"Little man with a big gun."
Colonel Ted Sturmthal
Test Pilot
"Do you have to take that today?" Katrina asked.
Dressing in the cramped confines of a walk-in closet, I hadn't heard her slip in behind me. I'd tucked a holstered .45-caliber Kimber Ultra Carry pistol inside my jeans' waistband, and was pulling a dark-colored T-shirt over my noggin.
I yanked the shirt firmly, making sure the weapon was covered, and faked a grimace. "Look, if I get a call to work a case, or have to deliver a pacemaker… ."
"Yeah, yeah," Kat interrupted, handing me a food bar and a second protein shake, a blended mixture of Living Fuel powder, frozen berries and a raw egg. "You go into rough areas of town at any hour, day or night. All 'pacer reps conceal-carry for self-protection. Yada, yada.
"But it's Saturday, hon! You're not on call this weekend!"
"Now, sweet thang," I answered, exaggerating a disarming tone of Southern ultra-patience, "y'all know our team's sho't three reps. Ah maght just have to fill in, if'n we run outta bodies."
Two senior pacemaker sales professionals had left the company recently to set up their own business, leaving our local Cardiac Response Corporation team of sales reps and "clinicals" shorthanded. For several weeks, everybody had been on call 24-7, logging twelve-to-twenty-hour workdays. That would continue, until new employees were hired and trained. In fact, I'd missed my grandfather's funeral a week earlier, because our Las Vegas CRC team was so understaffed.
"Whatever. Just move your butt, soldier. Ho's will be slammed on a Saturday. The sooner we get there, the better."
"Arggh!" I groaned. "Hey, do you have a Ho's membership?"
Founded by Ho Zhang, a Chinese immigrant, the chain of big-box discount stores had become a Wall Street darling. It's stock price had soared, as new Ho's retail outlets proliferated across the nation. Consumers battered by the harsh recession and desperate to save a few bucks on day-to-day essentials had flocked to the new stores, leaving Grocery Warehouse, Costco and Sam's Club executives scrambling to compete. I'd researched the stock and knew Ho's was expanding rapidly in Europe and the Far East.
Frankly, shopping was a time-wasting annoyance, in my professional opinion, and I'd organized my life to avoid doing so. I paid my Brazilian-immigrant "rent-a-wife" and housekeeper, Clarice, to keep the pantry stocked with essentials and run time-consuming errands.
She was a godsend. From picking up dry cleaning and freshly laundered scrubs, the green or blue outfits doctors, nurses and our CRC team members wore, to loading the fridge with healthy, ready-to-eat meals prepared by the local "Whole Paycheck" natural-foods establishment, Clarice took care of all tedious nit-noy.
Consequently, I rarely prowled the aisles of any retail store. I found the ambience of big-box warehouse outlets, which greet their customers with an overpowering odor of cheap hot dogs and stale popcorn, particularly distasteful. And in ol' Erik Steele's case, that aversion was exacerbated by negative association. My second wife had insisted on buying food and household stuff in quantity, and loved shopping at Ho's. That, in itself, was reason enough to avoid the damned place.
Kat wrapped her arms around my neck, her dark eyes boring into mine. "We are going to Ho's, and we are going to sign up for a membership, okay? It's the cheapest place to get what we need to stock your very empty kitchen. Suck it up, big boy. We're going to Ho's."
You have to love a gorgeous woman, who totally destroys half-baked positions, by employing cold, irrefutable logic. I appreciated Kat tremendously, but a smart, organized woman had a few downsides. She was hard to BS, even for a charismatic, experienced sales professional used to getting his way.
She pressed her slim body against mine and planted another warm, deal-closing kiss on my smacker-dos, apparently immune to Steele morning breath. My mouth tasted like the First Cavalry had marched through it overnight, but she didn't seem to mind.
What a woman.
Head tilted, Kat smirked. She'd won again, and knew it. I tightened a one-arm grip on her waist, pulling her against me.
"Hmmm," she smiled impishly. "Is that your ridiculously overweight wallet, or are you just glad to see me?"
I laughed. "Merely a mongo wallet, me love. Zero cash. Lotsa cards. All essential."
"Why do you carry it in your front pocket?" Kat pecked me on the nose and melted into my form.
I leaned back and smiled broadly, trying to focus on those dark, soft pools radiating absolute love.
"Well… You really… ?"
"I do. Really!"
"An old girlfriend liked the shape of my butt. She said an overstuffed billfold… You know. Spoiled the view," I stammered.
She stared. "You serious? Because you didn't want a lumpy butt?"
I shrugged. "She didn't. I got used to carrying the damned thing in a front pocket, so… "
Crap. How the hell did I walk into this?
Kat pushed away, laughing. Her long, dark tresses swung back and forth. "Steele, you're toooo vain! You honestly think young chicks still dig your curvy little butt!"
She departed, still hooting.
Alright, that stung. My face flushed. I could feel the heat of embarrassment, not from exposed vanity, but from being reminded—unintentionally, I knew—of our age difference. I'd logged thirty-eight years on Earth; Kat only twenty-four. Fourteen years was a huge chasm, at least from my perspective.
Kat had made it ice-blue clear that our age difference meant nothing to her. And yet, I was conscious of an acute, unavoidable fact: The ravages of time would take their toll on both of our bodies, but register far sooner on mine. Would her love falter at some point in the future, when my skin wrinkled, copper-red hair turned to gray, and butt cheeks sagged? I couldn't help but wonder.
I drained protein shake number two, brushed my pearly whites, and joined Kat at the front door.
"I suppose you want me to carry these, 'cause you don't have room in your pockets. And we sure don't want to deform our cute little butt, do we?"
She smiled sweetly, dangling a wad of keys, maybe a dozen of the darned items threaded onto interlocking key rings. Keys seemed to breed around me. I nodded and retrieved an extra magazine of hollow-point, .45-caliber ammunition from my left pocket, proving it, too, was occupied.
Kat shook her head in mock disgust and stuffed the keys into a purse. "You need a keeper, Erik Steele."
She pivoted, hooked one arm around my neck and kissed me, hard. "But I love you so much that I'll gladly carry your five-pound key ring, and take very good care of your oh-so-cute little fanny for the rest of your life. Deal?"
Taken aback by the unexpected declaration, I flushed like a kid caught taking a whiz behind the schoolhouse.
"Deal, my queen," I answered, opening the door and bowing.
Kat's spike heels click-clicked down the sidewalk to a borrowed Chevy SUV. She climbed into the driver's seat and unlocked the other doors.
Swinging into the passenger side, I flicked a glance at a cheapo Ford Edge parked nearby. Its front-left fender was crunched, barely clearing a donut-sized spare tire. That would be my company car, which I'd be limping to a body shop on Monday. Some head-up-and-locked kid had cut a corner yesterday and clipped my car's front end, as I pulled out of a gas station. Another hassle and unnecessary task for which I did not have time.
As it turned out, I needn't have worried about such trivial matters.
* *
Temps had topped 110 degrees, by the time Kat and I arrived at Ho's sparkly new Summerlin store. The parking lot was already crowded, and its fresh, deep-black asphalt pavement was sizzling.
Inside, we presented ourselves to a fiftyish lady at the customer service counter, and I filled out an Executive Membership application. I elected the business "Executive Plan," forked over $100, had a mug shot taken and waited for the plastic card to emerge from a coding machine. The friendly service rep commented on "what a beautiful couple" Kat and I made, then handed me the still-warm card.
I was now an official executive member of Ho's Warehouse Club.
Yahoo, I thought, acutely aware of an annoying factoid: I was facing an hour-plus of shopping in the crowded cavern of Summerlin Ho's. The gut-roiling odor of steamed hot dogs was already attacking in force.
Forty minutes later, we were in the camping equipment aisle, where I spotted a package of three stainless-steel water bottles. I'd recently expressed concern that Kat wasn't drinking enough water to maintain optimum health, especially now that Vegas temperatures were exceeding 100 degrees every day.
"Hey, I'm gonna grab some of these bottles," I suggested, pointing. "And a couple of those zip-up coolers. You put 'em in the freezer and they'll… "
"Cool! But get me a red one," Kat interrupted. "I'll be right back."
She pushed our overflowing shopping cart around the corner, heels tapping a rapid staccato.
I pawed through a pallet stacked with plastic packages of zip-up coolers.
A red one! Why the hell does it have to be red?
None in the front few rows, so I moved packages of green, black, orange and gray coolers aside. Shoving several over to an adjacent pallet to access those in the back, I finally found a red pack.
Yes! The great white hunter bags the elusive RED cooler!
Next, I squatted on the floor and opened a plastic-and-cardboard three-pack of two-inch-diameter, stainless-steel bottles to make sure three would fit in Kat's red zippered cooler. I was unaware of a young, bowling pin-shaped Ho's undercover security guard eyeballing me from one aisle over, peering between the shelves.
Hajji Taseer felt a surge of excitement, watching the bulked-up redhead in the camping aisle. The guy rearranged plastic-wrapped, zippered cooler-packs, then ripped a package open and started stuffing metal bottles into a red, soft-sided cooler. As Ho's plainclothes Loss Prevention Guard, Taseer assumed the muscular dude was trying to hide metal water bottles in the cooler case.
Shoplifter!
Taseer pretended to be another customer searching for an item, allowing him to keep an eye on the redhead. The guy was now squatting on the floor, shielded from view by pallets stacked high with products. The guard straightened, walked around the wall of shelves, glanced down Aisle 126, and confirmed the "perp" had opened a package of metal water bottles.
Got ya, dude!
Taseer loved busting would-be shoplifters. No perp ever escaped his sharp-eyed attention! He had a sixth sense for spotting thieves.
Taseer pulled a combination cell phone-radio from baggy jeans and keyed the microphone.
"Hey, Joe. Hajji. Possible shoplifter in aisle one-twenty-six. Can you come over here?" Taseer said, voice muted to avoid being overheard.
"Be right there," Joe responded.
Standard Ho's protocol called for a supervisor to make contact with a suspected shoplifter, ensuring the security guard maintained his cover as another customer. Further, only a supervisor was allowed to make a determination that a suspect really was trying to steal something, and take appropriate action, if necessary.
The plump, knock-kneed Ho's security guard circled a low table piled high with folded, single-color T-shirts and pretended to sort through them. It enabled watching the redhead, who was still squatting on the floor, messing with several metal bottles. He'd already opened one three-pack. Taseer could see the box and cardboard packing on the floor.
Joe, one of Ho's day-shift managers, appeared.
"Where's your suspect, Hajji?"
Taseer pointed, indicting a guy in a gray T-shirt and jeans, the man they'd soon learn was Erik Steele.
"Dude's acting kinda weird," Taseer reported. "You know, ripping open packages, throwing stuff around. I heard him kinda… you know… Talking to himself. Like, 'Where's the red one? She has to have a red one.' Weird shit, ya know? Maybe he's on something."
Joe Davis was in his late forties, and a no-nonsense, pragmatic manager. Recently promoted, he took his responsibilities seriously. "Okay. You stay here. I'll see what he's up to."
* *
"Can I help you, sir?" I looked up to see a smiling, red-vested Ho's employee. A name tag said Joe.
"I'm good, Joe. Thanks."
He squatted beside me, moving an empty water-bottle box aside. Alright. He wasn't going away, so I explained, "I'm checking to see if three of these will fit in a cooler."
Joe didn't say anything. I glanced at him, as I zipped the soft-sided cooler case open to expose three metal bottles. Joe was staring at something behind me.
"Sir, you can't have that in here," he said, pointing. I turned and noticed that my T-shirt no longer covered the Kimber .45 tucked inside my jeans' waistband. The semiautomatic's handgrip was exposed.
"It's okay," I assured. "I have a concealed-carry permit, and this is registered with Metro."
With an elbow, I touched the .45-caliber pistol.
"Doesn't matter. You can't have it in here," Joe insisted. "It's Ho's policy: No guns in the store."
His eyes locked onto mine.
"Look," I said, annoyed, "there are no signs anywhere, inside or outside, banning guns in the store."
I always check for No Firearms signs, before entering any business establishment, hospital or government building, when I'm carrying.
"I just filled out a Ho's membership application, and there's not a word in there about guns, either. I'm a former Army officer. When I was stationed in Texas, we carried sidearms into Ho's all the time. If it's okay in Texas, why isn't it in Nevada?"
Yeah, it's true. Back when I was a tank platoon leader at Fort Hood, I did have a Ho's membership. Seemed like a good idea at the time, because I was living on a second lieutenant's salary, and "cheap" was high on my list.
Joe scooped up the empty water bottle package.
"I can't speak for Ho's in Texas, but that's the policy here. No guns in the store."
Again, his dark eyes held mine. What the hell did he expect me to do?
"Look, we're about done shopping. We'll be outta here in a few minutes."
Kat reappeared, parking the shopping cart behind Joe. I stood and took the empty, opened box and cardboard packing offered by the Ho's manager. Changing the subject, I politely asked, "Sir, could I leave these bottles in the cooler and just give the empty boxes to the checkout cashier?"
He glanced at me, gave Kat a long, appreciative once-over, and immediately became more accommodating. That happened a lot. The woman was unusually tall, had a model's elegant figure and was damned attractive.
"Sure, no problem," Joe said with a smile. "Give the clerk that packaging, and open the cooler so she can see the bottles."
"I need nine bottles, total," I said, regaining Joe's attention by pointing at the shelf behind him.
He snatched two three-packs, handed them to Kat and departed. Maybe Kat had helped Joe sorta forget about my Kimber. I gave the shirttail a firm yank, ensuring the semiautomatic was concealed.
* *
Joe glanced over his shoulder. The redhead and his hot lady were ignoring him, as he strolled over to Hajji, the undercover security guard.
"No problem," Joe said. "The guy's just fit-checking those bottles and cooler. I noticed that he's carrying a pistol, so I informed him about our no-guns policy. He said he had a concealed-carry permit and the gun's registered. They'll be leaving shortly."
Joe winked at the guard. "And he's a former Army officer. Don't sweat it. The guy's not a nutcase."
"A gun? No shit!" Taseer said, impressed. "And an Army dude! Like, a Green Beret or something?"
Joe shrugged and flicked a palm.
Hajji Taseer continued to monitor the redhead and his stunning lady friend. The guy was rearranging their piled-high shopping cart, making room for an empty cardboard-and-plastic box, balancing it atop a heap of other products.
Wearing a tight T-shirt, the big dude was a magnificent physical specimen. Thin cotton material was stretched taut around huge biceps and across broad, chiseled chest muscles. Standing six feet tall, he was clearly a dedicated gym freak. He laughed, revealing a row of superwhite teeth, as he and the girl briefly approached Hajji, then turned into the next aisle. His weapon was well covered, but a lump under his T-shirt was noticeable.
Hajji instantly hated the guy. In a flash, the Ho's undercover guard was acutely aware that the well-built red-head was everything Hajji Taseer would never be. No well-sculpted body, no tall, attractive girlfriend or wife, no high-dollar career. The twenty-nine-year-old felt a surge of irrational, all-consuming fury born of jealousy. A familiar hatred erupted within, inflaming every molecule of the guard's being.
Outwardly, Hajji displayed none of that white-hot rage. Long ago, he'd mastered its control, keeping it stuffed inside, hidden in a dark, deep place, unseen and unsuspected. Soon, though, that would change. Hajji would be in a much better position to serve Allah by attacking such infidels openly. Soon, he would be a real police officer.
Green Beret, huh?
Hajji Taseer absolutely despised the American military, and Green Berets were the most despicable of all. Those commando types were heartless fiends, killing innocent men, women and children in Northeastern Afghanistan. His people!
Hajji had been born in the United States, years after his parents fled Afghanistan to escape the Russian invaders, but that didn't matter. He felt a strong kinship to his tribe, the proud, tough people living in the remote Korengal Valley, a wild, beautiful land now occupied by brutal American invaders.
He didn't know a soul in the Korengal region, but devoured every TV news report from that part of Afghanistan. He had become incensed that U.S. Army soldiers, particularly paratroopers, were despoiling his people's land and ruthlessly killing Taliban freedom fighters by the hundreds.
And Green Berets were paratroopers, right?
In the blip of a heartbeat, Taseer declared the buff redhead an enemy of his people. Therefore, Red was Hajji's enemy. Even if circumstances precluded joining Allah's mujahideen and Taliban fighters in-country, he, Hajji, could bring the war to one of the invaders. Right here in Las Vegas. Right now.
You’re mine, infidel! Taseer said to himself, fighting to suppress anger that flushed his dark features.
As an undercover security professional, Hajji was blessed with a small measure of absolute power, and he relished using it. No Ho's-Summerlin employee dared cross him, and Hajji made sure all feared him.
The guard flipped open his cell phone, punched three numbers and hit Send.
Let's see how you deal with my cop buds, you arrogant, gunslinging asshole! he thought. Allah ak-bahr!
* *
"Can you believe it?" I stage-whispered to Kat. "That manager dude said guns aren't allowed in the store! Supposedly Ho's policy. 'Course, they don't post any signs and don't bother telling their customers. Damned Commies! This is the last time I spend a dime in this pinko joint!"
Kat rolled her eyes.
"And you said… ?" she replied, reversing direction and pushing the shopping cart around the corner, into the next aisle.
"I told him I had a permit, my weapon was registered, and that we'd be out of here in a few minutes. He liked you, so maybe I'm off his radar," I said, laughing.
"Well, we're not going to be 'outta here in a few minutes,' because we have more to pick up. But we need another basket. Would you run up and get one?" Kat flashed a sweet "purty-please" smile. "I'll meet you down there, in the kitchen area."
"No sweat."
I hooked it for the giant warehouse's entrance, where all the oversized carts were parked, under Ho's high-roofed canopy. However, I spotted a stray off to one side, stutter-stepped, jinked to my right like a broken-field running back, and snagged it.
My BlackBerry vibrated, as I spun the shopping cart around and headed toward the kitchen aisle. I poked along, reading a new text message. Head down, I was thumb-typing an answer, when the cart halted abruptly. Kat was facing me, both hands on the cart's leading edge.
"Erik! They're evacuating the store."
I glanced left and right. Sure enough, people were streaming past us, in the opposite direction, toward Ho's garage-like, roll-up entrance and exit doors.
"How come?" I asked.
Kat shrugged.
"Suppose it's because of me?" I asked, a twinge of concern flashing across my brain. In retrospect, it was a premonition.
Kat smirked. "Probably! Who knows? Some lady came around and said we had to evacuate, but wouldn't say what was going on. Maybe there's a fire in the back… ."
Shoulder to shoulder, we walked calmly to the store's exit door, where the crowd slowed to a shuffle. I wound up slightly ahead of Kat, off to one side. Kat glanced to the right, as a tubby, unkempt guy with a cell phone to one ear shouldered against her.
He pointed across her midsection and said, "That's him."
Tubby was pointing at me, but I didn't know it. Cell phone dude was alerting a cop, who I'd already walked past.
* *
Olek Krupa was that cop. He had positioned himself to one side of Ho's exit door, his Glock .45-caliber weapon in a two-handed grip, muzzle down. Krupa was scared. Very scared. Racing to Ho's, he'd grown increasingly anxious as a Metro dispatcher radioed tidbits about the situation. She indicated the perp inside was acting erratically, possibly on drugs, and might be exhibiting symptoms consistent with "excited delirium." Krupa could be walking into a much more-serious situation than he originally anticipated.
Fortunately, other officers were responding, too. He wouldn't be in charge, which was damned good. Krupa was a solid foot soldier, but hated making decisions in a pinch. He simply couldn't think straight, when adrenaline was flowing — even though he loved the rush.
He was the second officer to arrive at Ho's. To Krupa's dismay, the first cop on-scene was a rookie, Officer Kale Akaka. Because Krupa was now the ranking officer on-site, he asked the tall Hawaiian for a status brief. Akaka did so in clipped sentences: The suspect was still inside, armed and possibly barricaded.
However, according to a Ho's security guard, the suspect claimed to have a valid concealed-carry weapons permit. A female lieutenant, who was still inbound, had suggested Ho's start an orderly evacuation. She assumed the suspect was holed up inside.
"The perp's a Green Beret?" Krupa asked, increasingly worried. He was sweating profusely and trembling. "Any hostages?"
Akaka shook his head. "Dispatch said the dude that called claimed the suspect is a Green Beret. Nothing about hostages."
"Do we have somebody inside? Any eyes-on?"
"Yes, sir. A Ho's undercover security officer's following the suspect. He's still on the phone with dispatch."
Krupa had positioned Akaka and another rookie from the West Substation, Officer Malovic, at the entrance door. They would wait until the store was evacuated, then initiate a sweep of the interior.
Perspiring and breathing heavily, Krupa fervently hoped that damned lieutenant would arrive soon. He fought to control shaking hands, gripping his service pistol firmly. He scanned the store, looking beyond dozens of faces streaming past him.
Then a pudgy guy with a cell phone to his ear made eye contact with Krupa, pointed and said, "That's him."
Oh shit! He's outside!
Krupa panicked, spun around, raised his semiautomatic and instinctively started shouting orders.
* *
I heard somebody yell, looked left and right for the source, then turned to find a short, pot-bellied Las Vegas Metro police officer in a tan uniform pointing a pistol at me! I froze, stunned. Maybe fifty-to-seventy people were milling around under the crowded, high-roof foyer, all attempting to stay in the shade. Everybody was talking, creating a din that echoed throughout the confined zone.
I couldn't process whatever the cop was yelling, but looking down the barrel of a Glock .45 scared the bejesus out of me. I struggled to decipher what the stubby, fitness-challenged cop was yelling, simultaneously scanning memory for what we'd been taught in concealed-carry-weapon or CCW training:
Acknowledge you have a weapon and are a CCW holder.
I swallowed and stated clearly, "I am armed! I have a CCW permit!"
All hell had broken loose. Kat was yelling, but I couldn't understand a word she said, either. My eyes were riveted to that massive black-hole of a barrel pointed at my chest, as the world shifted into slow motion. The cop's lips were moving, but whatever he was screaming came from far, far away. I couldn't understand a damned word.
With my left hand, I reached across and lifted my shirt tail to expose the holstered Kimber on my right hip, still tucked inside the jeans' waistband, turning slightly toward the cop. Simultaneously, I elevated my right elbow, arm bent ninety degrees. I still had the BlackBerry smartphone in my right hand.
The out-of-shape, acne-pocked cop, wearing dark, wraparound sunglasses, screamed again — and fired.
BAM! BAM!
Two seconds, max, from the first shouted command, until he fired twice. Hell, I barely had time to turn and face the frightened little bastard, let alone think and react.
The first .45 slug hit me in the chest. Another slammed into my right thigh. As if I'd been smacked with a ball bat. Shock, but no pain. Both arms involuntarily flew up and forward, back arching in recoil. My BlackBerry crashed to the concrete and skidded toward the cop, who was still yelling.
I heard nothing, now in absolute, total, all-encompassing disbelief. My right leg wouldn't move. It collapsed, twisting my body. I looked at Kat, as I went down.
What the hell happened?
I fought desperately to breathe, gasping, starved for life-giving air, legs collapsing. I was conscious, but knew I'd been mortally wounded — and that I couldn't do a damned thing about it. I was dying. Eyes refused to focus. Field of vision contracted. And I kept falling, falling… .
As the world I'd known for thirty-eight years faded, I heard another volley of gunfire and felt multiple rounds smash into my back. I jerked as each slug slammed into me, gasping for air… choking… vision fading to a gray blur.
Why shoot me? I mentally screamed.
Blackness draped over consciousness, as I sank into the darkest dark.
Then my perspective suddenly shifted, and I could see again! I was hovering above, looking down on what I soon realized was my body. This new being, although unable to comprehend what had just occurred, was vaguely aware that Erik Steele was dead. People below me were screaming, running, stumbling over each other, diving to the concrete, shielding children. Total chaos. Faint clouds of blue smoke drifted between me and that grotesquely twisted, crumpled figure on the foyer's concrete pad.
I just floated there, suspended beneath the Ho's entryway roof, watching the pot-bellied cop holster his weapon, plant a knee in the small of my body's back, roughly yank both hands, and tie-wrap them together. He didn't bother to administer first aid or frisk what had been "me" seconds ago.
The Kimber was still holstered, clipped inside my waistband. A second magazine of .45 ammo was still in my left pocket. Only my BlackBerry lay on the concrete, a few feet to the left of my bleeding body.
I was in a state of utter shock and disbelief, yet strangely detached, as if watching a movie.
What the hell was that all about? And why? I didn't do anything, for God's sake!
Kat was off to one side, screaming at three cops congregating near that stiff—my body, sprawled in a growing pool of blood. One of the officers barked an order and a fourth brown-shirt grabbed Kat's arm and dragged her away.
An ambulance arrived and emergency medical technicians swarmed my body. Tan-uniformed cops blanketed the foyer area, some carrying shotguns. A helicopter wop-wopped overhead, ominously circling the Ho's parking lot.
American Medical Response EMTs and a dark-uniformed firefighter checked my body for vital signs. Damned useless exercise. There was no chance I'd be getting back into that body again.
I'd worked extremely hard to keep my physique in great shape, and I'd been proud of it. In two seconds, though, a trigger-happy, pot-gutted cop suffering from a fat-boy complex, a being who had probably never darkened the door of a gym, had destroyed it. The other quick-to-shoot cops didn't do it any favors, either.
One of the EMTs tugged that super-fat wallet, now smeared with fresh blood, from my front right pocket and handed it to a cop, who removed my driver's license. The Metro officer scanned it and spoke into his radio's shoulder mic.
I couldn't hear a thing. Just a weird, unintelligible background murmur, as if I were underwater. However, I could see and sense everything going on, seemingly in all places simultaneously, hyper-aware of each person's activity. Cops were herding Ho's customers, pushing them away, making sure they couldn't view my body.
The now-expired Erik Steele was surrounded by at least a dozen police officers and EMTs, effectively shielding my corpse from view. Very considerate of the jerks. They'd just murdered me in the midst of several dozen innocent bystanders, but letting an old lady or two see a dead stiff was just too much for sensitive cops.
Shooter Number One clipped the tie-wrap binding my hands. A few seconds later, the lifeless, limp body was strapped to a stiff board, face up, and loaded into the ambulance. One of its arms flopped and hung off the side, prompting an EMT to roughly throw it across the bloody T-shirt's chest. I also noticed a large blood smear on the right thigh.
I was vaguely conscious that I was no longer thinking of that body as me. My real self was up here, floating above it all.
I never saw the firefighter EMT again, but AMR EMTs and a Metro cop rode with my corpse to the hospital, albeit with a brief stop en route. At the University Medical Center, docs and nurses jammed needles and IVs into my body, then sliced the chest open, working frantically. What a joke. Life was long gone, and they knew it. Did they flood my system with medication and God knows what else? I have no idea. Didn't care, at that point.
"Erik! Erik! Go to the light!"
What in the… ? I became aware of a gold-tinged, extremely bright radiance engulfing my new self. Without effort, I floated higher, and the terrestrial scene faded, as if a cloud were forming between the Earth and my perch.
Instinctively, I glanced skyward, and there it was: The most loving, welcoming entity a human could possibly envision. Was it Jesus? The figure didn't resemble the bearded young man, whose beatific profile adorned classroom walls at my Catholic high school. But I knew that loving figure of light was the Christ, and it was beckoning to me. I moved toward it, not frightened, in surprised awe.
I couldn't believe I'd been killed. And I had no idea why.
* *
"Sir, Castle here. Verify secure."
A long pause ensued. "Bishop's confirmed secure. Go ahead."
The cell phone conversation could no longer be monitored by an outsider. Digital packets of compressed data were being encrypted and frequency-shuffled at the speed of light, then beamed through a commercial network of cell phone towers, servers and microwave links. Scrambled data packets flashed from Las Vegas to Washington, D.C., virtually instantly.
"Sir, Comet is dead. He was shot to death about an hour ago… ."
Rico Rodolfo, code name Castle, choked and tears threatened to engulf the tall, handsome figure. He pulled a ragged breath, fighting for control.
"Good Lord," Bishop breathed. "How? What happened?"
Rodolfo briefly recounted what little he knew, concluding, "We don't have many specifics, sir. A spokesman for Metro, the local police department, was on TV a few minutes ago, and he said the shooting had something to do with Comet carrying a concealed weapon. I'd heard the news, but had no inkling the… the… victim was Comet!
"One of our mutual friends, Max, was tracked down by a Clark County social worker," Rodolfo continued, "who was trying to get a phone number to notify Comet's family. The worker told Max that Erik… uhh, I mean… Comet, had been shot and killed. Max called me right away. Neither of us have been able to reach Comet's girlfriend, and Max is trying to locate a brother. I thought I'd better let someone at Checkmate know ASAP, sir. I couldn't get through to Rook."
The Las Vegas-area team leader's code name was Rook. Rodolfo was speaking with Bishop, the director of a small, ultrasecret unit, code named Checkmate. He, Castle, had never met Bishop, but every agent in America knew Bishop as the tip of Checkmate's highly effective covert spear.
The link was silent for long seconds. "Good Lord," the voice repeated, almost a whisper. "Rook's on a special mission. You were right to call me."
Again, a long silence. Rodolfo waited, elbows on knees, thumb and forefingers squeezing the bridge of his nose, struggling to stem a flood of tears.
Damn it! Although shocked to the core of his soul, he'd been somewhat functional, until having to utter those atrocious, impossible-to-grasp three words: Comet is dead.
"Castle, it's imperative that you obtain and forward every bit of public domain information about Comet's killing, as soon as possible. But be careful. No off-the-reservation inquiries that might arouse suspicion about motives. Whatever you can glean from media reports will suffice, at least for now."
Rodolfo blurted, "Sir, this makes two fatalities in less than a month! Have we been compromised?"
"Possibly," Bishop said, rich tones now firm and steady. "My instinct says 'no,' but I can't be sure, until we know more. Initially, this strikes me as random, but there are too many unknowns to pass judgment."
Another long silence. Rodolfo waited.
"Castle, this is an extremely grave development. In Rook's absence, I want you to notify every member of your team that all missions are on hold, until we get a handle on Comet's killing. Every man-jack's to go quiet, until further notice. Understand?"
"Will do, sir."
Rodolfo waited for long moments. He'd about decided the call had dropped, when Bishop softly added, "I suspect that Comet's murder will take us to an entirely new level. I'll be in contact soon. Until then, I want everybody to go comm-out. No missions, no discussions of pending or past operations. Copy?"
"Got it, sir. Understand."
"And please accept my condolences, Castle. I'm aware that you and Comet were close. Later… ." The encrypted connection clicked off.
Rodolfo stared at the highly modified Apple iPhone in his hand. He wanted to throw up. Emotions raced between gut-wrenching agony over the loss of a dear friend and white-hot anger. Back and forth. One extreme to the other. One second, he wanted to kill the bastards who'd shot Erik. Then he wondered whether he, Rico Rodolfo, might be their next target.
Metro cops had killed two Las Vegas-based Checkmate team members within three weeks. A valuable, deep-inside informer, and now Comet, an experienced field operator.
Who the hell knows about us?