"Better get Captain Greel over here."
That was Metro radio code for "We killed another one."
* *
GROOM LAKE/GREMLIN CONTROL ROOM
"Get it, Tron?" Manor asked.
"Yes, sir. Not the best angle, but we got enough video to document the shooting."
It had taken longer than expected to fly the Gremlin over to Ho's-Summerlin and get set up, before Taseer had been shot and killed.
"Bird's established on-orbit," the harried pilot announced. "In range. All yours, Tron."
"Target acquired. Ready for Temblor, sir?" asked the sensor operator.
"Stand by," Manor said. "Wait for the media."
Las Vegas news outlets routinely monitored Metro police frequencies. He wanted TV cameras on-site to capture Checkmate's next extravaganza, ensuring even the most jaded Las Vegas corruptocrats and power brokers couldn't ignore Operation Gold Shield's dramatic message.
* *
Addressing several TV cameras and reporters, Captain Mikey Greel pointed at a red Mazda Miata corralled by yellow crime-scene tape. It's driver-side door was open.
"The suspect retrieved a firearm from his vehicle, then started waving it around," Greel explained. "He was acting extremely erratic. Probably inebriated or under the influence of drugs. When officers arrived, he refused to drop the weapon and fired a single round at one of our brave men. Fortunately, he missed, but the officers had no choice but to return fire. He died en route to the University Medical Center."
Which was nonsense. A bullet had ripped through Taseer's heart. The young Afghan was dead, before he hit the asphalt.
Then his body was whisked away, per standard Metro protocol: Claim signs of life are detected, and toss the corpse into an ambulance.
A previous Metro sheriff had implemented the practice long ago, ensuring cops had time to "adjust" the crime scene, before Homicide and the media arrived.
"Have an ID on the deceased, captain?" a young woman asked, pointing a handheld microphone at Greel.
"Yes. The suspect was Mr. Hajji Taseer, an undercover security officer for Ho's… "
"The dude who made the nine-one-one call about Erik Steele?" another reporter interrupted.
"That's correct. Mr. Taseer was, indeed, the security official who made that call, after observing Steele's behavior."
"Why would Taseer be waving a gun and acting crazy?" the female reporter pressed.
Greel hesitated, struggling to formulate an answer. His fatigued, addled mind wandered, refusing to focus and process.
Normally, he would have deflected an invitation to speculate. Tonight, though, after days of racing from one extraordinary death scene to another—and after witnessing Antone Galocci literally melt before his eyes—a shaken Mikey Greel abandoned caution.
"I don't know. However, you have to wonder whether Mr. Taseer was so distraught by his role in the Erik Steele misfortune that… . Maybe he couldn't handle the stress any longer."
"Suicide-by-cop?" the reporter asked, incredulous.
"Maybe. The Steele situation was very upsetting to those involved, including our heroic police officers. You'll recall that they had no choice but to shoot the suspect, before he harmed innocent bystanders."
The weak re-justification elicited skeptical glances among the newsies.
"Captain, Erik's father recently appeared on the Bill O'Reilly TV show, disputing your Homicide team's investigation into his son's murder. He's also written several scathing blog entries that make a compelling case… ."
A low-pitched, extremely loud, intense rumble drowned out the reporter's question. Every head turned toward Ho's warehouse store. The entire building was in motion, visibly shaking violently, sending palpable reverberations across the parking lot.
"Earthquake!" a reporter shouted.
"That's no damned earthquake," a long-haired camera operator growled, aiming his lens at the building and zooming tighter.
The lighted "Ho's" sign sputtered and crashed to the pavement, trailing a shower of sparks, cinder blocks and rock facing. The low-frequency thunder grew louder, accented by sharp cracks and booming crashes, as mortar failed and chunks of wall dislodged, wavered, then tumbled and disintegrated. Massive clouds of cement dust billowed into the night sky.
Metallic screeches created a deafening chorus, as gargantuan steel I-beams twisted and buckled. The roof folded and dropped, crushing a million-dollar inventory and spawning a dust cloud that rolled toward Greel and the TV crews.
"Run!" the panicked female reporter yelled. The grizzled operator ignored her and concentrated on widening the camera's field of view, until the full scene of roiling dirt and destruction filled his viewfinder.
Mikey Greel was rooted in place, mouth hanging open. He had heard a similar din, in Antone Galocci's office, right before the massive wall of glass had disintegrated. That warbling cacophony meant Ho's was under attack.
"Get out of here!" Greel shouted, as hell mushroomed before him. Even larger explosions might be imminent.
It was over in minutes. The entire building was reduced to rubble, twisted steel and a cloud of thick, gray dust. A high-voltage power cable, snapped by falling beams, sprayed molten wire into the wreckage. Those sparks, plus a cloud of fine cement powder, combined to trigger a moderate detonation. In turn, that ignited a mountain of cardboard packaging, clothing and alcohol-rich cosmetics.
Flames and mini-explosions quickly swept the remnants of Ho's cavernous warehouse. Fire licked through the ruins, fueled by ubiquitous flammables. Hundred-foot-long tongues of flame fed by broken natural gas lines roared from gaping holes dotting the debris.
* *
While the Ho's inferno raged, the late Hajji Taseer's apartment was being searched. Rico Rodolfo swept his LED Maglite XL50 across a sparsely furnished living room, until he found a DVD collection. He stuck the compact flashlight in his mouth and flicked through the box of disks, looking for one without a plastic jewel case.
Gotcha! he grinned, pulling an unlabeled DVD/CD envelope from the stack. He removed the silver disk and flipped it over. Scrawled in black marker was a date: 7-10-10.
As Bishop had suspected, the smarmy little Ho's undercover security guard had, indeed, made a second copy of the surveillance video for himself, before the original hard disk was "damaged."
Rodolfo pocketed the disk and stepped outside, locking the apartment door. Laughter and loud music from a party upstairs obliterated any noise he might have made. Peeling off and pocketing a pair of latex gloves, he skirted the party crowd, strolled to the apartment's parking zone and climbed into his Tacoma.
Breaking and entering wasn't in the Checkmate-operative's job description, but Rodolfo had bet on Hajji Taseer's sloppy arrogance. Fortunately, the agent's hunch had paid off. The stupid Afghan-American had failed to protect incontrovertible evidence that Comet had been murdered.
In Win Steele's hands, that disk's video data would become the core of a film documentary that was guaranteed to destroy Ho's, Las Vegas Metro and, possibly, the entire Las Vegas Cartel of Corruption.
* *
GROOM LAKE/GREMLIN CONTROL ROOM
Gray Manor, the Gremlin flight crew and a Lawhead Corporation executive stared in awe at the pilot's and sensor operator's displays. Nobody spoke. A whisper of equipment cooling fans was the room's solitary sound.
"Secure Temblor and bring the bird home. Spectacular mission, guys," Manor said softly. "Damn fine job."
The Checkmate director was astonished by the sight of a huge, flat-topped building being destroyed in seconds. A line from the Hindu scripture Bhagavad Gita popped into his head:
I have become death, the destroyer of worlds.
By some accounts, J. Robert Oppenheimer, who'd headed the Manhattan Project, uttered that same phrase, while observing the first nuclear weapon test in 1945. An audio-frequency resonance weapon hardly compared to an A-bomb, but for sheer destructive power, Temblor was certainly awe inspiring.
A vague une
ase that had dogged Manor for days, since launching Gold Shield, settled into his foreground of consciousness. Ordering troops into combat, knowing many would die to secure an objective, had kindled similar dark emotions.
But this new domestic counterterrorism campaign aroused something more profound, a soul-deep cocktail of wonder and dread. It emanated from the power and mystery of ultra-classified, high-tech weapons unleashing forces that only an anointed few could envision, harness and control.
And the most formidable was yet to play Las Vegas.
* *
LAS VEGAS/METRO HEADQUARTERS
Mikey Greel hovered near an electronic technician's elbow, watching the expert carefully disassemble a 1911-style .45-caliber semiautomatic. A Homicide team had retrieved it from Hajji Taseer's fist without incident.
"It's fairly old, and the serial number's been ground off," the portly tech explained. "It's highly modified, too. A batch of electronics are crammed into this grip, where a magazine normally goes.
"I haven't figured out the technology, but a few measurements confirmed it's a sophisticated high-voltage power pack. When the system's activated, thousands of volts are conducted directly to the handgrip."
"And that hurts," Greel grunted.
"Damned right it hurts! High-voltage shock forces muscles and tendons to contract—to tighten up. That's why the victim couldn't let go. His fingers were practically welded to the gun."
"But, if a power pack filled the magazine, how'd the guy fire off a round?"
"Probably had one in the chamber and the hammer back, when the victim picked up the piece."
"So, when his fingers contracted, he pulled the trigger," Greel said.
The technician turned and eyed Greel from under droopy eyelids. Dark eyes were bloodshot, testimony to being rousted from bed after midnight.
"Nope. The trigger's locked. This was activated remotely. Probably shut off the same way, after your guys hosed the perp."
Greel held the man's unblinking stare.
"Whoever activated the battery pack was close enough to watch the suspect, then turn it off?"
"Looks that way. Judging from the sophistication of this system, I'd say the watcher wasn't any off-the-street schmo, either. This is no-shit James Bond crap."
* *
Greel left the lab, took an elevator to the ground floor and exited Metro headquarters. Never had he been so unnerved, confused and frightened. Every person in Clark County directly associated with the Erik Steele shooting was either dead or a vegetable. Everybody, that is, except Sheriff Uriah and good ol' Vader Greel. And Vader was dying.
Greel was trembling, when he slid into his unmarked cruiser. He sat in the darkened interior for some time, trying to make sense of the most bizarre week of his life.
How could old man Steele kill a bunch of cops and district attorneys, Antone Galocci and that Taseer kid, then destroy a massive warehouse store? And do it from Colorado?
If there is a God, he's on Steele's side. Judgment Day is nigh, the Metro captain mused.
I'm already dead.
CHAPTER 32
JUSTICE
"Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves,
but rather give place unto wrath:
for it is written, 'Vengeance is mine;
I will repay,' saith the Lord."
Romans 12:19
LAS VEGAS/SOPHIA KNIGHT HOME
Sophia glanced at her cell phone and swiped the screen.
"Hey, Dad. What's up?"
"Hi, hon. I know it's late, but… . Are you OK?" retired Judge Stanton Kern asked.
"Er… sure! I'm going over a case one more time. Have to be in court at ten tomorrow."
She stuck reading glasses into her hair and stretched. Except for the desk lamp's pool of light, her home office was dark and quiet.
"What's going on? Is Mom… ?"
"Don't worry. Your mom's fine." A long pause, then a nervous chuckle. "Just chalk it up to a father checking on his little girl."
Sophia stood and started pacing.
"Come on, Dad. You haven't called to check on your little girl, since I was in college. What's going on?"
"Well," the judge began, pausing to clear his throat. "Did you watch the late news?"
"No. Like I said, I've been prepping for court.
"Metro logged another fatality," Kern said. "Two cops shot a kid over at the Summerlin Ho's."
"Where Erik was murdered?"
The lawyer returned to her desk, grabbed a pen and hunted for a legal pad.
"The same." Another pause. "The victim was that Taseer kid. The Ho's undercover-security guy."
"The shit-bird who fingered Erik?" she exclaimed.
"Correct. And right after Taseer was shot, the entire Ho's warehouse store collapsed and burned. On-camera, in front of the TV crews."
"Because they were on-site, covering the Taseer shooting?"
"Right. Damnedest thing… . A horrendous noise seemed to emanate from the building, then it honest-to-God shook apart and collapsed!"
"Good grief!" Jotting down notes, she added, "You heard about Woody Ryns and the two deputy DAs, right?"
"Of course. Very sad. And quite strange, wouldn't you agree?"
"Definitely," she said. "Ah. That's why you called, isn't it? Woody, Purvis, Moore and now, Hajji Taseer. They were all connected to Erik's murder."
Another long pause. "You don't know about the others?"
"What others?"
"Steele's killers. Krupa and Akaka are dead, too. And the third one… . What's his name?"
"The third shooter? Malovic?"
"Yes. He's disappeared."
"You think somebody's taking 'em out, and you're concerned I might be on some whack-job's hit list."
"The possibility had occurred to me," Kern said quietly. "This is Las Vegas."
Tapping her legal pad, Sophia scanned the list of names.
"No way, Dad. These guys were either guilty of killing Erik, or intimately involved in the cover-up. I'm on the other side.
"Besides, I'm sure there's a logical explanation. How many other people died in the same period?"
It sounded absured, even to her. The odds of all those intimate players being killed in a short period were astronomical.
The line was quiet a long beat. "Don't be so sure, counselor," Kern said. "There's another corpse in the morgue, too: Antone Galocci."
"Galocci? When? How?"
Another pregnant pause. Her father was being circumspect, as if somebody were eavesdropping.
"He was killed today. In his office. He… . A window apparently exploded. Witnesses heard some horrific banshee-like noise, and Antone… . Well, it sounds crazy, but he basically melted! There wasn't a solid bone left in his body, Sofie!"
Shocked, she struggled to make the bizarre image in her mind find a logical pigeonhole. The only mental slot, though, was far away in time and space—a locked-and-compartmented corner marked Classified. She hadn't accessed that cyber-safe, since leaving military service.
"Dad, I was never briefed on the specifics, but, back in the nineties, acoustic-wave weapons were being developed that might explain what you just described. That's all I can say, though."
"Because it's 'black?'"
"Mmmm… . Damn-sure Top Secret, at the least."
"That would mean 'government,' though. Why would the feds kill innocent police officers, lawyers and a corporate executive?" Kern asked indignantly.
"Dad! Those Metro asses weren't innocent! They murdered Erik Steele! The DAs conspired with Metro to cover it up. And Galocci? Geez! You defended that prick! He was anything but lily-white innocent!"
The line was silent for a tense moment. "That's irrelevant. Antone and several cops are dead. Then, tonight, an admittedly perverse young man, who was directly responsible for Erik's death, was shot and killed. You were very close to the Steele case, and… ."
"You think I might be a target," she interrupted. "Because I had to drop the Steeles' case?"
"Hon, I'm worried about your safety! What if Win Steele's behind these extraordinary fatalities? He was not happy about having to drop the lawsuit."
"No way!" she scoffed, tossing the pen aside. "Sure, Win was disappointed, but he's not killing these jerks! How could he possibly make a Mob boss 'melt,' or take down a huge Ho's warehouse store?"
"Sofie, you don't know that guy," Kern cautioned. "He's hardly some innocuous reporter-turned-author. He was an engineer in the Air Force and had several tours in the 'black world.' There are significant gaps in his background, too. We don't know what he did—or who he knows."
Sophia laughed. "You're watching too much TV, dad. Win Steele is no Jason Bourne spy. Yes, he has superb contacts in Washington, but he's retired and on the sidelines.
"Whoever's whacking Metro cops and, maybe, your former client, has nothing to do with Steele the elder."
Kern sighed. "I hope you're right. An old father sees associations and worries. Just be careful, baby."
A few minutes were devoted to more benign topics, then Kern bid his daughter goodnight.
Sophia propped a foot on an open desk drawer and spun the pen, thinking. How did her father know about Erik's killer-cops?
She was wired into the Vegas judicial system, and had reliable sources inside Metro's headquarters. But not a whisper about Krupa, Akaka and Malovic.
The mind-boggling deaths of those dick-head assistant DAs, and Woody Ryns being leveled by a brain fart, had caused a huge public stir, of course. But citizens didn't know about the three cops.
The sum of these fatalities and their ties to Erik's murder was very interesting. She was baffled by Galocci's demise, though. Antone had been a vicious Mob boss, who ran the Strip with an iron hand and controlled the city's power brokers.
Was he somehow connected to Erik's murder?
And how did Dad know so much about Galocci's freakish death?
* *
GROOM LAKE/GREMLIN CONTROL ROOM
"How soon can you get that Gremlin back in the air?" asked Gray Manor, rubbing his temples. He was exhausted, but debriefing the night's multiple missions was critical to ensure all data and lessons-learned were captured.
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