"Yes?"
"Trust me, it will be legal."
"I hope you don't have to fire."
"Frankly, so do we."
"Well," Enrique said. He clapped his hands together. "I really stopped by to tell you I'm grateful for what you're doing. I don't know how someone could take such chances for a living, but I'm glad you're all around me tonight."
"You're welcome," Lehane replied. "Is there anything else we can do for you before the show?"
"Yeah," Enrique said. His face softened. "I do not want anyone get hurt, okay? Let's just hope this is all a bunch of redneck bullshit, or something."
Pops Keltner stood. "Now just hold on a second." He faked a slow drawl. "I'm a redneck myself, and I resemble that remark."
It was a dumb joke, but it broke the tension. The agents politely applauded as Enrique left the room. A long moment of silence followed.
"He's got a point there, people," Lehane said, finally. "Nobody gets hurt, okay? Now let's go do this."
THREE
The street demonstrations were already several hours old when Enrique's opening act, a trio comprised of what Lehane considered tone-deaf young drug addicts, hit the stage with a bang. Meanwhile, rows of kids dressed in 'death' garb and covered with red paint left the House of Blues and willfully blocked traffic on the Vegas strip, an act they would repeat several times over the course of the evening. The cops were already getting a bit too rough when putting on the plastic cuffs. The monetary globalization conference was out of bounds and blocked off, so the mushrooming demonstrators were forced to do their thing nearer the strip casinos and the Wagon Wheel arena.
Lehane rapidly changed into his faux-roadie garb—tennis shoes, a T shirt with Enrique's logo, some tattered jeans and a wig for longish hair. He parked a snub-nose 38 in an ankle holster and slipped a holstered Glock 9mm on the back of his belt, under the shirt. He tucked a small pair of binoculars into his right pants pocket and then left the hotel room.
He stopped by the command booth while the opening act was still playing. Mike Castle was seated just behind the arena personnel. He had the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up and was clutching a Styrofoam cup of strong, black coffee. Lehane noticed a large USMC tattoo on his left forearm. Castle pointed at the monitor covering the street outside the arena.
"Look at those assholes. What do they expect to accomplish?"
Lehane shrugged. "They probably mean well."
"Yeah, but you got your animal rights idiots, some socialists, a bunch of bozos in quasi-military uniforms with red paint all over them, folks in black suits and Halloween masks. It's nothing like the sixties."
"You were demonstrating back in the sixties?"
Castle reddened. "I was young, okay?"
"Okay."
"Anyway, they just look stupid. Hell, this isn't a demonstration, it's a goddamned geek fest. What are they trying to say?"
"Near as I can figure," Lehane drawled, "that people should share the wealth, be kind to animals and stop making war. Oh, and fuck a lot more often."
Castle raised his eyebrows. "Well, when you put it that way it sounds pretty reasonable, doesn't it?"
"Works for me."
"Gotta tell you, I respect your crew," Castle said. "Pops Keltner is an old friend. He's as good as it gets."
"So are the rest of them."
"Break a leg, man." Castle spun in his chair and extended one meaty paw.
"You, too."
Lehane shook, checked his watch and jogged down the hall to the elevator. He punched S for the level with stairs leading to the stage. As the elevator descended a low, pounding sound became audible and then grew louder. It was the rhythmic thumping of thousands of pairs of feet, demanding the performance begin. The elevator opened and a higher-pitched sound assaulted his ears, audience members clapping and whistling.
Enrique was stretching at the edge of the stage. He drank from a bottle of vitamin-enhanced water and waved for his band members to take their places. The drummer went out first, twirling his sticks. The audience erupted into bellows and cheers. The drummer grinned, and once seated began to play a subtle percussion pattern. The bass player joined in. Then the rest of the band entered, one by one. Meanwhile, Enrique bided his time, cracked his neck, and began working himself up for the performance.
Lehane slipped foam earplugs into his ears and ran out onto the stage. He squatted down near the bass player and pretended to play with the man-sized amplifier. The vibrations on the stage were strong enough to cause him a slight bout of seasickness. He looked over the enormous stack of tambourines, shakers, maracas and other percussion instruments to the opposite side of the stage and finally spotted Heather. Her chocolate features were exquisite in the footlights. She was gratuitously taping down some loose cable near the right side of the drum kit. Heather waved and went back to work.
Lehane knew it would be useless to speak into his hidden microphone with so much ambient noise. He would have to trust everyone to be in position, because it was time for the star to make his entrance. When the moment arrived the stadium seemed to blow wide open. The band launched into the first song and the lead vocal was so loud it hurt through the ear plugs. Lehane jogged offstage and dropped down between two empty cartage boxes.
"This is Top Dog, A2 check in please." Heather did. One by one Pops, Guri, Sandy and the others sounded off. "Okay, stay loose and keep your eyes open for anything out of the ordinary."
Lehane parted the curtain slightly and raised the pair of small, military-style binoculars. He began to scan the crowd. Common sense dictated that a shooter would likely use a pistol. Why try to raise a rifle in the crowd? Someone might interfere before you could take the shot, and you'd never get away. Better a pistol, in reasonably close where the noise would cover the attempt.
It hadn't been difficult to nail down the probable 'kill zone.'
Each member of the crew had an assigned area to scrutinize. Lehane had given himself the hottest area, right in front of the stage. Sure enough, hundreds of people had already rushed the security guards and were pressing closer to the rock star. Enrique inflamed them, even motioned them closer. It was all probably part of the act, but it wasn't making their job any easier.
Most of the fans seemed to be typical kids in their teens and early twenties. They were dressed as personifications of various causes ranging from world hunger to AIDS. Lehane went down the ten rows he'd assigned himself, barely noticing one tall and somewhat thin male with shoulder length hair. His mind tickled him a bit, but a sudden movement drew his eye. A young woman was tugging at her clothing. Into the mike, Lehane called: "Chubby young woman, row five near stage right. She's either getting naked or getting something that's stuck in her pockets."
"I've got her," Heather replied. "She's nobody. Stand down." The girl did simply remove her top and bra. Two males near her poured beer on her breasts. Lehane rolled back down his own aisles and past the tall man again. This time he paused for a second. The man wore the ubiquitous mask he'd seen on a number of demonstrators, and a long black cloak. Lehane closed in a bit. The binoculars were so high powered he momentarily lost the target. When he closed in again, the man was standing exactly as before. His hands were hidden in the cloak. "Pops, see the guy in row eleven? Tall dude with some kind of skull mask?"
After a long moment: "Yeah, the tallest in the row? I've got him from behind, I think. What's up?"
"He's not moving around much for a fan, Pops. Hey, maybe he's just too stoned. Let's keep an eye peeled."
"You got it."
The music went on and on. Enrique's set seemed to last for five hours, not two. Most of the lyrics slipped by Lehane, but they seemed to be protest songs of a sort, and tirades against the police, the military and big business, all of which seemed slightly disingenuous coming from a multi-millionaire rock star under private security protection. Lehane found his thoughts drifting back to Heather. He watched her from the corner of his eye as she moved around in the wings. She was on
top of things, a real professional. He felt proud of her.
"Boss?"
Lehane snapped back into focus. "Yeah, Guri. What's up?"
"That big fucker in the eleventh row. Check it out."
The binoculars, a sweep of the row. "Where is he?"
"My point exactly, unless maybe he just went to take a piss."
"David?"
Martinez responded from the headset: "Yeah, Jeff."
"Do your 'I'm the dumb janitor' thing. Make a quick check of the men's room and the hall outside. Look for a tall guy, black robes, wearing a skull mask. Watch your ass." Lehane raised the glasses. He noticed some of the security in the back of the hall were opening the doors and preparing to usher people out. Enrique finished his 'last' song and left the stage to await the requisite demand for an encore. He stood in the wings, a few feet away from Lehane, wiping his face and upper body with a towel.
"Okay, gang," Lehane barked. "Here comes the final song so our guy gets his last chance."
"Yeah, boys," Heather chimed in. "If he has any sense of drama, now's the time."
Lehane checked his watch. Behind him, the band launched into the final number and the audience went wild with recognition. It must have been Enrique's biggest hit. "David? Check in, please."
Martinez didn't respond. Lehane chewed his lower lip. He brought the glasses up again and swept the eleventh row. The tall man was still missing. "I don't like this, guys. Heather, maybe you should check on David?"
"In the men's room?"
"Wait! I've got him, boss." It was Pops Keltner from the top of the catwalk. "Your tall dude is near stage right, just around the corner from Heather. He's just standing there."
"I can't see from here, damn it. Heather, can you get closer to him?"
"Already moving."
Lehane watched as she moved along the outside edge of the thick, black curtain. Her right hand slipped unobtrusively behind her back and under her blouse. She was palming her small 9mm Firestar. "You got him, Pops?"
"I could drop him in a heartbeat with a headshot. He's right against the wall, the concrete part. Heather, he can only move right at you or the other way."
"I've got it. What's he doing? Can you see if he is holding anything?"
"Negative."
Enrique finished his song and took a bow. He moved down to the front of the stage, shaking hands, as his band played triumphantly behind him. Lehane felt a strange, cold tension in his lower stomach. He grabbed his Glock and jogged behind the curtain, toward the other side of the stage. "Heather, stand down. Wait for me."
"I'm already there, Jeff."
"Wait!"
"Boss? Boss? I've lost the fucker! Where did he go, Guri?
"Code Red, I think he's our shooter! Be advised he's prone on the stage, using the footlights as cover. Can you pick him off, Pops?"
"Negative, can't see his ass any more."
Lehane was running full out, now. He pushed his way through the dense curtains while he panted into the headset. "Heather, don't turn that fucking corner, I'm ordering you to wait!"
"Christ, Jesus Christ!"
"What?" Lehane screamed. "What?" He arrived at Heather's old position, dropped the Glock into his clenched fists and flattened against the wall. "Talk to me, Pops!"
"We have an agent down, be advised that Heather is down."
"Shit! Where is the shooter?"
"Still lying flat, Jeff. He popped her when she stuck her head around the corner."
"How is she?"
"I can't tell man, but it looked bad. Then he took a shot at Enrique just as the kid bent down again. He missed. I saw the muzzle flash, but the prick has decent cover. I can't hit him from here."
"Guri, have somebody get Enrique off the stage."
"Already on it. We're tugging him back."
Lehane looked to his left. Some security people were flanking Enrique as if just protecting him from the fans. The audience hadn't noticed anything. On the right, closest to where Lehane was standing, was one of their people, Jess Carter. He was wearing Kevlar and had screened the target.
"Pops, I'm going in. The fucker shows one whisker, take him out."
The curtain fell and the backstage area darkened. Lehane crouched low. He peeked once around the corner, pulled back. A chip of cement near his forehead vanished. He closed his eyes and shuddered, for in that split second he had seen more than he'd wanted. Heather was sprawled out on the cement, where the audience couldn't see her, with her arms and legs unnaturally twisted. Her pretty forehead was shattered and bleeding. Enrique was gone.
"I have to get to her," Lehane said.
"Negative, give us five more minutes. We can't let him fire into the crowd. Everybody stay cool."
Lehane sweated while the crew rushed things. The lights came up annoyingly bright and the staff, alerted to the presence of danger, hurried the audience out of the arena. The wagon-wheel design had dozens of exit doors, so the deafening noise rapidly abated and normal sounds were soon audible again. Lehane gripped the Glock in his hands and took several shallow breaths to amp his adrenaline.
"She is dying," the shooter called out to Lehane. The voice was thin and had a faint accent.
"Just throw your gun away, asshole," Lehane screamed. "Do it now."
"She is dying, even as we speak. Will you do nothing to save her?"
"Give it up, man." Lehane worked his way down the wall to a half-empty box of percussion instruments. He dug into it, searching for something useful. "Nobody has to die, here."
"You will."
"Why?"
Another chip of cement disappeared. Lehane, a few feet away, ducked from reflex. That voice again: "Come! Please try to save her before it is too late. Unless you want the death of your wife on your conscience…?"
"What did you say?" Lehane grabbed a large metal triangle. He hefted it, and moved back to the corner of the wall. "Who are you?"
A throaty chuckle. "You mean you don't know?"
Lehane spoke into the headset. "Pops, here we go. I'm drawing him out."
"Right."
Lehane threw the triangle high in the air, up into the thick curtain. It slid down the thick velvet noiselessly, but disturbed the fabric enough to startle the gunman. Then the triangle hit the cement with a loud clang and the gunman fired low and to his right. Lehane spun around the corner, Glock raised.
The man lay sideways in a small area between the floodlights and the stage, still wearing his skull mask. He gripped a .357 in his pale, thin hands. His eyes widened behind the plastic. He tried to raise the gun.
"Don't!" Lehane caught another glimpse of the ruined mass that was Heather's face. He didn't bother with another warning, just fired a double tap to the gut. The man grunted. The pain bent him double; he jackknifed, clutching himself, and lost the weapon. Then, incredibly, he went for the gun again. Lehane stepped in close and kicked it away from his fingertips.
Lehane knelt down and felt Heather's neck for a pulse. Tears stung his eyes. "Pops, Guri, get down here. Somebody call for an ambulance." The killer yanked the skull mask away from his own face. The man was rail thin, with deep-set blue eyes rimmed in shadow. He looked pale and exhausted, like someone who had not slept in a very long while. He blinked and raised a hand, as if begging to be touched. "Boot."
"Who are you?"
The man spat at him. He missed, made an odd, hissing noise again. He clutched at the air, as if grabbing at Lehane. Then his eyes rolled back. Lehane knew he had a lot of internal bleeding and wouldn't last long. "Why did you do this?"
"Boot." The clutching hand again.
"What did you say?"
"Boot." A lurching breath as a rattle began in his throat. "Ahh."
His well-trained reflexes saved him. Lehane twisted away just as the long hunting knife whistled up toward his exposed neck. He kicked out with one foot and caught the man right in the bloody gunshot wound. The gaunt killer coughed blood and curled up around the pain.
"Don't!" The par
amedic appeared from nowhere and opened her medical kit. She was a muscular young Hispanic woman with short hair. She glanced at Heather. "Is the woman gone?"
"Yes."
The paramedic knelt down. The man eagerly grabbed and held her hand. He locked his eyes on hers, spat blood into her startled face and died.
FOUR
"You sure you want to go over this now, man?"
Whiz Ligotti rolled his wheelchair closer, ducked his orange head and peered up like a demented parrot. Lehane had spent much of the night being questioned by the police. Since much of the incident had been caught on video tape, he was in the clear, but the formalities had to be observed. The whole team had backed him. Finally, Lehane had gotten roaring drunk before finally falling asleep after dawn.
It was now four in the afternoon. He looked and felt like shit. "Yeah," he croaked. "I'm sure."
"Martinez was found in the men's room with his head twisted so far around he could have checked out his own ass. Whoever did that would have to be cartoon large and all green and shit, and have some fucking awesome arms."
"Autopsy?"
"They're working on it, boss. First reports showed no indications of stab or bullet wounds, no blunt force trauma."
"He was awake."
"Yeah, and certainly not wounded defenseless. I'd say somebody just ambushed him from behind ripped his head around."
"Like you said, Whiz. It was someone incredibly strong. But nobody reports seeing any body builders lurking around last night, and no one like that shows up on the surveillance videos, either."
"So maybe our tall, skinny boy was into PCP."
"I have a hunch they won't find drugs in his blood."
"It would be simpler if they did."
Lehane sighed. "And Heather's killer had a gun and a knife."
"If it was him, he didn't use either one. So maybe there's a second killer?"
"Maybe."
"You're thinking it's the same perp who did Heather, but this dude just uses whatever is handy?"
"I'm not thinking anything."
"This guy wasn't that big, boss."
Daemon: Night of the Daemon Page 4