Realizing he'd dropped a glove at the base of his cover tree, Steele briefly considered going back to retrieve it. But only briefly. Logic said there was about a minus-ten-percent chance of a second shooter being up there, but he wasn't about to tempt the gods. He'd paw through the snow and find it tomorrow. That is, if he took the same trail.
He hustled up the street, relishing the sensation of cold flakes tickling his nose, glad to be alive. Reflecting on the close call, he thought, Damn lucky I tripped over that root.
… Or was I pushed? Had Erik put a hand in his back and face-planted ol' dad in the snow?
Thanks, Big Son. God, I don't know who logs the "save," but thanks… again.
Slogging through powder accumulating in his driveway, Win recalled a question posed to him years ago, after he'd bailed out of that doomed business jet: If you were spared for a purpose, are you living up to that purpose?
As then, he wondered.
He levered the front door handle and made a decision to not worry Layna by telling her about the sniper. Chances are, she would never notice the jagged rip in his jacket's hood.
* *
LAS VEGAS
Brrrrt!
Captain Mikey Greel rarely heard his doorbell. Carly Singer's unannounced drop-ins were via the garage. Otherwise, he never had visitors.
Stuffing his Glock into a rear pocket, he shuffled to the door and checked a security peephole. Some kind of delivery guy in a ball cap. Always cautious, he cracked the door.
"Michael Greel?" The young man was wearing a FedEx uniform. The company's distinctive logo was splayed across a step van at the curb.
"Yeah, that's me."
"Special delivery for you, sir. Must be important. I don't see many of these cold packs."
Puzzled, Greel signed for the insulated package and bolted the door. In the kitchen, he examined the parcel carefully. Silver, metallic tape sealed a high-density-foam cube measuring about ten inches on a side. Very lightweight. No return address.
Not a bomb, he decided.
Paranoid, yes, but healthy suspicion had served him well. He sliced a swatch of tape that sealed a foam lid in place.
Mikey Greel had a lot of enemies, but very few friends or close family. Maybe someone back east had heard about his illness and sent a gift to cheer him up.
He indulged a pang of remorse. The doc said Greel didn't have long to live, and he had little to show for his four-plus decades on the planet. And damned little to be proud of.
At arm's length, he pried the foam lid up and wiggled it free, accompanied by a squeal of protesting Styrofoam. A wisp of mist followed, the remnants of evaporated dry ice. A single page of ordinary typing paper was folded and wedged into the chilled foam. Removing it exposed two brownish sausages.
Greel recoiled in horror, loosing an involuntary screech. The "sausages" were bloody index fingers, chopped off between the first and second knuckles. Both fingernails were blue and streaked with dried blood. The cut end of each member was flattened to an oval of dark meat. A cleaver or ax had whacked the fingers off, exposing splintered stubs of bone.
The homicide chief broke into a sweat, eyes bulging and his heart galloping. With trembling hands, he unfolded the paper and read a hand-scrawled note:
Captain Greel: Digits are courtesy of your killer-boy, Officer Brad J. Oswald, Las Vegas Metro Badge #8546. This lowlife tried to assassinate Mr. Win Steele, like he did Lashawn Miles. He failed. You and Erik's killers are now in our crosshairs. We never fail.
Not since he was caught standing over his partner, gun in hand and three New York Police Department officers yelling, "Drop it!" had Vader been so damned scared.
Death was knocking.
CHAPTER 25
BLOWBACK
"He has… sent hither swarms of Officers
to harass our people,
and eat out their substance."
Declaration of Independence
LAS VEGAS
It was good to be back in uniform, behind the wheel of a Metro cruiser. Within hours of the inquest hearing's Justified verdict, Officer Olek Krupa had returned to duty, doing what he was born to do—street-level police work.
He had thoroughly enjoyed the first few weeks of administrative leave, following the Steele shooting, but boredom soon had become the norm. He'd gone to the county shooting range a few times to break in his new Glock 19 semiautomatic, and logged hours of pool time, accompanied by too many cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
A silver Toyota Tacoma pickup truck changing lanes caught Krupa's attention. It was sporting a three-inch lift, all-terrain tires, black wheels and a conformal bed cover. A single-loop magnetic ribbon was attached to the upper-left corner of its tailgate.
Another damned Erik Steele memorial ribbon! Old man Steele had recommended supporters remove the ribbons, after Las Vegas-area cops had issued a handful of tickets to drivers naive enough to stick the offensive red, white and blue magnets on their vehicles.
Didn't get the memo, did ya? Krupa grinned, flipping on the cruiser's emergency lights.
He accelerated, signaled a lane change, and tailgated the perp's silver rig. The pickup's driver glanced at a side mirror, activated a right-turn signal, and pulled into a well-lighted strip mall lot. The truck slowed and stopped in front of a liquor store. The building's barred windows were emblazoned with blinking, Spanish-language neon signs.
You smartass! Krupa swore.
The Tacoma had parked near the store's front doors, well within two digital security-video cameras' overlapping fields of view. Krupa halted directly behind the truck.
Approaching the driver-side window, the cop rested his right hand on a holstered Glock. He stopped adjacent to the aft door post, forcing the driver to look over his left shoulder to make eye contact. Both of the guy's hands were draped casually over the steering wheel.
"Driver's license and registration," Krupa ordered.
The driver slowly, deliberately handed over three laminated cards.
"Sir, be advised I have… ," the muscular driver began.
"Shut up!" Krupa barked. "When I want something outta you, I'll ask for it!"
The guy calmly nodded. Dark eyes remained locked on the cop, narrowing to black slits.
"I stopped you, because you changed lanes, without signaling for a full hundred feet," the officer growled, sizing up the big guy. Late thirties, he guessed. Short, dark hair with flecks of premature gray. Possibly Latino heritage.
The driver smiled. His hands were back on the steering wheel, casual and relaxed.
"Oh, really? I saw you back there, and would have sworn I had that signal on for several seconds, before shifting lanes."
"Well, you didn't," Krupa barked, glancing at the license and registration. The third document, a laminated two-by-three-inch white card, made the cop's heart skip: Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, CONCEALED FIREARMS PERMIT.
"Mr. Rah-dol-fo—that how you pronounce it?"
"Roo-dol-fo, sir."
"Whatever," the cop said, two-fingering the card aloft. "You carryin'? You gotta gun on you?" he demanded, louder.
"Sir, I do not have a firearm on my person. I do have a semiautomatic handgun in my vehicle, but it's secured in the center console."
His hands remained draped over the steering wheel, open and visible.
"You stupid… ! Why the hell didn't you inform me immediately?" Krupa bellowed, stepping back and pulling his Glock. Pointing it at Rodolfo, he yelled, "Keep your hands where I can see them, and get your ass out of that truck!"
Slowly, Rico Rodolfo, Checkmate code-name Castle, opened the door, pivoted and stood erect, arms extended horizontally, palms down. Motionless, dark eyes never left Krupa.
The guy's unusual composure infuriated the Metro officer. Normal people were scared stiff, when pulled over by a cop.
"You screwed up, boy! You're supposed to immediately inform an officer that you have a concealed weapon!"
"I tried, sir. You told me to shut up."
Gripping the Glock one handed, Krupa keyed a microphone clipped to his shirt, calling for backup. "… and suspect has a firearm."
"Why backup?"
"Gotta search your car. Can't do that alone."
"Under what pretense? What's your probable?"
"Anybody dumb enough to carry a gun in my sector is automatically a threat," Krupa snapped. "I could shoot you in the head, just for having a gun! You understand that, numb nuts?"
"Yes, sir. You're definitely capable of shooting me in the head. Or in the heart, the way you murdered Erik Steele."
Krupa recoiled, alarm flickering across puffy features.
"You know how close you are to being blown away?" he bellowed. "Not informing the… . An officer of the law and… ," the cop sputtered.
His face was flushed, twisted in anger.
"Hey, cool it, sir! I tried to tell you!" Rico interrupted, speaking evenly, but with a patronizing edge.
"Shut your face, mister!" Krupa screamed. He glanced around. No backup! Sweating profusely, pulse rate headed for the stratosphere, the cop was frustrated, and hysteria was subsuming reason.
Rodolfo remained a statue, legs spread, one arm horizontal. The other slowly elevated, pointing to a video camera staring at Krupa and Rodolfo. Any move they made would be captured in high-definition color.
"This establishment is owned by my people, sir," Rodolfo said. "They despise Metro brown-shirts, and they don't hire little wannabe-cop security pukes to make video disappear.
"Shoot me, and that's strike three. Not even a gutless sheriff and corrupt DA would try to save you. They'll fight each other to throw Officer Olek Krupa under the bus."
"You don't know what… !"
"I sure as hell do know! A third shooting would give Uriah the excuse he needs to make an example of you, a Metro serial killer. He'll fire you, and ex-Officer Krupa will live under a bridge for the rest of his days. At best.
"More than likely, you'll go to federal prison. Chicken-shit cops don't do well in SuperMax."
Krupa's forehead and flabby cheeks were crimson, enhanced by the store's pulsing neon. Bulging neck veins throbbed, and beads of sweat clung to his upper lip. He battled a white-hot fury and urge to blow that smirk off Rodolfo's squint-eyed mug.
But, if he fired, Olek Krupa was a goner. And without backup, he couldn't search the truck alone.
Shit! Write it off, he decided. Krupa abruptly holstered his Glock and flicked the driver's license, registration and concealed-carry permit onto oil-stained pavement.
"I'm lettin' ya off this time," he barked, striving for a semblance of control. "Better watch your mouth, mister. That kinda back-sass could get ya killed."
Rodolfo crouched and retrieved the scattered cards at his feet, never taking his eyes off the police officer. A coiled puma, ready to pounce and sink razor-sharp incisors into its prey's neck.
Unnerved, Krupa shivered. Tossing a scowl at Rico, he hitched up his gun belt and swaggered to the cruiser.
The officer yanked the patrol car into reverse, exited the lot and waited for a break in traffic. In the mirror, he saw Rodolfo hadn't moved, watching and tracking the cop. Krupa's hands were shaking — and he was incensed.
Nobody had even acknowledged his call for backup. Nobody!
That was unheard of, within the police brotherhood. Any Vegas cop requesting assistance could count on a half-dozen Metro uniforms responding immediately.
Unless your call sign was that of Olek Krupa, an officer with two "bad shoots" in his first five years on the force.
Killer-cops!
That's what old man Steele had labeled him and the other officers who'd hosed Erik Steele. That stung, but was trivial, compared to the embarrassment he'd suffered at the hands of fellow officers, following the inquest hearing.
During pre-shift briefings, not a single cop agreed to partner with him. Even when pressed by the sergeant, not one damned officer would pair up with Krupa, per standard procedure, after a cop had been on administrative leave! He was an outcast, on his own.
Hell, he'd overheard a female cop telling a colleague, "Maybe some perp will whack old lard-butt and get rid of him for us!"
Tamped-down demons bubbled up, slithering into consciousness, resurrecting emotions not felt since long-ago school days. Again, he was Krappy Krupa, the little fat kid with no friends. The last one chosen for baseball in the 'burbs of Boston. The picked on, foaming-at-the-mouth butt of endless teasing and pranks. The only senior without a prom date, because every chick turned him down.
Krupa coughed, ran the back of a fist under his nose and blinked to clear his vision.
Forget it. That shit was ancient history. Today, he was a Metro cop, armed with a badge and gun. He'd killed twice, and, by God, he'd kill again, if scumballs like Rodolfo didn't submit to exactly what Olek Krupa ordered!
His fellow officers would get over their sick aversions and stop whispering behind his back about the Steele snafu.
Yeah. He'd be one of 'em again. Back in the Blue Wall fraternity that united every cop in America. Hopefully… .
* *
LAS VEGAS
Officer Loring Malovic heard Krupa's call for backup, but didn't respond. Neither did dozens of other cops, who must have heard the same plea. Malovic had made a conscious decision to never again be involved with that trigger-happy moron.
The rookie turned into a neighborhood shopping center, circled its west end, and crept along an alley behind a row of retail shops. He parked beside a cinder block wall and pretended to monitor the loading dock of a Von's grocery store.
The officer rolled his cruiser's window down and hung an arm over the doorsill. The fall evening was pleasantly cool. Well, not really cool, but not as stifling as brutal summer nights.
Scanning the rear entrances of Von's, a drug store, a tanning salon and a batch of specialty outlets, Malovic again took stock of his situation. He'd been exonerated by the Steele inquest jury, but remained plagued by a persistent darkness, a profound sadness and emptiness, as if his soul had been sucked from its host.
Multiple sessions with Las Vegas Metro's shrink hadn't helped. Spilling his guts to a psycho-pinhead, who had never been on the streets, had been a waste of energy. The openly gay psychiatrist wanted to hear how he felt about shooting and killing another human being. What he dreamed about. How he now interacted with his loved ones. How other Metro officers treated him.
It was all crap. He felt like a hopeless sinner, who had killed an innocent man. Erik Steele had done nothing more "criminal" than turn and find a scared, fat-assed turd screaming at him. And he, Loring Malovic, had shot that man, solely because two other cops were blasting away!
For that sin, God had abandoned him. His beloved Jesus, the Lord and Savior of his born-again existence, had been silent and absent. Sandy, his equally beloved wife, had become cold and distant, refusing to be touched.
Without question, Loring Malovic was a lost soul, abandoned by his God and his bride, because he'd violated His unambiguous commandment: Thou shalt not kill.
Yeah, as a law-enforcement officer, he knew he might have to shoot a dangerous criminal. But Erik Steele had never posed a danger to him or anybody else. Krupa had simply screwed the pooch, and "officers Akaka and Malovic had engaged in sympathetic fire," totally clueless about why Krupa was shooting at Steele.
Sleepless nights and long, lonely days had done little to assuage guilt and regret. Nor had hours with that Metro shrink. Loring Malovic was still an emotional and mental wreck, paralyzed by shame and uncertainty.
Should he resign from Metro and move? Get a fresh start, maybe in a rural burg of Montana or Idaho?
He'd floated the resign-and-move option by Sandy, but her reaction had been vague and unsettling.
She's going to divorce me.
That frightful idea had crawled into his brain weeks ago and refused to leave. Sandy had actually hinted that a separation might be good for both of them.
"Until we get past t
he… the Erik thing," she'd stammered.
Not the 'justified' Steele shooting or the you-had-to-shoot-to-save-others thing. No! It was the Erik thing. Like she had known the damned guy! Sandy had seen him once! One time!
Checking his watch, Malovic decided he'd been off the net long enough. Thank God the Las Vegas Police Protective Association had vehemently opposed installing GPS trackers in Metro patrol cars. He and hundreds of other cops routinely feigned being "tied up" with other duties, ducking calls for backup and "any units in the area." The PPA's intransigence ensured sergeants had no way of challenging such claims.
Yep, Officer Malovic had joined the ranks of lay-low cops, the roughly twenty-five percent of Metro's force that went through the motions of being a police officer, skillfully operating beneath supervisors' radar. Do as little as possible, look busy, pull a paycheck and go home safely.
He could survive this way, until he figured out what to do next. For the moment, there was only one thing his muddled mind knew for certain: He should never have fired that round into Erik Steele's back. One bullet had turned his world upside down.
As a result, God, Jesus and his own wife had abandoned him.
* *
LAS VEGAS STRIP
"Driver's license and your rental contract, sir," Officer Kale Akaka ordered. He and his rookie tag-along had pulled over yet another clueless tourist. The dope had stopped to let a couple of elderly women out, blocking the curbside lane of bumper-to-bumper Strip traffic.
The stocky, gray-haired driver handed Akaka two laminated cards and pink car-rental paperwork. "Sir, I'm a retired New York police officer. I am carrying a concealed weapon," he reported. The accent was decidedly Brooklyn.
Akaka involuntarily took a step back, reaching for his sidearm. He hesitated, noting that both of Brooklyn's hands were visible, tightly gripping the steering wheel. The Hawaiian glanced at his rookie partner, who was in a good covering position, hand on his holstered nine-millimeter.
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