Event: A Novel

by David L. Golemon

  They were met as the doors of the elevator closed behind them. Campos was there with Staff Sergeant Mendenhall and two other men. All were dressed in civilian clothing and Mendenhall was smiling.

  “What is it, Sergeant?” asked the major.

  “After your arrival at the center, we were laying bets on what security personnel would be reassigned. I’m just glad to have a job this morning, sir.”

  “The morning’s still young,” Collins replied, letting his eyes linger for a moment on the staff sergeant. He turned and asked the older marine, “You have something for us, Gunny?”

  The old man nodded in affirmation and produced two large manila envelopes. He gave one each to Collins and Everett. They opened them, and inside were two forms of ID and a badge in a leather wallet and a holstered nine-millimeter Browning automatic with two extra clips of ammunition. Collins raised his eyebrows.

  “Better to have too much than not enough,” Everett said, sliding the two magazines into his back pocket.

  Collins did the same and clipped the holstered nine-millimeter into the waistband of his jeans under his Wind-breaker and toward the small of his back. Then he looked at the badge he held in his hand. It was a star inscribed with DEPUTY UNITED STATES MARSHAL. Collins slid the leather-encased shield into his waistband, allowing the badge to dangle there.

  “What in the hell do we do if we just happen to bump into real marshals?” the major asked.

  “We go to jail for impersonating a federal officer and pray that Niles can get our asses out,” the naval officer answered, grinning.

  “Great. Well, who’s coming?” Collins asked.

  Mendenhall introduced the other two men as marine PFCs, O’Connell and Gianelli. PFC O’Connell had a decidedly Southern drawl, and there was no doubt at all Gianelli hailed from New York.

  “Gunny here wants permission to come along with us. He doesn’t really expect to be used in any real capacity, maybe watch the car. Mrs. Hamilton said it was totally up to you,” Mendenhall said in a lowered voice. “Spec 5 Meyers up front will mind the store, if you concur, sir.”

  Collins looked the old man over. He wasn’t real comfortable with the idea, but the man was still a marine, thus had earned respect long ago. “Getting some air with us today, Gunny Campos?”

  “About goddamn time too. I’m damn tired of babysitting these boys and bickering with the tourists. I can still run rings around most of these men, and the day I let someone from the army beat me, I’ll just…” He saw the major looking at him. “I… uh… yes, sir, very ready to get out of here. I know the town and I know exactly where you need to go. Present company excluded on the army comment, Major.”

  “Quit while you’re ahead, Gunny. You’re welcome to come along, but don’t get used to it. You know the area here, so let’s roll.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Staff Sergeant Mendenhall drove while Everett rode shotgun with O’Connell in the middle. The other three, including Collins, rode in the back. In less than five minutes they were in the area of the old Strip that housed all the famous and older casinos.

  “Gunny, see if they have a back door to this place and stake it out,” Collins said as he left the car. “You stay with him, Gianelli.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Collins watched them head toward the back of the building. Then he, Everett, Mendenhall, and O’Connell walked around to the front of the club. Once there they didn’t hesitate. A bored-looking woman sitting behind an old desk didn’t even glance up from her People magazine as they passed, merely blew a bubble with her gum and let it snap before sucking it back in and starting over. They went up a long flight of stairs toward the smell and noise of the Ivory Coast Lounge.

  The room was dark and much larger on the inside than it looked from the outside. Music was playing, but no one was onstage. A waitress with rather large and sagging breasts was leaning down and speaking with a man in a black suit who sat in a palm-covered booth. He looked up at the newcomers and slid out of the booth, ducking his head under the fake elephant tusks and palm fronds. He whispered something to the topless woman and then walked away, disappearing into the back of the club. The waitress watched him leave, then placed her tray down on the table and hurried away through a curtained doorway to the left. She glanced back at Collins and Everett as she pulled the drapes closed.

  Through the strains of the Moody Blues singing “Nights in White Satin,” a man with a swooping seventies Elvis haircut stepped through the same curtained doorway after a few minutes and up to the four men, eyeing them closely.

  “Can I help you, gentlemen?” he asked loudly over the music, smiling with stained teeth exposed and moving his shoulders as if he were warming up for something.

  Everett sized up the tall, unbearably thin man and decided he wasn’t much of a threat.

  “Looking for someone,” Collins said, leaning forward a little, noticing the slight bulge the man had under his own jacket. He was definitely armed.

  “Have a name, cop?” the man asked, pegging them immediately as some sort of law enforcement.

  Collins said nothing; he just looked at the club’s proprietor. After a moment he produced a small wallet-sized photo that Mendenhall had given him earlier in the car. It was Reese, the picture having been taken last year for his Event Group ID.

  “His name is Reese, he may have been here last night or earlier this morning,” Collins stated.

  Elvis hunched his shoulders, then popped a toothpick into his sneering mouth.

  “Man, you know how many people come in here a day?” he asked, eyeing the other three men on either side of Collins.

  The major looked around the empty club and smiled as the Moody Blues’ haunting melody was still playing to an empty house. “It must be a bitch with all these people here to notice one man.”

  The Elvis wannabe just smiled and looked at the floor, not saying anything.

  “You mind if we have a look around?” Everett asked.

  “Not without a warrant, my friend,” Elvis said, looking up, the smile now gone.

  “Ah, we paid the cover,” Everett said, smiling, “can’t we take an itsy-bitsy look around, pretty please?” He held his right index finger and thumb about an inch apart.

  “Fuck off, cop.”

  The four soldiers exchanged amused looks. The man saw this and became a little unsettled. Collins brushed by him before Elvis knew what was happening and walked farther into the club.

  “Hey, fuckhead,” the man started to protest, then felt a hand slip quickly under his jacket and deftly remove the gun from the hidden holster. “Hey! I have a permit for that!”

  Everett effortlessly punched the release button and ejected the ammunition clip, then pulled the slide back and allowed the chambered round to fall to the floor.

  “I’m sure you do, I just don’t feel comfortable with Elvis and firearms, call it silly,” Carl said.

  Collins was walking toward the stage, looking around at the cheap décor of the club. He fingered some dust off the platform of the stage, then suddenly the darkened room filled with the bright flashes and sharp reports of gunfire. Collins threw himself to the floor, crawling around the base of the stage. He pulled his sidearm and was pointing it to where he thought the shots had come from. The noise was deafening in the empty lounge. Two more loud explosions rang out, and this time he saw the muzzle flash. It came from the same curtain the woman had disappeared into earlier. Collins rolled but knew the shots hadn’t been aimed at him.

  “Anyone hit?” he shouted to his men, with his gun pointed and his eyes still on the curtain.

  “We’re alright, but Elvis took one in the head,” Everett called out.

  “Shit! The curtain, there’s gotta be a door. That’s where the shots came from.”

  “You lead, we’ll cover,” Everett shouted, coming to a knee with his own weapon already drawn and aimed at the shoddy curtain.

  Mendenhall was already duckwalking toward the major, using the booths for co
ver. Everett and O’Connell stood as one and ran toward the side of the curtain with guns held up in the air. Everett nodded and Collins ran for the curtain, coming to his knees. At that moment three quick shots rang out and echoed from what seemed like considerable distance. The two men looked at each other and Collins pointed his finger at the door, then pointed down.

  Everett mouthed the word basement to O’Connell.

  The music on the jukebox went suddenly silent. They looked over at the black army sergeant; he was just dropping the cord he had yanked from the wall. He stood there with his gun pointed toward the curtain in an area in the center between the two officers.

  Other distant shots sounded, echoing until they faded away, erupted again and then stopped.

  Farbeaux was furious. The fool he had sent up the stairs from the basement to check on their visitors had obviously panicked and opened fire. He didn’t like admitting it, but he had become used to the professional way the company’s Black Teams operated, not like these goons the club had on staff. Now he calmly waited for the man to reappear so he could shoot the incompetent fool. He quickly turned to the other two who were standing by the card table and put two rounds into them, just as the closest one turned and fired. The round missed the Frenchman by two feet, but caught the unfortunate Reese in the head.

  “My apologies, Mr. Reese, I’m afraid circumstances have prevented me from keeping my promise,” he said as he quickly turned for the door that led to the alley behind the club.

  As the door opened, he saw several things at once. First was an older man who was coming toward him while reaching for something behind him, probably a weapon. The second was, Farbeaux assumed, the old man’s younger companion, who was turned and looking at three men in black who were approaching from the lot. They had already drawn their weapons and opened up, making the younger man hit the asphalt and roll under a car. Then they turned their weapons toward the old man himself. That man had turned at the sound of gunfire behind him, then suddenly flailed his arms and fell as Farbeaux opened fire with his silenced weapon, making the old man’s assailants all dive for cover. Farbeaux made his way for the fallen man and saw he had been hit in the upper chest. He grimaced and fired twice more toward the three men in black as he used his own cover fire to sprint from the rear lot.

  Gianelli had regained his composure and started firing toward the men who had taken cover behind the parked cars. They returned fire and broke for the alley toward the running man Gianelli had seen exit the club, then the marine noticed that Gunny was down.

  Let’s go,” Collins said.

  He burst through the curtain first, followed by the taller Everett. They were at the top of a stairwell that descended into what had to be a basement. The paint on the walls was peeling and the stairwell looked as if it was seldom used. Collins, Everett, and O’Connell started down. Mendenhall placed himself at the top of the stairs with his nine-millimeter pointed outward into the club.

  One minute later, a very long one minute of creaking wooden stairs, Collins stepped onto a concrete floor. The only door was five feet in front of him. He knew he was a sitting duck to anyone who wanted to plug a couple of rounds into the door from the other side, but he felt the urgency of what was happening. He glanced back at Everett. They both started forward and placed themselves on either side of the door. The major motioned with his finger, pointing upward for Everett to go high, then used the same finger pointing down, indicating he would go low. It was a classic police maneuver he had learned in terrorist training at Fort Bragg. The lieutenant would kick the door in, then Collins would dive and quickly roll, bringing his gun to bear on anything in front of him. Then Everett would come in high, and in theory the odds of both of them getting hit were low, and that was why policemen and military people used it all over the world.

  What Collins saw after finishing his roll was bizarre to say the least. The topless girl from upstairs was now dead. She was propped up against a man that lay against a far wall with a perfect round hole between her eyes. As she had tried to follow Farbeaux outside, a stray round had ended her flight. A small trickle of blood had run down between her sagging breasts.

  “Jesus, Major, what the fuck happened here?” Everett whispered.

  Collins said nothing; he just looked at the body of Robert Reese, still seated in the swivel chair in which he had died. One of his white shirtsleeves was rolled up, indicating he had probably been drugged.

  “Jesus,” said Mendenhall as he stepped around Everett and into the room.

  Collins made a shushing gesture with his finger to his lips and looked around at the two men lying by the card table. He could see they had been dispatched at close range. Then Jack saw the notebook lying on the blood-covered floor and quickly realized that it was filled with notes about the Event yesterday, penned in a neat hand that hadn’t been hurried to say the least. Jack frowned when he saw notations on Operation Purple Sage. Then question marks after it.

  Suddenly, the doorway was filled with a form and Jack raised his pistol.

  “Major!” a familiar voice called out, hollowly echoing off the basement walls.

  “O’Connell?” Everett called, the handgun now pointing toward the doorway.

  “Yes, sir,” the marine answered. The others watched as O’Connell, holding up a severely wounded Gianelli, stumbled in through the doorway. Everett and Mendenhall lowered their guns and helped with Gianelli, and Collins covered their movement.

  “What the hell…?” Collins hissed.

  “Sir, he told me Gunny’s hit bad,” O’Connell said as his teeth clenched in the effort to hold the other man upright. “I found him when I went back out the front toward the gunfire.”

  Collins moved his head, indicating Everett and Mendenhall should get outside and check out what was going on.

  “Report, Gianelli. What are we up against?” Collins asked, bending down to come eye to eye with the injured man.

  “One… man ran… from the building,” Gianelli said, getting his breath, “Then others ambushed him and… us. Some… guys bushwhacked… us from behind. They hit Gunny, but they were gunning for the guy who ran… out of the club.”

  Collins looked around and saw the video monitors. One of them had a view of the back, and as he was staring at the black-and-white image, he saw Everett break into the sunlight and head off camera, followed quickly by the sergeant.

  “Come on, son, let’s get the hell out of here,” Collins said, helping to lift the young marine.

  He supported most of the wounded man’s weight as the three made their way outside. When they exited the back door, Mendenhall was on his knees, bending over Gunny, pushing down steadily on his chest. He was trying to stop the life’s blood from draining from the old marine. The gunnery sergeant’s gun was still wedged between his belt and his tucked-in shirt. Everett knelt beside him.

  “Hang in there, Gunny, we’ll get you some help.”

  Gunny took a deep breath as sirens started to sound a distance away.

  “Get in there and get Reese, we’re not leaving anyone behind,” Collins ordered O’Connell.

  Mendenhall looked from Collins to the gasping gunnery sergeant. Blood was now bubbling at the corners of the old man’s lips. Mendenhall was stunned and quickly swiped a tear of frustration away.

  “Grab that videotape out of the recorder on the desk,” Collins shouted at the retreating O’Connell. The private didn’t turn but just raised his right hand in acknowledgment as he ran for the rear door.

  Everett stood. “He wants you, Major,” he said, still looking at the gunnery sergeant. Then he reached for the wounded man.

  Collins placed Gianelli gently into the arms of Everett. “Get him to the car, Commander.”

  “Yes, sir,” Everett replied.

  Collins bent over the still form of Gunnery Sergeant Lyle Campos.

  “Sorry, Major,” the old man whispered. “Caught me with my drawers down.”

  “It happens to the best of us, Gunny.”


  Mendenhall turned away.

  The marine shook his head. “No excuse… too damn old to play soldier.

  “Major,” Gunny said, barely whispering as his eyes started wandering off over the major’s right shoulder into the blue sky, “the men that killed me, I think they were shooting at the… the French…”

  Collins leaned closer. “Frenchman?”

  “Fa… Farbeaux… fit… his description.” Campos coughed, blood spilling onto the front of his shirt. His eyes focused for a moment. “Sorry for letting him get away. He fired on the fucks… that… killed me,” Campos whispered, then died, his eyes still looking at the cloudless sky.

  Jack closed Gunny’s eyes. Flashbacks of operations gone bad snapped to the forefront of Jack’s memory. After he had just told the senator he would never be a part of hurried planning again, here he was, holding another dead soldier in his arms. He shook his head to clear it.

  He heard O’Connell exit the club and Sergeant Mendenhall go to help him with Reese. Collins now stood and looked at the young private who had carried the dead computer tech. Reese’s blood was soaking into the marine’s yellow Hawaiian shirt and onto the black videocassette he held. Mendenhall had the body in the backseat and Everett was already getting the car started.

  “We better boogie, sir, it sounds like the entire Vegas police force is charging this place.”

  Collins said nothing as he reached down and pulled the gunnery sergeant up and carried him like a child in his arms to the car.

  Now Jack Collins knew why the Event Group had needed someone like him. The people whom the Group was butting heads with were not mere mercenaries; these people were trained and had assets. Henri Farbeaux might not be working for the French government, but one thing was for sure: to have a setup like this in one of the most secure cities in the world, he wasn’t working alone, and whoever that employer was, it wanted that saucer as much as the Event Group.

  The platform was crowded with personnel as word had spread that a field team was coming in with casualties. As the sleek monorail transport pulled next to the loading area, Collins still held the lifeless body of Gunnery Sergeant Campos.