interviews. I'll be running all over town today."

  "Yeah. This morning, I'll work with Diana to outline a memorial service. She and Max said they'd take care of all the arrangements."

  Despite being devastated by their close friend's death, Max Decimus and his wife, Andrea, had been rock solid, invaluable allies. They had suggested Layna stay in Sacramento, until later in the week, while Max, Diana and the wife of another friend set up next Saturday's service. Layna was still reeling from two family fatalities, and this would spare her another agonizing burden.

  Win and Kyler discussed logistics details, then headed for separate showers. It was going to be a busy, gut-devouring day, but the demands of "gotta-dos" would keep that horrible, inescapable truth at arms length: Erik was gone.

  * *

  LAS VEGAS/KWNV STUDIO

  Ned Scott, a senior reporter and anchor for Channel 7, The Voice of Nevada, greeted Win and Link Mann in the lobby of KWNV's studios. Scott expressed heartfelt condolences, while leading them to a darkened soundstage. Bright lights and fabric reflectors mounted on adjustable stands created a patch of stark illumination around two chairs.

  "I'll start with a few questions about Erik. The community needs to know more about your son," Ned explained, while a technician fixed a microphone to Win's shirt collar.

  "But this is your show. Say whatever's on your mind."

  As investigative reporters, Ned and Win had known each other for at least eight years, sharing tips and tidbits of information about "black aircraft" programs. That history had established a level of professional respect and trust.

  The technician seated Win facing Ned, the bank of blinding lights, and a high-definition TV camera. Link Mann parked himself near a black-painted wall, barely visible.

  "Ready… We're on," the camera operator announced.

  "Win, tell us about your son, Erik Steele."

  For the next twenty minutes, Win capsulized his son's impressive life: An active, mischievous, happy boy, who played football in high school, displayed early leadership qualities as student body vice president, won the Catholic school's coveted Scholar Athlete award, and secured an appointment to the U.S. Military Academy at West Point. There, he played 150-pound varsity football, majored in Spanish with a minor in Systems Engineering, graduated in the top quarter of his class, and was commissioned an Army second lieutenant.

  "What did he do in the Army?" Scott asked.

  "Erik 'branched' to Armor," Win continued, "and was a tank platoon commander in M1A2 tanks, assigned to the First Cavalry at Fort Hood, Texas. He was a very good leader, and received a number of commendations.

  "For example, the first time his unit rotated to Fort Irwin, a huge desert training complex in Southern California, the commander parked Erik's platoon way over on the West side, noting, 'You won't see any action over here.' But that's exactly where the Opposition Force rolled through.

  "When his tanks started taking hits, Erik kept trying to figure out, 'Who's targeting us?' He spotted an OH-fifty-eight Kiowa Warrior helicopter, fitted with a mast-mounted sight, hovering behind a hill. He knew that helicopter was targeting his tanks and was responsible for his people taking hits.

  "So, on his own initiative, Erik directed two of his tanks to turn their big guns and aim at a certain spot. He said, 'On my command, FIRE!,' just as the helicopter popped up. They nailed the bird with their MILES system 'laser-tag' cannons.

  "The exercise observers said they'd never seen such an innovative tactic. As a result, they awarded Erik the Army Achievement Medal.

  "That was typical. He was always an innovator — and an excellent leader."

  Win summarized Erik's post-Army business career, focusing on his success in medical sales and commercial real estate, particularly in Las Vegas.

  "At the time of his death, he was a sales rep for Cardiac Response Corporation, selling and servicing pacemakers, which included assisting doctors and heart patients at all hours.

  "Erik was the kind of remarkable man that made a father very, very proud."

  "When did he go to Duke University?" Ned asked.

  "While here in Las Vegas, working full time, he dove into the Cross-Continent program at Duke, and received his Masters of Business Administration degree in May of oh-three."

  "Was there anything in his personality that might explain the events that unfolded here?" Scott asked. "Like being…confrontational? I think I know the answer, but go ahead and tell me, from the position of a dad."

  "Obviously I don't know the details of what happened," Win said. "We'll have to wait until the investigation is completed. However, extremely good, first-hand reports from credible people within six, eight feet of Erik tell a much different story
than what Metro's putting out through the media. A lot different! The eyewitness accounts are much more consistent with the Erik I know. That is, when things are dicey, he would become very calm. Erik was always cool and calm, under fire.

  "If I were in a really tough situation, there are two guys I want with me: Erik, and my other son, Kyler." The elder Steele paused and cleared his throat. "They just don't get more solid than those two."

  "Are you concerned that people will try to find dirt, or trump up something from his background? Anything that might be blown into something that it's not?"

  "Of course. As a reporter, Ned, you know that a story can be created from just about anything. But I'm confident that any honest person won't find any skeletons in Erik's past. However, there will be attempts to discredit him. That's Metro's standard MO."

  Taken aback by the blunt accusation, Scott changed the subject. "Have you been able to piece together a picture of what went down? You've spoken to his girlfriend, who was right there with him, about this 'tearing through merchandise, reaching for a gun.' From what you can tell, how accurate are the reports we've been reading in the paper?"

  "I'm not going to get into the details of what we know or don't know, Ned. But I will say that those reports are grossly inaccurate. Believe me, we have a pretty good picture of what happened."

  "What can you tell me about Erik's training and familiarity with guns? Why would he be carrying one?"

  "Erik had a legal concealed-carry permit, issued by Metro, the same outfit that killed him. It was not unusual for him to carry a weapon. He once said, 'Dad, in my job, I go into some rough areas of Las Vegas.'

  "And, as you know, Ned, Las Vegas has been plagued by crime—home invasions and such—since the economy collapsed. Erik carried a firearm for personal protection. His permit certified that he was of sound mind, had completed the proper training, and had a clean background."

  "Hold it there, okay?" the camera operator interrupted.

  As he loaded a fresh tape, Ned said, off-camera, "That's great, Win. Exactly what everybody needs to hear."