"Hey, dude! Keep spouting that crap and Vader will sic you onto old Steele, just to get rid of your tail!" Nardel warned.
James smiled at the PPA chief.
"Already did."
Nardel's eyes snapped right. "You? Vader tapped you to… ?"
"Yeah. Mama James's big boy is off to Colorado Springs tomorrow. All of Vader's kid-Ravens were 'used up,' whatever the hell that means. So, I'm back on the first team. Fix this mess, and my slate's wiped clean."
"Mama mia," Nardel breathed, shaking his head. "Sorry 'bout that, Brian."
The all-bluster, pompous PPA chief was genuinely embarrassed. Totally out of character for the cocky Dick Nardel.
Maybe he knows something I don't.
For whatever reason, James had a bad feeling.
Would Colorado be a one-way trip?
* *
LAS VEGAS/5,000 FEET ABOVE I-215
A stealthy Gremlin remotely piloted aircraft orbited slowly, its high-bypass fan engine throttled back. From the ground, the RPA's muted whine was lost in the background roar of a city that truly never slept. The Gremlin's gimbaled sphere, studded with sensor ports and conformal antennas, tracked a black Cadillac in the right lane of eastbound Interstate 215.
"That's definitely Nardel's Caddy, sir," a Lawhead Corporation sensor operator reported. He bumped a thumb switch, zooming closer, until the car's image filled the Gremlin's sensor screen. The advanced electro-optical system provided a crisp, detailed image, even in the dark.
Gray Manor didn't respond. The Gremlin had been auto-tracking the car, since the arrogant Police Protective Association director and that bald-headed detective had left a swanky restaurant off West Charleston.
Manor double-checked his tactical iPad. Both Nardel and Brian James were on the target list. The pair had been intimately involved in the sloppy cover-up of Erik Steele's murder.
James had illegally broken into Erik's condo and stolen four firearms, then lied under oath. By claiming the Ruger LCP had been found on Steele's body—Metro's so-called "second gun" narrative—James was guilty of perjury and conspiracy.
As PPA director, the loud, arrogant Nardel had filed a flurry of lawsuits to derail a new coroner's inquest process implemented by the Clark County Commission. Three courts had thrown out the suits, noting the PPA's claims that revised procedures violated killer-cops' Fifth Amendment rights were preposterous and without merit.
By openly intimidating county commissioners and several law-and-order activists, Nardel had confirmed he was an integral cog in the Cartel of Corruption machine that controlled Las Vegas.
"Okay, guys. This will be a two-fer," Manor said. "Both are approved targets. Cleared to engage."
"Copy all," the Gremlin pilot said, echoed by his sensor operator. "Descending to a thousand AGL. All yours, Tron."
Manor hovered behind Tron's crew seat. The former Marine Corps general was visibly anxious. He had reluctantly given the go-ahead to employ the prototype of a cutting-edge information-operations weapon dubbed "Reacher," because Nardel and James were considered to be "secondary targets." Still, if "Reacher" failed tonight, Checkmate might not get a second chance to nail these fools.
So far, Operation Gold Shield was batting a thousand, and Manor was determined to keep that streak going. The latest intel from Nat Preston claimed that morning's spectacular takedown of Antone Galocci was having precisely the intended impact on the movers and shakers throughout Las Vegas: They were scared out of their unprincipled minds. Same for Metro's immoral "Tower" leaders.
Tron—geek shorthand for "electronic"—the Gremlin sensor operator, was also a super-hacker, a software-probing genius. At the moment, he was firing a beam of sophisticated ultrawideband signals at Nardel's souped-up Cadillac, mapping the car's onboard computers.
"Got it," Tron announced casually. "We're in."
The young hacker was essentially riding piggyback on the bits and bytes that controlled the modern Cadillac via application-specific microprocessor chips. He glanced over his right shoulder.
"Ready, sir."
Manor nodded curtly. "Cleared in hot. Take 'em out."
Second time today, he thought grimly. Since Operation Gold Shield's launch, his clear-to-fire command had been a death sentence for two killer-cops, a couple of hopelessly unscrupulous assistant district attorneys, and one-each perverted Mob boss.
Additionally, the depraved Clark County DA, Dirwood Woody Ryns, would be staring into space and drooling for the rest of his life. No more backroom deals, courtroom drama and under-the-table payoffs for Ryns. Woody now boasted the intellect of a rotting vegetable.
Galocci had been a regrettable case. He didn't have to die. If he'd done the right thing, he'd still be enjoying the good life.
The old man had been the quintessential Vegas billionaire power broker who had everything—multiple homes, a fleet of jets, and several iconic resort-hotel casinos.
But wealth and power had spawned a conviction that he was untouchable—above the law and immune to societal constraints that applied only to "little people." The cagey Mob boss had maneuvered, swindled and killed, until he had undisputed control of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, District Attorney's office, judicial system, and powerful unions.
But Antone Galocci had committed a fatal error. He'd ignored Checkmate's repeated warnings, and refused to purge the killers and "crazies" from Metro's police force. Refused to clean up the district attorney's den of unprincipled racketeers. Refused to reign in the Public Administrator's obscene senior-citizen scams. Refused to restore integrity to the county and city judicial systems. And refused to decertify and eliminate an openly criminal union, the Las Vegas Police Protective Association.
He could have cleaned up Vegas. He had the financial resources and the unchallenged power. If he had used them appropriately, Galocci would be alive tonight.
The former general didn't enjoy killing these people. In many ways, he found this new counterterrorism assignment revolting. Killing Americans, in America, violated a deep-seated code of ethics that had defined his world throughout a long, distinguished career. He had fought and killed enemies to protect his fellow citizens, but always on foreign soil. And those enemies had always been somebody other than Americans.
"Son, the dirtbags you're going after in Las Vegas are every bit as dangerous, vile, corrupt, odious and malevolent as any al Qaeda terrorist, Taliban nutcase or Somali pirate you've exterminated," Todd Bright had declared.
"And, unless Operation Gold Shield succeeds, one hell of a lot more innocent Americans like Erik Steele will die at the hands of not only that abominable Vegas Cartel, but of corrupt police officers in every dadgummed state in the union! Ultimately, hundreds of honorable police officers also will die, when fed up citizens shoot back."
Manor cracked a half-grin, recalling Bright's monologue. Only The Professor could string together that many smokin' adjectives.
The control room grew quiet, as the Gremlin crew turned to its deadly task. Tron worked at a keyboard mounted on a swivel-armed pedestal, rapidly keying-in a series of commands.
"Alright… taking control," he announced, then slowly pushed a T-handle forward. Numbers in a white-bordered window on his display started climbing: 65, 75, 85… .
* *
LAS VEGAS/INTERSTATE 215
"Hey! What the hell? You trying to kill us? Slow down!" Detective James barked.
"I'm trying!" Nardel cried. "The damned accelerator's stuck!"
He whipped the Caddy into a center lane, flashing past a Honda Accord, as the speedometer topped 90 miles per hour. He slammed on the brakes.
Nothing.
"Aw, shiiiit… ! No brakes!"
James had one hand on the dash, and both feet were threatening to blow through the floorboards.
"Turn off the ignition!" he screamed.
"I tried!" Nardel yelled.
His voice was up an octave. He was sweating, hands clutching the steering wheel, weaving around slowe
r traffic. Tires squealed and the powerful engine's scream steadily increased. A briefcase in the back seat caromed from one side to the other.
"I can't control it!" Nardel shrieked.
"Damn it, Dick!" James yelled, glancing at the speedometer.
Over a hundred!
"Construction! Watch it, man! Look out!"
James was squealing like a terrorized little girl. An underpass construction zone at the intersection with Interstate 15 charged them at lightning speed. Scaffolding, heavy equipment, and a monstrous crane behind a barrier of orange traffic cones and barrels were crammed into the barricaded right-hand lanes of a concrete tunnel. Where the I-215 Beltway dived beneath Interstate 15, the freeway necked down to a couple of lanes.
Nardel aimed the heavy Cadillac at those high-speed lanes, praying he'd squeeze by a head-up-and-locked driver, before flashing into the tunnel. The other car was drifting from the right, oblivious to the Caddy overtaking him at more than 115 miles per hour.
* *
GROOM LAKE/GREMLIN CONTROL ROOM
"Kill zone at twelve o'clock! Timing!" Manor snapped.
All eyes were locked on the display. Video beamed from the Gremlin showed the distance between Nardel's Cadillac and the I-215/I-15 interchange shrinking at a meteoric rate.
Tron jammed a RETURN/ENTER key. At light speed, a command signal flashed from the Gremlin's antenna to a central computer in Dick Nardel's luxury car.
In response, a microprocessor fired a step-function pulse to only the Caddy's right front wheel. Its microprocessor-controlled hydraulic plunger and pad-disk system blindly obeyed, as if the driver had slammed on the vehicle's brake pedal.
* *
LAS VEGAS/INTERSTATES 15/215 INTERCHANGE
As the construction cone-zone closed at warp speed, the right-front wheel of Nardel's Cadillac locked up. Its antiskid system had been disabled, forcing the wide Goodyear tire to freeze, claw at the road's rough surface, then explode. The steering wheel jerked sharply to the right.
The Cadillac swerved and plowed through the fence of traffic cones and barrels, trailing a comet of sparks as the wheel's rim scrubbed across fresh concrete. A barrel did a half-flip and struck the Caddy's windshield at more than 100 miles per hour. The double-layer glass bowed and spider-webbed, showering the car's interior.
"Ahhhhhh!" James howled.
Frozen in slow-motion horror, Nardel was dimly cognizant of a massive V-shaped concrete abutment knifing into the Caddy's hood, as if slicing dark-chocolate fudge. The big-block V-8 engine, ripped from its mounts, bulldozed the front seat, shearing off James's left arm and plowing into the backseat, trunk… and gas tank.
The red-hot motor's prodigious kinetic energy vaporized, then ignited, the tank's volatile contents. The resulting detonation enveloped the vehicle in a monstrous orange-and-yellow fireball of roiling, black-laced flame. A violent concussion wave raced from the epicenter at sonic speed, scattering spindly scaffolding and launching ribbed steel reinforcing rods.
* *
GROOM LAKE/GREMLIN CONTROL ROOM
Tron's flat-panel screen flared, when the explosion momentarily blinded the Gremlin's infrared sensor. An aperture-control system automatically compensated for the brilliant flash, restoring the real-time movie of destruction. Flames and thick, black smoke boiled from the devastation in the southeast-bound underpass.
The remotely piloted aircraft orbited the crash site for several minutes, its stabilized day-night cameras staring impassively at a gasoline-fed inferno. Nardel's Caddy was quickly reduced to a twisted, melting skeleton sliced front to back. A sheet metal roof that once covered the Cadillac's rich interior now rested in the westbound fast lane of I-215, upside down. Deformed, yet intact.
A number of cars and trucks pulled into the freeway's center median and stopped, unable to enter the underpass. Raging, gasoline-fed blowtorches spewed flames and clouds of thick, black smoke from the tunnel.
Manor's crypto-secure iPhone rang. Riveted to the hellish scene, the Checkmate director clipped, "Bishop. Secure. Go."
"Castle, sir. Secure. The item is stowed. I'm in position. Standing by for the target to show."
Rico Rodolfo had backed his silver Toyota Tacoma into an office building's lot a hundred yards from Ho's-Summerlin, enabling a clear view of the warehouse store. At this post-closing hour, most of its parking spaces were empty.
"Copy," Manor said. "Any problems?"
"Not a single one, sir. Moron left the driver's door open! I locked it… afterwards."
Manor shook his head. "Stupid little shitbird."
"This dork lives in stupid-ville."
"Right. Okay, we're winding up the first phase," Manor said. "I'll give you a yell, when the Gremlin's over Ho's. I want detailed video of Phase Two."
"Got it," Rodolfo said. "How'd Phase One go?"
Manor hesitated, eyeing a raging inferno on the sensor operator's display.
"Exceedingly well. Two confirmed."
"Two?" Rico asked, surprised.
"Nardel, the PPA chief, brought a buddy along. That bald-headed detective, James."
"The cop who stole Erik's guns?"
"Yeah. And lied under oath at the inquest, claiming that three-eighty Ruger LCP was in Erik's pocket. With a two-inch-thick wallet, of course."
A protracted silence. "The crooked bastard deserved it.
"Hey! Target's on the move, leaving the store. Castle out."
Manor tapped an END icon and slipped the phone into a jacket pocket.
"Alright, guys. Wrap it up. Secure the video and get this bird over to Summerlin. Phase Two is in progress. I want eyes-on ASAP."
* *
LAS VEGAS/HO'S-SUMMERLIN
"See ya tomorrow, Smitty," Hajji Taseer called to his boss, the Ho's-Summerlin general manager. Smitty waved and headed for a reserved parking spot north of the store.
Across the Ho's lot, concealed in the Tacoma's shadowed cab, Rico Rodolfo thumb-punched nine-one-one SEND on a cheap, throwaway cell phone. A Metro police call taker answered immediately. Rico ignored her request for identification.
"There's a crazy guy in the Ho's-Summerlin parking lot!" he shouted frantically. "Across from the Coffee Bean! Dancing around and waving a gun! The dude's on drugs or something! He's gonna shoot somebody! Send the cops now!"
He broke the connection and eyeballed a knock-kneed, rumpled figure plodding across white-striped parking lanes, angling toward a red convertible.
Taseer waddled to the low-slung roadster, huddled under an anemic tree near Pavilion Center Drive. The night air was cool, and he was feeling good. That new hire in electronics had responded well to his advances. She'd hung around after closing time, while he dazzled her with witticisms. Cute, young and naive, she was precisely his type. Another day or so and he'd make his move.
He pressed a key fob and heard the snap of his Mazda Miata's door locks. He yanked the driver-side door open and stooped to slide in. Lights in the door illuminated the interior enough to see an object lying on a bucket seat.
Woo-hoo! Sweet!
He squatted and smiled broadly. A black semiautomatic pistol was resting on the leather.
"Allah be praised!" he breathed.
Captain Greel or another of his new buddies at Las Vegas Metro must have slipped the firearm into the car as a surprise, a cool way of saying, "Welcome to the Blue Brotherhood!"
Excited, Hajji eagerly snatched it off the seat. As he squeezed the cross-hatched composite handgrip, a searing shock blasted through his hand and right arm. It felt like he'd grabbed a thousand-volt electrical cable. His fingers contracted involuntarily, closing tightly around the gun's grip.
Taseer screamed in agony and tried to pry the gun free with his left hand. Its fingers also seized around the handgrip, as powerful jolts coursed through both hands. Now clenching the firearm two-handed, Hajji frantically hopped around the Miata, howling. Excruciating electrical surges continually zapped his hands, arms and torso.
Despite scorchi
ng pain, he couldn't let go of the gun. Hand and arm muscles had literally locked up, fingers unable to release the firearm. He squawked and danced, brandishing the gun, hands clamped firmly around the pistol's grip.
Immersed in unrelenting torture, he failed to notice a Metro police cruiser screech to a stop. An officer leaped out, service weapon in hand, and bellowed, "Drop it! Drop the gun! Get on the ground!"
Across the road, a grim-faced Rodolfo pressed a transmitter button. Coded ultrawideband pulses flashed across the four-lane street to the Colt 1911-style weapon in Taseer's two-handed grasp. A blank round fired, causing his .45 semiautomatic to buck.
The stunned Ho's security officer screamed louder.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
The Metro cop fired three times in quick succession. The first hollow-point nine-millimeter slug hit Hajji in the chest. The second tore through his abdomen, and the third ripped half of his jaw free, splattering blood across what was left of milk-chocolate skin.
"Drop it!" the officer yelled again, backing away.
Another Metro cruiser slid to a stop and disgorged a second officer, weapon in-hand.
"You okay?" he shouted.
"Yeah! He's down! Damn fool shot at me!"
The first cop's voice quavered, and his knees threatened to fold. Edging cautiously toward the motionless figure sprawled across the pavement, each officer kept a handgun trained on the late Hajji Taseer.
Although the victim was dead, the shooter roughly cuffed both hands behind Taseer's back.
"The son of a bitch shot at me!" the officer said loudly, furious. "I had to hose the dude! Jesus! He fired at me!"
The second cop keyed a microphone clipped to his shirt. "Shots fired! Shots fired! Suspect pulled a four-thirteen. He's down and secured.
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