Table of Contents
Las Vegas, Nevada
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Epilogue
About the Author
RUNNING COLD
A Mick Callahan Novel
By Harry Shannon
Copyright © 2011 Harry Shannon
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors' imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.
All Rights Reserved.
Table of Contents
Las Vegas, Nevada
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Epilogue
About the Author
This one is for Wendy and Paige Emerson as always. A special thanks to Kevin Kramer for his suggestions and insights into the mind of a compulsive gambler.
"Solitude is the profoundest fact of the human condition. Man is the only being who knows he is alone."
—Octavio Paz
"Shallow men believe in luck."
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
Sunday 1:07 AM
The man known as Mr. Smith was tan and sandy-haired, with the slow swagger of a beach volleyball player. Smith wore designer jeans and a Polo shirt. Much of his size was in the torso, so he had to bend his head to the left while driving the stolen white Toyota. He parked the dented vehicle near the coffee shop adjacent to the Wagon Wheel casino, left the car, dropped four quarters in the parking meter and walked away without locking the doors. The strip was packed and the summer air warm and heavy despite the hour. Mr. Smith blended easily into the weekend crowd of vacant, neon-addled gaming zombies.
Moments later, Mr. Jones exited an airport van, dragging a huge plaid suitcase behind. This man was heavily muscled and prematurely bald. He had dark rings under his armpits and needed a shave. Mr. Jones paused at the entrance to the Wagon Wheel, stole a few deep drags from an unfiltered cigarette. He dropped the unfinished smoke in a pristine ashtray then strolled past Mr. Johnson, a squat Hispanic cowboy with a buzz cut. A small hand sign passed between the two, first fingers extended to indicate the number one. This operation was a go.
The Wagon Wheel was one of the newer casinos in town, placed just off the Vegas strip for budgetary reasons. Quaint western memorabilia covered the southern wall, and large television screens ran endlessly looped cowboy films from the early to mid 20th century. The carpet was the usual dizzying blend of bright colors and odd shapes, carefully designed to be disorienting. Three long rows of slot machines snaked through the lobby, flashing and buzzing, giant multi-colored hornets on crank. At the far end of the building sat the gold-roped entrance to the main showroom, but these grim men were not interested in the casino or the evening's entertainment.
The northern end of the room emptied into the newest office complex in town, the posh, silver and black WW Towers. Although only twenty stories high, the luxurious complex was known for its gigantic, high-security executive suites. The support staff whispered of visits by famous politicians and captains of industry. Also of the trash barrels filled with shredded documents and shattered computer discs.
The team continued with the opening phase. Their fourth man was already in the garish bar, sipping gin and tonic and reading the business section of a Los Angeles newspaper. Mr. Black was a barrel-chested, dark skinned man in grey Armani. Mr. Jones stopped at his table to ask something. Mr. Black checked his platinum watch before responding. A few words were exchanged, nothing that seemed out of place. The two parted. Less than two minutes later, Mr. Johnson and Mr. Smith entered separately. They sat at opposite ends of the long, polished wooden bar. Each ordered beer.
It was 1:16 AM.
Mr. Johnson ran one hand through his buzz cut and then quietly shelled and ate peanuts. A worn hooker vectored in for a landing on the stool next to Mr. Smith, batted caterpillar eyelashes and discreetly revealed two voluminous, clearly fraudulent breasts. Mr. Smith sipped from the long necked, sweating bottle of beer and studied his nails. The bartender caught the hooker's eye and shook his head. She flounced away.
At 1:28, a comedy band called Trainwreck finished its final set in the Wagon Wheel lounge. Moments later the huge, hyperactive audience emptied out into the casino. The noise quotient doubled. A second shift of scantily clad waitresses magically appeared to weave through and lubricate the new wave of potential gamblers. Mr. Smith took his bottle of beer with him and walked briskly away from the bar. Shortly thereafter, the rotund Mr. Black left a tip on his table, a ten dollar bill placed carefully beneath the edge of his newspaper. He rose, brushed off his expensive suit and walked briskly into the lobby of the office towers, where he pretended to study the list of occupants, as if looking for a particular suite.
The burly security guard was no fool, in fact he'd done two tours in Iraq, but an overweight man in an expensive suit posed no obvious danger. The guard approached, gently reminded Mr. Black that entry would require a special pass. Mr. Black listened politely, but managed to maneuver his back to the gold plated elevators, forcing the guard to turn away from the entrance for one vital moment.
Mr. Johnson and Mr. Smith slipped into the office lobby. Mr. Johnson produced a large set of locksmith tools and jammed the door. The guard turned at the sound and reached for his side arm. Mr. Black approached the security guard from behind, injected him in the back of the neck with a poison that stopped the heart instantly. He lowered the guard to the ground. Mr. Smith dragged the man back to his desk and seated him in the chair with the half empty bottle of beer nearby.
Mr. Jones entered at that point and the others gathered behind the plant. Mr. Jones opened his plaid suitcase to distribute weapons. Each man received a silenced 9mm Glock, one grenade and H&K MP5 semi-automatic assault weapon. Mr. Black also donned a belt with pockets. Mr. Johnson retreated to the glass entry doors. He put the locksmith tools away and went to work on the elevator. His three teammates waited patiently, eyes on the door leading back into the crowded casino. The security system experienced a momentary lapse. The elevators mysteriously opened without setting off the alarm.
Less than sixty seconds later, anyone approaching the entrance to the office towers encountered locked glass doors, and behind them one sleeping guard passed out cold with a bottle of beer in plain view.
It was 1:39 AM when the men hit the 20th floor. One of the armed guards was fast asleep in his chair. The other was watching a porn movie on a laptop computer. The elevator doors opened soundlessly. The silenced weapons made tiny coughing sounds.
The guards jerked in their chairs and went still, uniforms darkening with blood. They set small explosive charges and blew the locks off the huge wooden doors almost without pausing and kicked their way inside. The men used flashlights to search file cabinets and desks. The team seemed to know what they were looking for. They were all careful not to shine their beams out the window. Mr. Jones attacked the computer system and began to download vital information.
Mr. Johnson and Mr. Smith found and rapidly deactivated the second set of alarms designed to protect the executive suites in the rear. The group knew they'd be discovered soon, that a backup system would alert authorities, but seemed to be counting on having enough time to disperse once their mission was complete. Mr. Smith raised his hand and the others dropped to their knees. He opened a small device and scanned, apparently for explosives. Satisfied, he waved for the team to resume the search.
Mr. Johnson picked the lock and entered the largest room on the floor. He snapped his fingers for the others to follow.
It was a large medical laboratory, stainless steel and glass, floor to ceiling cages packed with animals. The creatures stared dully from behind the bars of their cages, too medicated or possibly dispirited to react to the presence of strangers. This time the team made no attempt to deactivate any of the numerous security cameras. They broke into pairs and continued searching, but accelerated the pace. They were running out of time. Mr. Johnson found the safe, inserted something electronic into the lock and labored to open it. They heard the distant wail of sirens. One of the lab chimps began to gibber and howl.
Mr. Jones trotted to the window. He looked down twenty stories at the streets below and saw the approaching police cars. He whistled and signaled with five fingers. The noise disturbed the chimp, who shrieked again in response. Mr. Jones promptly shot him dead with a silenced 9mm, one bullet to the skull. Mr. Smith stared for a long moment, as if in disapproval, but did not speak.
Mr. Johnson opened the safe. The four men paused at that moment, perhaps bracing themselves before continuing. Mr. Johnson reached inside the safe, grabbed a metal briefcase and a small silver canister about the size of a coffee thermos. He handed the briefcase to Mr. Smith and the canister to Mr. Black. Mr. Jones escorted Mr. Smith away from the safe, back out into the offices, past the dead guards to the stairwell. The two men began the long trip down.
Mr. Black stood for a long moment, holding the canister. Mr. Johnson muttered something. The two men jogged after the others, but went back into an elevator instead. The doors hissed shut and the high-speed car started down.
It was 1:47 AM.
Down below, with a squeal of tires, the SWAT team and several LVPD squad cars arrived only seconds before two black vans packed with armed private security guards. The other men were from Blackwatch, a company best known for having supplied mercenaries for use in Iraq and Afghanistan. Their military equipment was blatantly illegal on the streets of Nevada. The police did not question their presence, but did insist upon taking command of the operation. The Blackwatch operatives cheerfully agreed, although everyone knew they were lying.
Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith were now on the second floor, booming their way down the metal staircase, when they suddenly left the stairwell. They broke into one of the more mundane suites, cut a hole in the window and slipped out onto the concrete roof over the valet parking area. Their feet crunched gravel as they slipped along the side of the building and closer to the casino. Mr. Smith still held the briefcase. The two men crawled to the edge of the roof. Breathing heavily, Mr. Smith rolled over onto his back and stared up at the Nevada stars while Mr. Jones peered down at the cluster of police cars and officers gathered below. He saw the Blackwatch vehicles and his shoulders stiffened. The two men exchanged looks. Mr. Jones nodded. Mr. Smith crawled to the drainpipe and peeked over. He knew from their previous reconnaissance that it was perhaps a twelve foot drop in the dark to the grass below.
Mr. Jones nodded again. Mr. Smith clutched the briefcase in his right hand and prepared to jump. Mr. Jones pulled the pin on his hand grenade. He raised up to fling it as far away as possible, up the alley toward the overflowing trash bins, intending to create a diversion. Mr. Smith jumped, but his pants caught on the drainpipe. He flipped upside down. His head struck the pipe. He died instantly of a broken neck. The briefcase slid across the grass and came to rest in a bed of roses. Seeing this, Mr. Jones threw the grenade and jumped. It went off early, in mid air, just as he reached the edge of the roof. Mr. Jones was blown forward. He came down hard, but his companion's body broke the fall. Jones crawled to the bushes and groped for the briefcase, but it was stuck.
Out of time, Mr. Jones abandoned the briefcase and began to run just as a patrolman rounded the corner and called for him to freeze. Mr. Jones turned and fired, striking the patrolman square in his Kevlar vest. A Blackwatch employee raised a pump shotgun and blew much of Mr. Jones's head off with one shot. His gory remains dropped loosely to the ground.
Back in the building, all was noise and chaos. Mr. Black had the canister in his pocket. He and Mr. Johnson had stopped the elevator between the first and second floors by yanking on the emergency button. Mr. Johnson lifted Mr. Black to his shoulders and the shorter man slid the trapdoor open. The two men crawled out into the elevator shaft, pried open the doors at the second floor level and crawled out into the hallway. Mr. Johnson backed down the hall on his hands and knees, found reasonable cover behind a metal ashtray and a fire extinguisher, and set up a position to defend the floor for as long as possible.
Mr. Black, clearly knowing that Mr. Johnson would buy him as much time as possible to escape with the canister, slipped into the service elevator and took it down to the steamy kitchen. One of the hotel guards was already stationed there, but when the elevator opened and a distinguished man in a black suit with a briefcase exited, the guard was taken aback. Mr. Black told him to summon help. He said that the thieves would arrive at any moment, and walked briskly down the corridor toward the lobby.
Just then the hand grenade and shots were heard outside. Confused, the guard began to speak into his handset. Mr. Black was already gone by then, through the rows of empty stoves and sinks and out into the loud restaurant, where he slipped into the panicked crowd and headed for the exit. Mr. Black bumped into a pretty young cocktail waitress. They danced in a circle, the girl laughing awkwardly. Black nodded before moving on.
He almost made it.
Three of the Blackwatch guards were holding up the line, searching faces and asking for IDs. Mr. Black managed to step sideways into a group of older tourists being cleared by regular police officers. He hunched his shoulders, stared down. Black made it to the point of showing his fake driver's license before arousing suspicion because his suit bulged strangely. The patrolman asked him to open his coat. At that moment, the security guard from the kitchen finally caught on, and the police radio crackled with a warning.
The dark-skinned Mr. Black scowled. He jogged away a few steps, eyes darting everywhere, muttered something unintelligible. The cop drew his weapon and screamed for him get face down on the ground, hands behind his head. Seeing the commotion, three Blackwatch men approached, weapons raised. All around the driveway, bewildered people screamed and fell to the floor or tried to run away.
Mr. Black muttered again. He did not produce a weapon or the mysterious canister, just grabbed at something beneath his expensive jacket. One of the Blackwatch guards fired. Mr. Black was struck in the right leg and dropped to his knees. He threw back his head and screamed, in pain or perhaps with rage.
"Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar!"
Mr. Black pulled at his jacket one last time and WHAM his body exploded into red mist. Windows and doors shattered, spraying a mist of deadly glass shards. Smoke rolled down the hallway. In the end, only one 73 year old woman was killed, although thirty-seven tourists were injured.
The incident was not covered by the mainstream media, although one far-right web page wrote ominously of presidential incompet
ence and a new wave of terrorist attacks on American soil.
ONE
Monday afternoon
"I got arrested once. Have I mentioned that?"
It was a warm, melancholy day. Sunlight heated up the blinds and sketched shadowy fingers on a crowded glass bookshelf. The air conditioning clicked on quietly. A sudden chill drifted down the back of Mick Callahan's neck. The hour was almost over. His client was a beautiful young chemist of Iranian descent. She leaned back on the couch, elegant in her lavender pants suit. A plethora of feelings washed over her finely chiseled face, chief among them embarrassment.
"I'm listening," Callahan said. A short phrase that left plenty of room for her to assume a range of reactions, from accepting to judgmental. I'll let her fill in the blanks. She's leaving something out.
"I'd been at a wedding party, yes? And on the way out the door, a friend insisted I join her in a toast to the bride. Very fine champagne. I drank a glass and hurried out, because I had promised my husband not to be late. Uh . . ." She looked down. Her dusky skin reddened a bit.
Callahan leaned closer, intrigued. She was of average height, and his size dwarfed her. He nodded. "Go on."
"I could not believe the policeman's lights when I saw them in the rear view mirror, Mr. Callahan. That horrible squawking sound. Thought this must be some kind of mistake. It was dark. Yes, the area I was passing through to find the freeway was questionable, but not to be arrogant, I am this educated person, we make a good income, and we own very nice German automobiles. I was not weaving at all."
Callahan believed her. Control was very important in her world, and there was no chemical dependency in her family. She was not an alcoholic. "Perhaps you were driving while brown."
"Excuse me?"
"Never mind, go on." Callahan relaxed his posture, leaned even closer to indicate sympathy. "You had some champagne, they pulled you over. Did they ask you to take a breathalyzer test?"
Running Cold (The Mick Callahan Novels) Page 1