by Wesley Lewis
“At that point, both of the undercover officers should have raised their hands and announced that they were undercover police officers. But instead of raising his hands, one of the officers instinctively reached for his badge.”
Jennifer felt her stomach sink.
Crocker took a deep breath. “Courtney was the second SWAT officer through the door. She heard both of the undercovers announce that they were police officers and recognized that one of them was reaching for a badge. But the third SWAT officer—the one who entered just behind her—didn’t hear them. He saw one of the men reaching for something and yelled, ‘Gun!’
“Realizing that the officer behind her was about to shoot, Courtney turned and signaled him to stand down. And that’s when the third drug dealer—the one none of the SWAT officers had seen, the one who’d been dozing on the couch when they burst through the door—started shooting.
“He opened fire with a piece-of-shit twenty-two revolver. He fired wildly, hitting mostly furniture and drywall. Of the six shots he fired, only one actually hit somebody.”
“Courtney?”
“If she’d been facing the gunman, her body armor would have easily stopped the round. She probably wouldn’t have even felt it. But because she’d turned sideways to warn her fellow officer, her left side was exposed. The round impacted just under her arm, passed between two ribs, and ripped through her aorta. She died within a matter of seconds.”
Jennifer felt her eyes filling with tears. “How did you find out?”
“Bill Cargill was at the station when the call came in.” A fleeting smile appeared on Crocker’s face. “He jumped into a patrol car and hightailed it out to the academy, lights flashing, siren blaring. All he knew was that Courtney had been shot and was being medevaced to a trauma center here in the city. He was determined to make sure I was by her side when she went into surgery.”
Tears trickled down Jennifer’s face.
“Of course,” continued Crocker, “there was no surgery. She was gone long before they loaded her into the chopper. In the end, Bill’s determination to get me by her side simply allowed me to view her body before the coroner took her away.”
Crocker walked to the window and pointed to something in the distance. “That’s where I said goodbye. That hospital over there.” He hesitated. “I stayed with her as long as they’d let me. When they finally made me leave, Bill was still there, waiting to drive me home.”
“Was that her in the picture I saw in your trailer?” asked Jennifer. “The woman with the freckles?”
“Yeah,” he said with a pained smile. “You saw that? That was my favorite picture of us.”
The realization hit her. “Oh my God! You lost it!”
“It’s okay. I have more pictures in Colorado.”
“Another copy of that one?”
“No,” he said with a sigh, “not that one. That one was taken the week before she died. She stopped by the academy to have lunch with me, and one of my students jokingly asked whether she or I was the better shot. One thing led to another, and we ended up having an impromptu competition. When it was over, another student snapped that picture. The framed copy you saw in my trailer arrived the day after Courtney was killed. The student who took it had mailed it a few days before, intending it as a wedding present.”
Jennifer fought back sobs. “And now it’s gone because of me.”
“Hey, whoa, don’t do that.” He turned and place his hands on her shoulders. “You can’t start blaming yourself for this mess. Trust me, that’s a one-way street to someplace you don’t want to go.”
“Did you blame yourself for what happened to Courtney?”
“Of course—I was the one who trained her. She trusted me to teach her to stay alive, and she died. That’s a lot for a guy with a broken heart to bear.”
“How did you deal with it?”
“I sold my half of First Shot to my partner, Jeff; bought the trailer; and spent the next couple of years wandering around the country, just trying to make sense of things.”
“Did you succeed?”
“No, I finally accepted that life doesn’t make sense. That was as close as I got.”
“And that was close enough?”
“I suppose. Eventually I came back to Pahrump, moved into the house Courtney and I had built, and accepted a job at the academy I’d cofounded. After that, I just took it one day at a time.”
“How old was Courtney when she died?”
“Twenty-six.”
Just three years older than Ashley, thought Jennifer.
Crocker reached up and wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’ve failed miserably at helping you relax.”
“You’re sorry?” She leaned over and pulled a tissue from Vegas’s diaper bag. “I’m the one who should be sorry.” She wiped her eyes. “You’re about to risk your life to help save my friend, and I just made you relive the most painful experience of your life.”
“It’s okay.” He plucked the tissue from her hand. “I wanted you to know.” He dabbed it under her eyes. “You know, it occurs to me that I haven’t told you how amazing you look tonight.”
Jennifer choked on a tear-filled laugh. “I’m wearing the same dress I’ve been wearing since you met me.”
“That’s not true. I distinctly remember you wearing a bedsheet when I woke up this afternoon.”
She laughed again. “I think you must have dreamed that.”
“Well, I didn’t dream the way every head turned when you walked into the reception earlier. I’m clearly not the only one who thinks you’re stunning.”
Jennifer felt her cheeks flush. “Yes, it’s amazing what a shower and a fresh coat of paint can do.”
“Listen,” said Crocker, “this may be a lousy time to ask, but do you think that when this is all over, you might be interested in—”
He didn’t get a chance to finish the question—Jennifer’s lips were pressed against his. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her waist and reciprocated.
She pulled her mouth free of his just long enough to say, “I thought you’d never ask,” then returned to the task at hand.
He kissed with such force that she found herself driven backward into a support column. She leaned against it as she kissed his ear.
His lips nuzzled her neck while his hand explored her body through the fabric of the little black dress. Her own fingers slid beneath his suit jacket and traced the contours of his chest.
She welcomed the feeling of being held, of being touched. His fingers found their way under the hem of her dress and caressed her thigh, inching higher, testing the water, seeking permission to proceed.
She grabbed his belt and worked the buckle. Suddenly she was airborne—both of his hands were cupped around her buttocks, and he was carrying her. She released the belt, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him.
He set her on the window ledge and slid his hands under her dress. She glanced back and saw the lights of the Strip glimmering far below. She had only a moment to take in the view before she felt her comfortable new panties sliding down her thighs. She kicked off her shoes and lifted her legs to aid in the removal.
Crocker slipped the panties over her feet and stuck them in his jacket pocket.
“Look in the diaper bag,” she said.
He furrowed his brow in apparent confusion.
“The bag at your feet,” she added. “Check the side pocket.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Out of breath and soaked in sweat, they huddled together on the window ledge for several minutes before Crocker finally climbed down and retrieved his pants from the floor. He dug through a pocket and pulled out the cell phone he’d borrowed from Vegas.
“Any messages?” asked Jennifer.
“No, but it’s already five after nine. We’d better get dressed and get into position.”
He helped her down from the ledge, and they set about retrieving their various items of clothing from the floor.
When they each had a small pile, Jennifer shifted all her garments to one arm and slung the diaper bag over her free shoulder. “Where is my dressing room?”
Crocker pointed to the far corner of the room. “Just feel along the wall until you find a door.”
“Thanks.” She wrapped her free arm around his neck and pulled his lips to hers. After several seconds, she released him, turned, and walked toward the dressing room. “To be continued, Mr. Crocker.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Crocker took another sip of Red Bull and tried once more to focus on the task ahead. Again, his thoughts circled back to Jennifer and their brief interlude five floors below. He set the can on the luminescent green bar and glanced around the room.
Most of the lights on level 108 had been dimmed to minimize the glare on the floor-to-ceiling windows and allow patrons an unpolluted view of the city. Compared to the high-end lounge that occupied level 107, the observation-level bar was small and simple. It had begun its life as a snack bar, selling pretzels and hot dogs to the families who came to enjoy the carnival-style rides atop the tower. Fifteen years after opening, the Stratosphere had undergone a top-to-bottom renovation that saw the bar repurposed for a trendier clientele. Now the furniture glowed, faux stars twinkled on the ceiling, and a DJ stationed near the windows spun hip-hop tunes that reverberated through the open bar and drifted down the promenade, beckoning others to join the party.
Crocker would have preferred the quieter atmosphere and older crowd one floor below, but the small, dark bar offered something the big, sophisticated lounge didn’t: anonymity. He doubted that any of Dudka’s goons knew what he looked like, but many of the Stratosphere’s full-time security staff knew him by sight, and being recognized would further complicate an already complicated situation.
The technicians monitoring the surveillance cameras weren’t a concern. They undoubtedly saw his comings and goings—though, fortunately, not in the chapels on level 103—but they could only see, not hear, and they had no way of knowing he’d deviated from his assigned tasks. For all they knew, the bar was where he was supposed to be.
The real concern was that he might bump into someone who did know where he was supposed to be, someone with a walkie-talkie who could radio down to the security office and ask whether any of the PPOs had been authorized to operate on level 108. He was tempted to remove his earpiece so as to look more like a civilian, but he knew that radio chatter between the other guards might be his first and only warning that someone knew he was off script.
He glanced over his shoulder at the growing crowd of faceless shadows mingling in front of the neon skyline. The sight triggered memories of Jennifer’s writhing body silhouetted against the glimmering backdrop of the Strip.
Twenty-four hours ago, he hadn’t even known she existed. Now he pondered what he’d do when she returned to her life in Texas.
He picked up the half-finished Red Bull, glanced at it, and set it down again. He had all the energy he needed. What he needed now was to get his head in the game. There was no point in worrying about his future with Jennifer when there was a possibility neither of them would survive the night.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out Vegas’s phone, and checked it for the eighth time in as many minutes. He couldn’t afford to miss Tom’s text message, and he didn’t trust himself to hear the chime over the loud music. If everything went according to plan, Dudka’s people would be calling Tom at any minute to suggest a change of venue for the exchange. Everything hinged on that call, on whether Crocker had accurately predicted Dudka’s next move.
The phone showed no new messages. He slid it back into his pocket and glanced around the room. He spotted the gold sequined dress and flowing red hair a full two seconds before he recognized Jennifer beneath them.
She strolled to the bar and sidled up to him. “Hey there, stranger. Looking for a date?”
“Maybe.” He inspected the getup. “What’ll it cost me?”
“Eight hundred thousand dollars.” She slid onto the adjoining bar stool and reached for his Red Bull. “Have you heard from Tom?”
“Not a word. I’m getting restless.”
She took a long sip from the can and placed it back in front of him. “How long do we wait before going to plan B?”
“We’re scheduled to meet Dudka’s people at the airport in ten minutes. If Tom hasn’t heard from them by then, we’ll call the FBI and . . .”
Jennifer was looking over Crocker’s right shoulder.
“What is it?” He turned to see what had caught her attention.
“Don’t look.”
He turned back to the bar. “One of your real estate friends?”
“No.”
She turned and pretended to study a drink list lying on the bar. A man in khaki slacks and a blue Hawaiian shirt passed behind them, heading toward the elevator lobby.
Crocker waited a couple of seconds, then risked a better look at the man’s back. From behind, the casually dressed stranger could have been almost anybody.
“Who is it?”
Jennifer jumped to her feet. “Hang on. I want to see where he goes.”
Crocker stood to join her. “Who?”
“Stay here. He’s less likely to recognize me.”
Crocker wanted to prod her for more information, but the man was getting away. He didn’t like the idea of letting her go alone, but there was little arguing that she was virtually unrecognizable in the wig. He nodded agreement, and she trotted across the bar and down the same corridor that had just swallowed the man.
Crocker watched the mouth of the corridor for what might have been twenty seconds or two minutes—he was in no state of mind to gauge the passage of time—and then, in an effort to distract himself, made another cursory check of Vegas’s phone.
To his surprise, the borrowed cell phone showed one new text message. He fumbled with the touch screen for what felt like an eternity before succeeding in opening the message. It was short and to the point:
You called it. Meeting now set for 10 PM at Stratosphere. Outdoor observation deck. --Tom
As he pocketed the phone, Crocker momentarily forgot about the mystery man and imagined Mr. Black assuring Tom that meeting at the tower would be much safer than meeting at the airport. Crocker wondered how many of Dudka’s goons were now monitoring police radio channels or making surreptitious phone calls to informants inside the Las Vegas Police Department, searching for any indication that authorities had been notified of the meeting. He wondered how many of Dudka’s thugs were already fanning out through the tower.
His mind snapped back to the present.
Jennifer!
Now that the Stratosphere was confirmed as the site of the meeting, Jennifer’s pursuit of the mystery man seemed reckless.
To hell with it. He rose to his feet. If I’m recognized, I’ll improvise.
He’d just reached the mouth of the corridor when he saw Jennifer walking toward him. He continued down the passage, meeting her halfway.
“Well?” he asked.
She looked flustered. “I couldn’t find him. He must have gotten onto one of the elevators.”
“Who was it?”
“I might have been mistaken.”
“Who did you think it was?”
“I could have sworn it was the highway patrolman who took my statement last night.”
“Vincent Haley?”
“I don’t remember his name.”
Crocker took her hand. “Let’s look again.” He led her toward the elevator lobby.
Her tight dress and high heels left her struggling to keep up with his brisk pace. “Isn’t it possible he’s just—”
“This is a tourist spot. Locals don’t hang out here.”
“But—”
He stopped and faced her. “Tom got the call—the exchange is definitely happening here. If Haley is in the tower, it’s a safe bet it has something to do with us.”
Instead of giving the reply Crocker expected, Jennifer wrapped her arms all the way around him and pulled him in close. She kissed him hard on the lips. His first instinct was to push her away and scold her for her poor timing; then he felt her left hand remove his earpiece and realized she knew exactly what she was doing.
He positioned his mouth as if to nuzzle her ear and whispered, “Who do you see?”
“Haley just walked out of the men’s room. It’s definitely him.” After a couple of seconds, she added, “Now he’s walking toward the elevators.” They continued the mock make-out. “He’s getting on an elevator. . . . Just a few more . . . Okay.”
Crocker turned his head just in time to see the elevator doors slam shut. “You’re sure it was him?”
“One hundred percent. He looked right at me when he walked out of the restroom.”
“He didn’t recognize you?”
“No, but he was certainly close enough.”
“Come on.” Crocker grabbed her by the hand and led her toward the restroom.
They entered a small alcove containing three doors: one labeled storage, one labeled maintenance, and one labeled men’s room.
Crocker looked from one to the next. “Are you certain he came out of the men’s room and not one of these other doors?”