The Permit

by William B. Scott

  But, in a flurry of mindless fear, senseless decisions and hail of bullets, that future had been snatched away. Now, Katrina Hart was a heartbroken almost-widow, a woman cheated of even a single blissful marital moment.

  Seated far behind Win and Kat, retired-general Gray Manor came to know a man he'd seen but once, in a brief recruiting meeting. Manor only knew Erik as Comet, an efficient, dependable Checkmate field operative, a professional who had taken his oath to America quite seriously. Who had answered a covert call to step up and defend his nation from enemies, both foreign and domestic, with cold, deadly professionalism.

  And only one other person in this room knew that side of Erik Steele.

  Manor leaned to his left and eyed Rico Rodolfo. Castle was having a tough time, repeatedly wiping his eyes and heaving deep sighs to compose himself. Manor would have a heart-to-heart with Rodolfo to ensure the agent remained focused and professional.

  Castle, a cardiovascular specialist and proven operative with a number of sleeper-cell kills, had recommended Erik be recruited into Checkmate. They also were good friends and Cardiac Response Corporation coworkers.

  Consequently, Manor was concerned about Castle's state of mind. The nascent Gold Shield campaign was far too important to risk compromise, if Castle reduced a professional assignment to personal revenge. Shield had much larger, more critical objectives.

  Manor had intended to slip out, before the service concluded, primarily to avoid being spotted by Sofia Knight or Castle. However, he stayed to the end, captivated by moving, heartfelt accounts of how Erik Steele had made a profound impact on so many lives. Manor was especially moved by a handsome former Army sergeant's tale. He and Erik had been high school buddies and football teammates.

  When the former star quarterback seemed to be drifting, Erik convinced his buddy to join the Army. The kid had excelled, first as a Ranger, then as a member of the spit-and-polish Old Guard at Arlington National Cemetery.

  "I got out of the Army and wasn't sure what to do next," the veteran recalled. "Erik set me down and said, 'You need to get a college degree.' He wrote out a plan, helped me get into night classes, and I got a degree. Then he helped me land a great sales job."

  Anecdotes about marriage, kids, and Erik being a solid pseudo-uncle for the guy's children evoked laughs and sniffles. But even Manor blinked away tears, when the young man choked up and squeaked, "But Erik's gone. Who's going to tell me what to do now?"

  The service ended on a poignant note, as an Army color guard solemnly folded an American flag. That's when Win fought hardest to keep the tears in check.

  Barely two years earlier, Erik had stood beside him on a cold afternoon, as Win accepted a star-studded blue triangle just like that, in honor of Win's late father.

  As veterans, Win and Erik had held flat-palm hand salutes, while the mournful notes of Taps drifted over the windswept gravesite of Army Air Corps Technical Sergeant Max Steele.

  Erik's with Dad, Win reflected.

  Through a blur, he watched an Army captain kneel and speak to Layna in hushed tones, expressing the familiar, heart-rending appreciation of a grateful nation. He then slowly, gently placed the folded flag in her palms.

  Oh, God! Why Erik?

  CHAPTER 18

  RAVENS AND RAPTORS

  "Retribution is a punishment

  that is morally right

  and fully deserved."

  Mitch Rapp

  American Assassin

  by

  Vince FLynn

  LAS VEGAS/GOLDSTRIKE HOTEL-CASINO

  Long after the Steele family and dozens of friends had gathered at Max and Diana Decimus's home for a post-memorial service dinner, Captain Mikey Greel was issuing orders to three of his Ravens.

  "Krupa, you know where the freight elevator is?"

  The cop nodded. Before being hired by Metro, he had worked as a security guard for the glitzy hotel.

  "I'll meet you in the ninety-second floor penthouse — the Nugget Suite. Move it."

  Officers Krupa, Kale Akaka and Loring Malovic, all wearing light-green hospital "scrubs" bearing an ambulance company's logo, wheeled a gurney across the freight dock of the Goldstrike, Antone Galocci's spectacular high-rise hotel-casino. The normally mouthy Krupa was subdued.

  Greel joined a stocky figure standing beside a smoke-gray, three-quarter-ton Chevy Suburban with tinted windows. The former Las Vegas Metro sheriff, Greel's ex-boss, dropped a cigarette and ground it out with the pointed toe of a western boot. He'd retired, after two terms, and was now Goldstrike's chief of security, pulling down a cool $350,000 a year.

  "You sure about them?" he asked, jerking a thumb at the three officers.

  "No problem, sir," Greel assured. "This is the first mission for two of 'em, but I'll keep an eye on 'em."

  Greel was in full uniform, playing the cover role as Metro's head of Homicide.

  "They're the bozos who shot that Steele kid, right?"

  "Yeah. The young one, Malovic, is kinda flaky. I wanted to get him 'blued' as a Raven right away. The other two are solid."

  The barrel-chested ex-lawman's black eyes searched Greel's.

  "Steele was a bad shoot, Mikey."

  "Sure as hell was. And on the heels of that Miles kid… ."

  "Antone's damn worried," the security chief interrupted. "You got a rope on this mess?"

  "Definitely! Tony's got nothin' to worry about. Everything's under control."

  "It better be," the ex-sheriff warned, extending a black plastic bag. "Mr. Galocci doesn't like surprises," he added, then turned and walked to the casino.

  Without checking its contents, Greel stuffed the sack into the Suburban's glove compartment, twisted a lock, and pocketed its key.

  Hardly certain that "everything's under control," Mikey Greel was increasingly apprehensive. His buttoned-up, tucked-in universe was fragmenting around him, as new demands piled onto old ones, faster than he could tie up loose ends.

  What the hell am I forgetting?

  * *

  "My God," breathed Officer Loring Malovic. "Who did that?"

  A shapely, nude woman was spread-eagled, face down, on a California-king bed. Arms and legs were bound to four corner posts—heavy, hand-carved structures towering six feet above the room's sculpted beige carpet. A black belt adorned with silver, star-shaped studs was cinched tightly around the girl's neck, its free end snaking across her back's creamy skin. A mane of golden hair failed to conceal a shocking truth: The woman's head was bent at an impossible angle.

  "Not your concern, rookie," growled Mikey Greel, approaching the awestruck cops. "However, stick this factoid in your pea brain: Mexico's baddest-of-the-bad-cartel warlords was riding this pony less than two hours ago, and got carried away."

  The rest he left to his Ravens' imaginations.

  "We got him in custody," Akaka stated flatly, not as a question.

  Greel laughed, a harsh bark. "Not exactly! Senor Bad-A is on a private jet, halfway to Mexico City by now!"

  Greel flicked a hand at the body. "Get her packed up. The owner wants this mess cleaned up, pronto."

  Greel tossed a handful of blue Latex gloves to an ashen Malovic, accompanied by a glare.

  Krupa and Akaka untied the girl's arms, as Malovic gently loosened leather straps cinched around each blood-streaked ankle.

  Krupa knelt on the bed, reaching for the studded belt, when Greel barked, "Don't touch that, dumb ass!"

  The strap had cut deeply into the blond's throat. Relieving its pressure could unleash a torrent of blood.

  The phony EMTs spread an olive-drab body bag beside the nude and log-rolled her limp form onto the stiff, reinforced plastic. Krupa held the woman's cranium to kept it aligned with a model's voluptuous torso, while Akaka and Malovic zipped the bag closed.

  As they strapped her body on the gurney, Greel stuffed skimpy clothing, high-heeled shoes and a beaded clutch purse into a hotel laundry sack.

  He made sure the hallway was clear, and waved th
e party out.

  "I'll meet you on the dock."

  Krupa and Akaka guided the gurney into the elevator, then down a ramp on the north end of a Goldstrike loading dock. Malovic opened the Suburban's rear doors and moved an EMT kit aside.

  Evening temperatures were still in the high nineties. Stifling heat radiated from spongy, oil-stained pavement. An odor of stale restaurant grease mixed with a dumpster's rotting refuse hovered over the service area.

  Sweat beads on their foreheads became rivulets, as the Ravens collapsed the gurney's undercarriage and shoved the mobile stretcher and its cargo into the vehicle.

  "You drive, Krupa," Greel ordered, climbing into the passenger position. Malovic and Akaka took the rear seats.

  In silence, Krupa threaded creep-and-crawl Saturday-night Strip traffic. Impatient drivers rarely deferred to the oversized Suburban's turn-signal pleas.

  Krupa finally reached Interstate 15, merged into its northbound lanes and navigated the flyover to U.S. 95-North. Thirty-plus miles northwest of the city, he slowed, turned onto a dirt road, and climbed into rugged desert hills. Soon, the Suburban was crawling along a dirt track of twin ruts.

  Greel was leaning over the dash, searching for the final turnoff, when the vehicle's left front wheel dropped into a deep pothole. Metal screeched and the gurney slammed forward, wedging between the rear captain chairs' padded armrests.

  "Watch it, dude!" Akaka yelled. Malovic shrunk from an unmistakable, plastic-encased lump, the woman's unhinged skull.

  Akaka cursed and shoved the padded gurney away. It slid aft, bounced off the rear doors and jammed against a sidewall. The Suburban continued to sway and bounce.

  "There! That's it," Greel called.

  Krupa swung onto an even rougher track, dropped into the lowest gear, and crept up a steep slope. He braked on a broad shelf, a dozen yards from a pile of yellow tailings.

  Wielding an industrial-grade flashlight, Greel led the Ravens to the yawning entrance of a long-abandoned mine shaft. It reeked of malevolence, the lair of a hidden shadow-monster. The gaping maw seemed to devour even faint starlight.

  "Stay away from that edge," he warned, raising the torch over his head.

  The bank fell away sharply. Akaka tossed a rock into the chasm. Seconds passed, before it bounced.

  "'Bout a hundred feet deep," he guessed.

  Krupa had the Suburban's rear doors open, and was trying to free the gurney.

  "Damn thing's stuck," he grunted. Malovic climbed inside, and jerked the other end loose. Krupa unstrapped the cargo, and grabbed its foot. Akaka took the head. Malovic followed them to the pit, where Greel waited, holding the flashlight.

  "On three," Krupa ordered. He and Akaka swung the body between them. "One, two, three!"

  The bag sailed over the pit's edge, bounced against the far wall, nosed over and disappeared into the black, trailed by a shower of gravel. A faint, sickening whomp emanated from the abyss. Greel pitched the sack of clothes, shoes and purse into the pit.

  Malovic fought the urge to puke.

  Holy Mother of God! That poor girl didn't deserve this! Murdered and discarded like yesterday's garbage.

  The long-legged, shapely blond was somebody's daughter or sister. Maybe the teacher of a third-grade class in Montana, or a hungry college student finishing her degree.

  She was one of many sexy, breast-enhanced young women who descended on McCarran Airport each Friday, arriving from all over America. Most were regulars — teachers, nurses, reporters, executive assistants, marketing reps, and who-knows-what other professions—who flew to Vegas every weekend.

  As dancers, hookers and expensive escorts, attractive girls could earn more in two days than they netted in a month back home. No taxes and no deductions for Social Security, health insurance or mandatory union dues. Fly in Friday, out on Sunday afternoon, and back on the job Monday.

  But the fly-ins tended to be dangerously naive. Fresh-faced beauties were easy prey for ruthless hunters, who prowled the clubs and strip joints, seeking companions for well-heeled clients. Flash a few thousand bucks, and the weekend imports would jump into a limousine and be whisked to one of the Strip's high-roller hotels.

  Sometimes, the bimbos were no more than eye candy, spending a boring evening on the arm of an aging Mafioso from Cleveland or Chicago, a wealthy Texas oil baron, or an Asian gambling tycoon.

  Increasingly, the less fortunate wound up as sex slaves for more-sinister types—drug-cartel butchers from Colombia, Mexico, Venezuela and the Pacific Rim.

  Of course, there was always a profusion of warped Arabs—weird, depraved Saudi princes and spoiled brats from wealthy royal families throughout the Middle East. They might be pious Muslims, who hit the prayer rugs five times a day in Sandland, but in Las Vegas, they were the most twisted creatures to emerge from a womb.

  Bottom line: Dozens of the fly-ins never went home. They simply disappeared, like the nameless lovely in that body bag.

  "Hey, rookie!" Greel called. The three officers were huddled beside the Suburban's open passenger door. As Malovic approached, Greel flipped him a stack of American green bound by a half-inch rubber band.

  Malovic caught it, startled. Greel was grinning, teeth faintly visible.

  "And more where that came from. Ravens live well, ya see? Very well!"

  "How… what… ?" Malovic stammered.

  "Ten grand. Krupa gets a thousand more than you cherries, 'cause he's a veteran. He's proven his worth."

  The message was loud-and-clear: Do as you're told, keep your trap shut and the money will flow.

  Malovic held the cash between his fingertips, as if it were a smelly dog turd. A wave of revulsion swept over him. Without a word, he circled the vehicle and climbed into the left-rear seat. Greel swung into the front, hooked an arm over the seat-back and glared at Malovic.

  "Got a problem, rookie-Raven?"

  Malovic eyed the wad of bills and shook his head.

  "Good," Greel said, barely audible. "I only keep loyal Ravens I can count on."

  Malovic turned and stared into the night.

  * *

  Loring Malovic pulled into his garage, jammed the remote and watched the door grind to a close. He lifted the lid of a Snap-On toolbox, dumped the contents of a cardboard box and inserted the stack of new, crisp bills. He then fished a folded Post-It note from a pocket, stuck it on the ten-grand, and re-read a message he'd scrawled earlier in the evening:

  Sandy: If you find this, I'm probably dead.

  * *

  LAS VEGAS/SUNDAY MORNING

  Gray Manor surveyed four grim faces around an oak dining table. In the kitchen, Nat Preston was pouring juice and coffee. Nat had opted to host the local Checkmate team in his own tile-and-stucco tract home.

  "Hell, I'm a bachelor!" he'd explained. "I guarantee it's more secure than any joint I could rent on short notice."

  Manor had hired all four of the operatives, including the Vegas team leader, Rook, several years before.

  Rook was the morning's surprise addition, having wrapped up his mission early. He'd caught a red-eye the night before, driven straight from the airport—and looked exhausted.

  "Thanks for rolling in so early on a Sunday," Manor began, flicking an appreciative glance to the team leader. "I'll be briefing you on a new Checkmate program that's critical to national security."

  He quickly summarized the information he and Rodolfo had assembled about the Erik Steele shooting, choosing to not share the blockbuster about that Ho's video Nat Preston had snagged from Metro's server.

  "There's no question that Comet was murdered by a scared, painfully stupid dick-head cop. The other two opened up in response to Krupa's unwarranted shots."

  "Sir, if I may… ," Rodolfo interjected. Manor nodded and flicked a hand impatiently. Although annoyed by the interruption, he reminded himself that this was not a general officer's staff meeting.

  "Yesterday, a doc friend and I went to the morgue and examined Comet's body." Manor frowned
and started to say something. "At the request of Erik's family, sir! No connection to Checkmate," Rodolfo assured quickly.

  "Why? What prompted that?" Rook asked.

  "Erik's dad and Sofia Knight, the family's lawyer, wanted first-hand confirmation of how many shots had been fired. Metro's been waffling on that point all week," Rodolfo explained.

  "And… ?" Manor urged.

  "Sir, Comet was shot seven times. Five in the back." With more detail than necessary, in Manor's opinion, Castle described every round's placement. "One went through his right thigh. The other six were entrance wounds, including one up through his butt-cheek. Comet was down and dying, but the bastards kept shooting!"

  Manor dipped his head and glanced at the others. All wore the same tight-jawed expression.

  Good. Appropriately pissed, he concluded.

  "Sir, why would these asses target Comet?" Rodolfo demanded. His dark features were flushed.

  The Checkmate chief carefully folded his hands, elbows propped on the table's edge. "Based on what we know, so far, I do not believe Comet was deliberately targeted. Sure, after Lashawn Miles was brutally executed, there's reason to suspect we've been compromised, and that Comet was taken out on purpose. But I don't think so."

  Manor ticked off his rationale for that belief, concluding, "I believe Comet simply ran into a firestorm of senseless arrogance, stupidity, fear and bad luck. Yes, our colleague is just as dead as if he had been targeted, but I do not think Checkmate has been compromised. Understand?"

  Four nods.

  "Sir, we're going after Erik's killers, right?" Rodolfo blurted. "You indicated something might… ."

  Manor raised a hand. "Hold on, Castle. Yes, we're going to respond. But with a campaign that's integral to a much larger mission, one with national-security objectives well beyond extracting justice on behalf of one murdered agent. Is that clear?"

  His unvarnished declaration had the intended impact. All eyes were locked on the Checkmate director.