The Permit

by William B. Scott

  "Holo bypasses the optics train, if you will. It directly targets a person's 'wet-ware computer' to create an image in the cortex, as if the guy were seeing it with his eyes.

  "To Greel, it registered as a hologram-like image of Erik Steele hovering in the room, but nothing was actually there. The 'ghost' existed only in his head."

  "One more and I'll shut up, sir: Why were we able to see the image?" the operator asked.

  Manor flashed a grin. "Same question I had, when I was briefed on Holo." He caught the burly Lawhead scientist's eye and nodded.

  "That bug-like sensor in Greel's bedroom was within the bio-static waveform's footprint," the scientist continued. "'Course, the ghostly image was embedded in the signal. Our 'bug' has a microscopic onboard processor that decodes the waveform, creates a virtual image, and shoots it back to us as part of the uplink data stream. That allows us to monitor and control the 'apparition's' location.

  "For now, the audio's preprogrammed," he added. "An operator can't alter the ghost's canned 'voice' in this version of Holo, but a new software drop will have an audio-monitoring and -input feature. Then we can have a real-time conversation with the target."

  "Cosmic!" the young operator declared, climbing from the RPA sensor-control seat. He tucked a shirttail into his jeans.

  "General, you said we might be flying more of these—if this mission worked out. What do you think, sir?"

  "Frankly, I'm blown away," Manor declared. "I was damned skeptical that Holo could register an image in Greel's brain. The idea that it could insert a human likeness, and convince the target he was seeing a ghost with his eyes, sounded like unadulterated science fiction."

  He clapped the scientist's shoulder. "But count me convinced! That dumb ass was terrified. A five-spot says Mikey-boy will be changing those sheets!"

  "Thanks, sir. What's next for Holo?" the scientist asked, a proud grin spreading. His baby, the Holo image-insertion system, had exceeded even his expectations on its first real-world mission.

  "I want the Gremlin over Greel's house every night, firing Holo images into that shit-bird's deteriorating gray matter. Change the words, but deliver the same threat-message, the same Erik Steele image, every single night," Manor ordered. "The FFI disease is frying Greel's brain tissue, which enhances Holo's effect. People suffering from any neurological disorder, such as Alzheimer's, are especially sensitive to bio-static inputs, and we're going to leverage that to the max."

  The RPA sensor operator glanced at the scientist, a longtime Lawhead Corporation colleague, then back to Manor.

  "Sir, what's our mission objective? How long do we keep pounding ol' Greel?"

  Manor's tone matched a frosty glare. "Until the bastard is dead."

  CHAPTER 22

  HACKED

  "Great spirits have always encountered

  violent opposition from mediocre minds."

  Albert Einstein

  LAS VEGAS

  Sofia Knight sipped a cup of Colombian dark roast and re-read an early morning e-mail. Her client, Win Steele, was asking the "E-Team"—which comprised Sofia, Link Mann, Max Decimus, Rico Rodolfo and Kyler Steele—to review his latest blog missive, before posting it on Erik's memorial website.

  This one, entitled Harassment 101, was slamming Las Vegas Metro for ticketing Katrina Hart and Erik's coworkers for alleged traffic violations.

  While equally disgusted by Metro cops' bald-faced intimidation tactics, Sofia was uncomfortable with the increasingly aggressive tone of Steele's postings:

  … Under Sheriff Uriah, it's "us versus them," and "them" is any civilian not wearing a Metro uniform. "Citizens of Clark County are our enemy, not our employers," Uriah implies through his actions and speeches. Even killing civilians is fine, as Erik's murder graphically demonstrated. "Shoot first and we'll cover for you." This, residents of Clark County, Nevada, is the defining hallmark of Uriah's four-year reign… .

  What's the underlying message Uriah's Metro thugs are conveying via their childish harassment campaign? Simply this:

  * "We're Metro. We do anything we want. We're above the law.

  * "Don't even think about honoring an innocent man that we took out. The Steele family and Erik's friends should just shut up and go away. Accept the fact that we killed Erik, and don't question our mistakes, our shoddy investigation or our ham-fisted obfuscation of the truth. Or else.

  * "We always trash the victims of Metro's killer-cops via rigged-to-exonerate inquest hearings, and will not tolerate mere civilians demanding the truth.

  * "We're desperate to have our Dear Leader, Alex Uriah, reelected. You and your Erik Steele memorial ribbons remind Las Vegas residents of an embarrassing screwup by his police officers. As Uriah's poll numbers plummet, the sheriff's sugar daddies, Cleveland Mob bosses, are becoming very concerned… ."

  Sofia was struck by the specifics of Win's blog postings. Where was he getting such on-target intelligence? Very few people in Vegas were aware that Cleveland-based crime families controlled Sin City, raking in billions.

  She retrieved her cell phone, and tapped a number. Steele answered on the second ring.

  "Morning, Win. I'm looking over the latest blog. It's great, as usual.

  "Thanks. Any changes?"

  "No… but I am concerned," she hedged. "You're really twisting Metro's tail. That's consistent with our pre-inquest hearing strategy, of course. But, as your lawyer, I have to warn that you may be unnecessarily angering the defendants and their legal team."

  Win didn't reply for a long moment. "And that's a problem?"

  "Well, we may have to negotiate with those folks, in the course of the lawsuit. If the other side is royally pissed, that could work against us."

  "And you're questioning whether my rants are worth alienating them."

  "Keeping the heat on these bastards is a good idea. But is it necessary to turn them into rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth adversaries?"

  Another long silence. "Sofia, I hear you. But these fools murdered my son! Now the arrogant jackasses are dictating that we shut up and blindly accept their crock of crap. They can't tolerate having their incompetence exposed, and are harassing anybody who dares to keep Erik's memory alive!" Win barked. "I'm not letting them get away with that bullshit!"

  "Hey, Win, I'm only suggesting that you keep the big picture in mind, okay? This suit could run for years."

  "Look, we had this discussion, before I started writing blog-missiles. We agreed that keeping Erik's case front and center was essential to pressure Metro and the DA into releasing the Ho's video, nine-one-one-call audio and the autopsy report.

  "None of that has happened, so far, right?"

  "Correct. But I'm still filing motions to get them," Sofia countered.

  "And Metro's still stonewalling. Unless they're subjected to unbearable public heat, they're not going to budge.

  "You know these Metro and district attorney cockroaches are going to assassinate Erik's character, during the inquest hearing," Win pressed. "Our only hope for a favorable ruling is to get our story out now. These blogs are being read by thousands of people around the world.

  "The blog—plus media interviews Link sets up—are the only vehicles we have to shape public opinion and potential jurors' perceptions before we go into that courtroom."

  "I agree completely," Sofia assured. "It's simply a matter of degree. Let's also think long-term. Weigh the downstream impacts against our near-term perception-management objectives."

  Win exhaled loudly, irritated. He'd picked up the subtle message: Mind your lawyer. I can drop you.

  Sofia had taken the Steele case on contingency, and wouldn't be paid a dime, unless she won. But, if the Steeles submarined it, she could dump them "for cause"—and demand payment for all expenses.

  "Alright," he conceded. "I'll keep the long haul in mind. If something I write could pose a problem, say so and I'll fix it, before posting. No changes to that ground rule?"

  "Exactly. And I'm not criticizing, Win! Your d
ispatches-from-the-front are having one hell of a positive effect. Metro has never encountered a victim's family that dared to challenge them like this!" she said. "Keep 'em coming, but view them through the eyes of Metro's legal team and that dipstick Uriah. Poke them in the nose, not both eyes, okay?"

  Win agreed to be more judicious, but frustration was apparent. His outer, public persona—the staid, rational father of a Metro murder victim—waged constant war with an inner blinding fury that wanted to lash out.

  "Hey," she added, "I do have some good news, for a change!"

  Win grimaced. What constituted good news depended on the beholder's point of view.

  "Max's billboard solicitations and your blog pieces are bringing a new round of eyewitnesses forward! My private investigator, Rod, has done about thirty interviews and videotaped their statements," Sofia explained.

  "Several are doctors, attorneys and business owners, and every one of 'em is pissed about how Metro and Ho's handled the aftermath of Erik's murder. They're providing irrefutable testimony that will destroy Metro and Ho's."

  She brusquely switched gears. "Hey, gotta go, but I need to know: When will you arrive for the inquest hearing?"

  "The day before it starts—the twenty-first."

  "Where are you staying?"

  "Probably at the Goldstrike. One of Erik's friends is a senior VP there, and she offered us a couple of rooms at no cost."

  "No way. Do not take her up on it," Sofia ordered. "If you can, stay in a private home. Definitely not a hotel-casino."

  "Really?" Win asked, taken aback. "The Goldstrike's close to the courthouse, has several restaurants… ."

  "It's not safe, though," she interjected forcefully." Antone Galocci owns the Goldstrike, and he's underwriting Sheriff Uriah's election campaign. You bed down in Galocci's hotel, and Metro will be in your rooms the first day of the inquest. Some brown-shirt will be copying everything on your computers, looking for whatever they can use against you. They'll ransack your suitcases, paw through cell phones, you name it.

  "And they won't be subtle. They'll be sending a message, and will make damn sure you receive it!"

  "You're serious?"

  "Damn serious! Win, a sizable percentage of Metro cops are nothing but Mafia goons with a badge. Many of them work for Galocci—literally," Sofia stressed. "That Metro Homicide creep, Mikey Greel, routinely flies on Galocci's business jet, for God's sake! Now, why in the hell would a senior Metro cop be flying all over the country on a Las Vegas billionaire's private jet?"

  "'Cause he and Galocci routinely report to their Mob bosses in Cleveland," Win said calmly. "The 'family' prefers face-to-face reports and pep talks."

  "Uh… maybe," she said, surprised.

  Where the hell did you get that?

  "Bottom line is, I don't want you staying at the Goldstrike—or any other hotel in Vegas," she stressed. "Every casino-resort rolls over for whatever Metro demands. Uriah himself probably has a master key to any room in the Goldstrike!"

  Deferring to her judgment, Win agreed.

  After Sofia signed off, Win quietly slipped outside the modest, four-decades-old cabin at the foot of Colorado's spectacular Sangre de Cristo mountain range.

  Layna was still asleep. Thanks to cool, high-altitude nights, his exhausted wife was finally getting some rest. Coffee cup in hand, he ambled along the red-fir deck that wrapped around three sides of the rustic structure.

  Sofia's warning was yet another serrated blade ripping through beleaguered emotions. One more in a long string of setbacks and forced deferences to Vegas tyranny.

  Perhaps Layna was right. Maybe Metro and the other Cartel of Corruption players that controlled Las Vegas were too powerful. Could one old reporter-engineer ever put a dent in that well-oiled behemoth, let alone destroy it?

  The Cartel's immoral snakes had slithered into every corner of Vegas, corrupting, subsuming or killing whatever they touched. Now the Cartel had his family in its sights, simply because the Steeles and their courageous allies had dared to push back on the system.

  Maybe the Win Steele-of-old was ill-prepared to combat these amoral sewer-serpents. He'd spent a career in high-integrity environments—a nuclear-weapons laboratory, highly classified U.S. Air Force units, the flight test community, and aerospace journalism—and simply didn't think like the twisted charlatans who ran "official" Vegas.

  He'd never encountered such widespread venality and perversion that passed for normal in Clark County, Nevada. On the surface, Las Vegas was all glitter, glamor and fun, but it had a malevolent, vicious underbelly.

  Absorbing the morning Sun's warmth, Win battled a swirl of doubts, a crushing sense of smallness and inadequacy that threatened to erode rock-hard determination and conviction. He whispered a quick prayer, asking for guidance, strength and the means to combat the overpowering evil that had killed Erik, then attacked his character.

  Win left the deck and wandered among stately pines, white fir and pale-green aspens behind the cabin. He consciously parked the mental questions and doubts in a mind-corner labeled "LATER," and focused on eliminating a dark fog of depression.

  Be in the now, the mountains' harmony.

  A refreshing scent of pine and fir permeated the forest. A gray squirrel chattered, protesting human invasion of the critter's domain. Nearby, a Steller's Jay chimed in, demanding its daily plate of cracked corn.

  Overhead, a cobalt sky filled the open spaces among tree tops, a stunning blue canvas backing aspens that shivered with each breath of air. The splayed brushes of ponderosa pines remained motionless, their needles impervious to mere whispers of a breeze.

  Topping a rise, Win stopped to absorb the splendid view of Horn Peak and its gray-granite neighbors etched on a sapphire horizon.

  Stay the course. Have faith.

  The message flashed across consciousness, a fleeting phantom easily dismissed as imagination. But it was real. The Lord had answered. Long ago, Win had learned to listen, acknowledge and be grateful for such feedback.

  Hadn't he turned over the "too-hard stuff" to God weeks ago, during that dreadful initial drive to Vegas?

  Yes, he had.

  You keep trying to take the stick. Who's the pilot here? If you want to fly, to be in control, go ahead. Otherwise, get in the rear cockpit.

  Maybe they were his own rambling musings, but… maybe not.

  "Got it, Lord," Win whispered, cracking a smile.

  He pulled a weighty "commander's coin" from a pocket, held it at arm's length, and read: Put on the whole armor of God. Pray always.

  A retired sheriff's deputy had given him the coin, shortly after Erik's murder. The distraught former lawman had assured Win that "We're not all like that. The cops who killed Erik are the exception, not the rule. Good officers' badges are stained with your son's blood."

  Pressing the coin into Win's palm, the former deputy had urged the elder Steele to "Follow God's lead and he will destroy the vermin who killed Erik."

  Win rubbed the coin's raised figure of a thick-chested warrior, armed with a sword and shield. He silently vowed to keep fighting, to do whatever was necessary to expose and excise that unholy vermin.

  Although he couldn't predict what malicious evil might be unleashed against his family, Erik's loyal friends, and him, Win Steele was cognizant of being aided by unseen allies. Cryptic text messages and calls from Doc Black always seemed to show up at the right time.

  Somehow, unknown shadow-warriors were helping him wage asymmetric war against the Cartel of Corruption.

  * *

  "FORT STEELE"/COLORADO

  Two days later, hell erupted. Link Mann called, alerting Win that Metro's bad boys were feeding the media misinformation about Erik.

  "Stand by," he warned. "We're going to be slammed with a flurry of negative stories. I'm trying to get a reading on what Metro's leaking."

  Ultimately, the dirt was cherry-picked semi-truths regarding one of Erik's divorces and a bizarre dog bite incident that Erik had reporte
d to Clark County authorities.

  Win, Link and Sofia conducted a flurry of phone and in-person interviews, using official reports, court documents and rest-of-the-story explanations to deflect the worst of Metro's attacks. Most news reports were fair, airing both sides, but a few Metro-friendly reporters were vicious, falsely depicting Erik as an angry, gun-toting threat to humanity.

  Two Las Vegas TV stations reveled in the half-truths, hungry wolves eager to shred the handsome West Pointer's spotless reputation. The undercurrent of their reports was transparent Metro narrative: "Erik Steele wasn't the Army hero and knight-in-shining-armor you thought he was. Good thing Metro killed him."

  The news stories were so distressing, brutal and upsetting that Win stopped sharing them with Layna. Obviously, Metro and its big-money allies were out to destroy Erik's reputation, prior to a well-orchestrated inquest hearing.

  "Link, unless we neutralize this crap, we'll have a compromised jury, before the hearing begins," Win stressed, during a hurried E-Team conference call.

  Always the calm, consummate expert on shaping public perception, Link was ready with a counterattack. He quickly outlined the plan and received commitments from each team member.

  Max Decimus and Link would post a new round of messages on seven electronic billboards at key interchanges and intersections throughout Las Vegas: "The Community Wants to Know: If the Cameras Weren't Working, Why Examine the Hard Drives?" "REWARD: $25,000 for a copy of the July 10th Ho's Video Data."

  Once the inquest opened, all billboards would be changed to: "Until the lion tells his own story, the tale of the hunt will always glorify the hunter."

  "Sofia, I'll get you on Ralston and other TV talk shows tonight," Link said. "Go after Metro with a vengeance. Make sure viewers understand that this latest crap is nothing but Metro psychological warfare based on lies, disinformation and misinformation.

  "Win, you bang out a couple more blog postings," Link ordered. "Hammer the bastards hard! Expose how the big-money moguls, who control advertising in Vegas, are putting the squeeze on news organizations to get these negative stories done.