"The clock of life is wound but once,
and no man has the power to tell
just when the hands will stop…"
Robert H. Smith
Thanks for your service to America. Best Wishes! — Win Steele
"Thank you! I'm a hopeless space junkie," a plump, middle-aged woman smiled, retrieving the signed book. "I'm reeeeally looking forward to reading this!"
"It's a little techie, but, with your Navy background, you'll get it," Steele said.
She wedged the autographed copy of Counterspace: The Next Hours of World War III into an overflowing book bag.
"Oh, definitely!" she beamed, tucking a strand of curls behind her right ear. "I loved Space Wars! It was soooo realistic! Scary, though!"
"We hear that a lot," Steele grinned. "Thanks for your kind support!"
The woman smiled, flicked a wave and headed for the lobby.
Win absently twirled the personalized Mont Blanc pen, a special Father's Day gift from his youngest son a few weeks earlier:
For signing your books, Dad! — Love, Kyler.
Steele watched a throng of thriller and mystery fans swarming a makeshift bookstore set up in a hotel conference room. About thirty authors were seated side by side, sandwiched between rows of linen-covered folding tables. Bestselling novelists faced lengthy lines of avid readers. Lesser-known writers—like Winfield B. Steele—sat patiently, attempting to project relaxed nonchalance.
Steele checked his watch. Twenty minutes to go. He hadn't exactly been mobbed by fans, during the one-hour signing session. His score was semi-respectable, though, considering that several mid-list authors hadn't attracted a single customer. Steele had scrawled a brief message and his signature in seven copies of Space Wars and Counterspace, usually answering familiar questions: "Why do you have two coauthors? How do three people write a fiction book together?"
If sales continued on an upward trend, maybe ol' Win Steele would be back next year, signing hundreds of novels and chatting up dedicated followers eager to grab his latest techno-thriller.
Win's first International Thriller Writers ThrillerFest conference had been a great experience. He had met authors he'd read and admired for years, and listened to headliner presentations by the kings and queens of today's thriller/mystery genre. And, like every writer in attendance, he desperately hoped the doom and gloom conveyed by every publishers' panel was nothing more than a perennial ploy to keep authors hungry and on the defensive.
True, flying to New York City for ThrillerFest 2010 had been a major hit to Steele Systems LLC's corporate coffers. But he and Layna, the company chief financial officer and Win's wife of forty years, had concluded the trip was an investment in his new career.
He'd opted to skip ThrillerFest's Saturday-night grand finale, a pricey awards banquet. Instead, he was having dinner with Violet Hawthorne, the executive editor for Pygmy Books. Violet had purchased and edited both Space Wars and Counterspace, but had yet to contract for Steele's first solo-written novel, Black Aura. She liked the synopsis, but had opted to hold off, until he completed the manuscript, citing a "fluid, weak market."
He was looking forward to tonight's meeting with more curiosity than business-driven interest, though. Violet had pulled him aside at ThrillerFest's Friday-evening cocktail reception to share astounding news of an unusual offer: Writing a novel for the express purpose of, in her words, "neutralizing underground terrorist sleeper cells" throughout the United States. The project was being sponsored by two federal agencies, the U.S. Department of Homeland Security and its military adjunct, U.S. Northern Command.
The news wasn't a complete surprise. He and his primary coauthor had briefed the four-star admiral heading Northern Command — which was headquartered in their home town, Colorado Springs — and pitched a "novel" concept: Employ entertainment as a vehicle to instill fear, doubt and dissension within terrorist networks by targeting vulnerable nodes and cultural pressure points. If successful, the campaign could rip sleeper cells apart by fostering suspicion of fellow members and sparking fear of classified high-tech weapons.
Ideally, when the chief jihadist's call came to launch an attack inside the U.S., those cells' covert terrorists simply wouldn't answer. Maybe Allah's would-be suicide bombers would change their minds about those heavenly virgins and keep driving a cab, instead.
During a private meeting in the admiral's spacious corner office at NorthCom headquarters, they'd outlined the elements of a book entitled Atlas Attacks. The four-star commander had asked a number of pointed questions, stared at a spectacular view of Pikes Peak for a full minute, then slammed a palm on the conference room table.
"Guys, let's do it! We need this!"
However, Win and his coauthors hadn't heard a peep since that meeting. Until Violet mentioned Atlas Attacks the night before, Win had assumed the project was sidelined by more pressing issues. Tonight, she would be outlining how-and-when details of the Atlas Attacks project—and bringing a contract for Win's signature. Maybe a fat advance check would be clipped to it, as well.
"Hey, handsome. Can a girl get the famous Win Steele to sign her book?"
Win stood and greeted Violet Hawthorne with a broad grin.
"I'm sure that 'John Henry' is high on your gotta-have list!"
He circled the table to hug the diminutive woman. Barely five-foot-one, Violet was a wiry, fifty-something lady with gray-streaked auburn hair. Attention-demanding green eyes bespoke a razor-edged intellect matched by an equally sharp tongue, should some dimwit dare challenge or, worse, patronize her.
Never married and fiercely dedicated to her work, Ms. Hawthorne was every author's dream editor. Her plainspoken critiques and ruthless "recommendations" had shredded many a scribe's ego and manuscript. But any book that made it through the Hawthorne gauntlet sold well. If Violet handled it, your book had a shot at the best-seller lists.
"Could you slip out a bit early?" Violet asked, glancing at an expensive watch. "I'd like to beat the Saturday-night regulars at Mulligans."
"Sure, no problem," Win said, scooping up a leather-bound notebook and pocketing the Mont Blanc. "Mind if I run upstairs and ditch this coat and tie? Meet you right here in ten minutes?"
Violet's cell phone was ringing. She nodded and marched off, phone tucked under a mass of unruly curls.
As Win waited for an elevator, a woman drew his attention.
"Excuse me, sir. Something fell off your jacket," she said, pointing. A gold button lay at his feet. Grimacing, he picked it up, thanked the lady, and stepped into an open car. Sure enough, the metal button matched others on his blue blazer.
Damn! Have to dig out a needle and thread tomorrow, he thought. He had to wear the jacket on Monday, when visiting Pygmy Books' office and meeting the company's owner-publisher.
In his room, Win was stripping off a red-and-gold tie, when his silenced BlackBerry phone vibrated. Kyler Scott. His younger son.
"Hey, Big Guy! What's up?" Win quipped, folding the tie one-handed.
"Hi, Dad. Nothing good," Kyler said.
Win froze.
"There's no easy way to say this. Erik's dead."
Win blinked, then sagged into an overstuffed chair.
No! You're kidding!
The thought flashed, but was dismissed in the same instant.
"Oh, God. No," he whispered. "How?"
"I don't know much. A social worker said Erik was in a Ho's store, waving three guns around and acting crazy."
"What? That's… What the hell was he doing?"
Win's chest felt as if he'd been kicked by a rodeo bronc. He couldn't breathe, lungs constricting, refusing to expand.
"Think about it, Dad. How do you wave three guns with two hands?" Kyler asked. As always, coldly analytical.
Win hesitated. "Already in spin mode?"
"Looks that way. God! I can't believe this shit, Dad!"
Staggered to the depths of his soul, the father struggled to think. Erik, his firstborn son, dead? Win's body was registering the early symptoms of shock.
Keep it together! Don't lose it! You're the dad.
"Where are you, son?"
"Dallas/Fort Worth," Kyler clipped, voice strained. "I was flying to New Orleans for the annual sales meeting, and was changing planes here, when I got the call. I finally got a flight back to Orange County. They're starting to board now."
"Have you called your mom?"
This will devastate Layna! God, please be with her… .
His wife had buried her own father exactly one week ago.
"I tried a few times, but just got Grandma's answering machine. They're probably at the base or something."
"She's helping Grandma with insurance stuff today. You didn't… ."
"No. I only left a message telling her to call my cell."
Win was pacing the hotel room, trying to corral thoughts flashing in a dozen directions.
"I'll get a flight back to Colorado, then drive to Las Vegas. Will you be going up?"
"Early tomorrow. Andrea said I have no business driving up there tonight." Andrea was Kyler's beautiful bride.
"She's right, son. Get some rest and go tomorrow. I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Gotta go, Dad. I'll call as soon as I get back to California, okay?"
"Sure. Fly safe, Big Guy. And I love you."
Win's throat tightened, squeezing out those last words as a whisper.
When was the last time I told Erik I loved him?
He could hear the tears in Kyler's thin response.
"Love ya, too, Dad."
The connection broke, leaving Win Steele alone. The darkest, deepest alone he'd ever been.
He slumped in the chair, too weak to stand, staring at nothing. His eyes refused to focus. He felt as if he were standing outside his body, watching himself. Never had his chest hurt so acutely. Breathing was a bothersome nuisance. He was numb, devoid of feeling, other than that unbearable, relentless constriction of his chest.
He stood and shook his head, demanding his lungs relax and accept oxygen.
Think!
He had to get a flight back to Colorado… but he was hungry as hell. A rational, take-care-of-the-host mind-voice spoke loud and clear: You'll need all the energy you can muster. Nourish the body and keep the mind functional. Don't give in and crack up. Don't fail Erik and your family.
In a fog, Win left the room and found the elevators. He was incapable of fully grasping the magnitude of Kyler's blunt, soul-shattering report. The idea that Erik was no longer walking, talking, laughing, working, loving and enjoying the day was too monstrous, too amorphous, too impossible to grab. The truth kept slipping away, like a wisp of smoke.
Win was vaguely aware of an odd, distantly familiar phenomenon: His mind kept focusing on trivia, just as it had the day he bailed out of a doomed Canadair Challenger business jet, before it crashed. At the emergency-escape door, he'd wondered whether there was enough altitude for his parachute to open. He'd jumped, felt his body slammed by a 180-knot wind, uttered a quick "thousand-one," and pulled the D-ring.
Unable to wrap itself around the magnitude of reality, his mind had seized on trivia: Shut your eyes! These are brand new contact lenses! You'll need 'em to find your way out of the desert!
Totally irrelevant, the thoughts had shot through his brain in a second. That's how the mind protected a body battered by incomprehensible trauma. Similar diversions were fighting for mind-control now.
He stared at the Hyatt's elevator doors, noting that he'd exited the same ones ten minutes earlier, back when the worst thing in his life-of-the-moment was a detached gold button. Now, everything was upside down. Life would never be the same again. A beautiful light had been snuffed out, and could never be reignited.
A chime dinged and the elevator door yawned. He exited and spotted Violet, thumb-typing on a BlackBerry. She glanced up, flashed a smile, then frowned.
"Win! Are you alright? You're white as the proverbial specter!"
Win explained, fighting to keep a reed-thin voice from failing. He paused to draw a deep breath.
"God, Violet. My oldest son is dead!"
Tears threatened to spill, but somehow didn't.
The all-business executive editor of Pygmy Books muttered something that failed to register and extended both arms. Win bent and wrapped an arm around her tiny waist, as Violet hugged his neck tightly. She held him, refusing to let go, murmuring, "I'm so sorry, Win. I am so sorry!"
She released the neck-grip, but held his wrists. Brow furrowed in concern, Violet declared, "Oh my God, my God. How can I help?"
Win shook his head, trying to clear a persistent, numbing brain-haze.
"I… I have to get a flight back to Colorado. I'll use the hotel's business… ."
"Nonsense! We'll go to my office," she declared, characteristically taking charge. "But first, you have to eat. The strength of God may carry you through this horror, but you have to help Him by taking care of yourself. Come on."
She hooked an arm through his and gently guided him to the hotel entrance.
Although hungry, eating was the last thing Win felt like doing. But he was old enough to understand his body and how it reacted. Without food, the tall, thin sixty-three-year-old retired reporter-turned-author would flame out. Endurance was not his forte, and an unusually high metabolic rate demanded frequent refueling. His wife joked that Win could skip one meal, but missing two would be terminal.
A waiter led the couple to a small table and took their order. Mulligan's emulated an authentic Irish pub, complete with rough-hewn floors, dark wood trim and a brass footrest fronting a long, massive bar. Rowdy patrons celebrating something generated a loud din, as they hoisted pints of beer. Win struggled to focus on whatever Violet was saying.
"I can't begin to comprehend what you're going through right now," she said, leaning into the table for two.
Background noise made it difficult to hear and nearly impossible to understand what Violet was saying. Win's hearing had deteriorated long ago, a casualty of too many jet aircraft engines and too little ear protection throughout his flying career.
"You have a tremendous support network here at Pygmy," she said, louder. "Use your writing skills, Win. Write your way through this nightmare. I'll give you a global stage, a forum. Whatever you find in Las Vegas, write it. Through you, let Erik's voice be heard."
Win heard the words, but their meaning and the profound impact of her commitment would not fully register for months. In this, the darkest, stormiest hour of his life's voyage, the woman's statement struck him as inappropriate and trivial. Not so. Violet Hawthorne, Win would come to realize, had extended both a lifeline and a powerful weapon. One would save his sanity. The other would destroy his enemies.
Win forced himself to eat the sandwich, despite interruptions by a flurry of phone calls expressing heartfelt condolences. News of Erik's death was sweeping through a network of family and friends faster than a wind-driven prairie inferno.
During a lull, Violet gently urged him to share his shattered heart, to express his feelings-of-the-moment. He was too shocked and numb to form a coherent thought, let alone a statement that made sense. Thoughts refused to align and command his lips to deliver anything remotely intelligent sounding. He rambled, wondering aloud what possibly could have happened that was so serious, so terribly threatening, that a police officer would find it necessary to shoot and kill his son.
Win's logical, engineer self accepted that Erik was, indeed, dead. But his father self, Erik's feeling, emotional, irrational dad, refused to believe that was true. This was so monumental, so unthinkable that it simply could not be. Surely, Erik would call and say, "Just kidding, Dad!" and deliver that hearty, infectious laugh.
Violet snatched the bill from Win's hand, paid the waiter and led the elder Steele back onto New York's scruffy, gum-patched sidewalks. The air was still heavy and humid, but evening had brought cooler temperatures. Walking five blocks through crowds of purposeful city dwellers and wide-eyed, drifting tourists relieved a smidgen of all-consuming tension. Win's gut and kicked-in chest felt better, by the time they entered Pygmy's office building at Two Penn Plaza.
Violet said something to a security guard, who checked Win's driver's license. Minutes later, they were whisked to the building's twenty-fifth floor, where Violet's executive smart-card opened the publisher's suite. All offices were empty and dark.
Violet seated Win at a computer and insisted he down a bottle of water, while scouring the Internet for an affordable flight home. Nothing before Monday on Frontier, forcing an airline change. Luckily, one of the flight-aggregator websites offered a United flight at 5:30 Sunday morning. It bounced in Chicago and would arrive in Denver before noon, giving him an option to leave for Las Vegas the same day.
He booked the United flight, printed a boarding pass and signed off.
Violet was in her office, back to the door, speaking softly into a cell phone. Win waited in the hallway, until she signed off.
"Hey," he announced.
She spun, whipped off a pair of reading glasses and waved to a sitting area. He hesitated and muttered something about having consumed enough of her Saturday evening.
"Oh, nonsense," she sputtered, hustling around the desk and slipping into an expensive, upholstered chair. "Sit down. Sit, please! I'll get you back to your hotel in a few minutes, but there's something I have to do first."
Puzzled, Win did as his half-pint, fiery editor ordered. A glass-topped coffee table between them groaned under neat stacks of thick manuscripts. She folded her hands slowly, deliberately. Green eyes bored into his.
"Win, what I'm about to say will sound off-the-wall and absolutely heartless, right now. This is important, though, so please humor an old lady."
He nodded. "I appreciate everything you've done, Violet, but… "
She raised a palm and tipped her head, cutting him off.
"Win, I just spoke to your… 'sponsor' for the Atlas Attacks project. I told him about Erik, and that we were putting Atlas on indefinite hold. You have far more important issues to handle now, and will not have time to write Atlas anytime soon."
Win's lips tightened. Piercing, intelligent blue eyes probed hers.
He's tuned in, she decided, relieved.
Violet rushed on. "The sponsor asked that I extend his sincere personal condolences, and those of his Northern Command colleagues. He meant it, too. Your reputation as a fair, savvy reporter 'survives at Northcom,' he said.
"Obviously, he concurred with putting Atlas on hold, but asked that I address several related items, while we have this face-to-face opportunity: One, he still wants you to sign a contract."
Win blinked in disbelief. "Violet! I'm in no state of mind to review and sign a damned contract! Does Colonel 'Sponsor' really think I give a rat's ass about this project right now?"
Violet was nodding vigorously.
"I know, I know, I know," she said, palm elevated again. "Hear me out, okay?" She waited, until Win calmed down, taking note of the raw fury in his eyes.
"Two, I'm to give you this." She handed Win a business card. "He will be your local contact, your day-to-day link to the sponsor."
The card read Michael D. Black, Counterterrorism and Intelligence Operations, Lawhead Corporation. The office address was Northern Command Headquarters at Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado Springs.
Puzzled, he looked up to find Violet smiling.
"You know 'Doc' Black, of course."
"I do. He lives less than a mile from me. Former sheriff of Jefferson County, north of Denver. He works for Lawhead's homeland security division as a liaison to Northcom."
"And you two get together for breakfast every few weeks, because he's also an author?" she said, with an insider's smirk.
Win nodded. "I don't get it, though. What does Doc have to do with Atlas?"
"I'll get to that," Violet assured. "Let me finish. The primary reason for our dinner tonight was to give you this."
She handed Win a sleek black-and-silver Apple iPhone. "Your sponsor and I met in Washington recently, and he made it clear that I should deliver it to you, in person. This phone contains a special module designed by the National Security Agency, and is your link to highly sensitive information that was to be integrated into Atlas Attacks. It will encrypt voice calls, e-mails and text messages, and can access highly classified databases. Oh, and the sponsor knows you were once assigned to NSA's space communications security unit."
Win was thoroughly confused—and annoyed.
"Look, this is all very spooky-cool, but I am not going to be working on Atlas. Hell, I don't have a clue what I'm dealing with in Vegas, but I do know I won't have time to write a damned book anytime soon! So, let's return the secret-agent bat-phone to this mysterious sponsor and tell him 'thanks, but not now.'
"Surely, he'll understand, if he has an ounce of humanity… ."
"Win, you agreed to hear me out, right?"
He nodded, reclined and folded his arms, scowling at the woman.
"Nobody expects you to write Atlas, until you're absolutely ready. Is that clear?"
Again, a head dip.
"Alright. I'm going to repeat what your sponsor said tonight, paraphrasing, of course: 'Tell Win that we may be able to help him, but we can't do it openly.' Something about a 'pending operation' in Las Vegas.
"He didn't explain that statement or what this operation might have to do with you. Evidently, I'm not cleared for such critical information, even though I'm in the middle of this weird transaction."
She, too, flushed with a burst of irritation. The lady was accustomed to being in charge, not playing go-between.
"Okay," Win said, trying to make sense of the sponsor's missive. "What does Northcom expect of me? They surely want something in return."
"I honestly don't know," Violet shrugged. "I was told to get you under contract, give you Doc's contact information, and put that special iPhone in your hands. My sense is Doc Black will fill you in, after you get home."
Win stared at her, still skeptical.
"Doc may have to wait. My top priority is to get to Vegas and figure out what the hell happened to my son. But, one more question: What's in this for you?"
"I can't say. When Northcom approached me with this highly unusual offer, they offered to pay Pygmy a handsome fee for publishing Atlas Attacks. We would make no investment in the project. Our costs were to be covered, and we were entitled to whatever revenues the book generated.
"Nothing like this has ever come up in my publishing career! It was a no-lose proposition for Pygmy—and you coauthors also were going to be paid up front.
"Basically, this is a work-for-hire contract," she explained. "Our only 'deliverable' was to give the project our best, pulling out all the stops to make Atlas a best seller. If you guys wrote a great book, we promoted it properly, and readers embraced it, the sponsor was prepared to take it to the next level on his dime."
"Next level?"
"A movie based on Atlas. Maybe a video game. And, if the novel did really well, maybe even a television series."
Win shook his head, amazed.
"That's incredible. But, I'm sorry, Violet. That's not going to happen. At least not in the near term."
He choked and looked away, battling tears.
Violet waited.
Win pulled a steadying breath and added, "Northcom's sponsor guy should understand that I'm out of this game for at least six months, maybe longer. I'll take his bat-phone, and I'll contact Doc Black. Beyond that, no promises."
"Of course," Violet said, returning to her desk. "Here's the contract. Initial here and here, and sign the last page. The verbiage only addresses the Atlas project, but the sponsor assured that it will cover whatever else they have in mind."
"And he didn't elaborate on that tonight?"
"No. He said, 'The objective hasn't changed. This is still about fighting terrorist cells in the U.S.'
"Oh! He did add one more thing: 'Tell Mr. Steele that he will be combatting a nontraditional enemy.' But he wouldn't explain. Very stubborn man. Isn't that… odd?"
Violet's emerald eyes probed Win's, but saw only confusion.
"I don't pretend to understand, Violet. Right now, I don't really care, either. Let me sign that contract, then point me back to the hotel, if you would, please. My flight leaves in…seven hours," Win said, checking a wristwatch.
"Of course," she said.
While he scrawled initials and a signature, she switched off her computer and shouldered an oversized purse.
"I'll get you a cab."
"Thanks, but I need to walk."
"Then I'm walking with you," she declared.
Before he could object, she brushed past him and flipped a light switch.
"I'm not letting you wander around New York in a daze. I'll walk you to your hotel. No argument, hear?"
They strolled in silence, again threading clusters of gawking tourists and Saturday-night revelers. Win caught Violet glancing at him now and then, wondering how he was doing.
Frankly, not so good. He was still in a murky quasi-trance, concentrating on breathing deeply, trying to mitigate that awful, unrelenting chest pain. Part of him worried that his heart would simply stop beating, a victim of cardiac arrest. Another part almost wished it would. Hell, it was thoroughly broken anyway.
Erik's dead. I'll never see or talk to my Big Son again.
In the Hyatt lobby, Violet hugged Win and extracted a promise to call her, if he needed anything. Anything!
"You've been my guardian angel tonight, Violet. I can't thank you enough for hanging with me." He left the rest unsaid: I damn sure didn't want to be alone with this nightmare.
She patted his upper arm and departed, wiping tears.
Win arranged for a taxi pickup at 3:15 a.m., alerted the hotel's front desk that he'd be checking out early, due to a family emergency, and angled for the elevators. When a door opened, he was face-to-face with several authors he knew, including one of the ThrillerFest organizers. The woman smiled, then stopped abruptly and touched Win's arm.
"Hey, Win! Are you okay?" she asked, worried.
Must look like hell, he thought.
Hesitantly, he gave her the short version. Visibly shocked, she stammered condolences, offered vague assistance and backed away. It was a scene Win would see repeated hundreds of times over the next months. In America, death made people uncomfortable, and most went to great lengths to avoid confronting it, even peripherally.
Losing a child to brutal violence was the heart-stopping fear of every parent, perhaps the worst conceivable horror. Consequently, through an illogical twist of human instinct, being in the presence of a father or mother unfortunate enough to have lost a wonderful son in a hail of gunfire triggered a knee-jerk flight response.
Somehow, their misfortune might rub off and threaten you and your child! Flee! Or, if that's not an option, change the subject.
Win returned to the hotel room, kicked off his shoes and placed a third call to his wife. This time, she answered.
Muted, strained, but surprisingly "together," Layna also was battling shock and utter disbelief. Neither could fully grasp the magnitude of losing Erik.
Win shared his plan and flight schedule, and promised to call, as soon as he was home. She signed off with the usual: "Fly safe. I love you."
Somehow, it sounded different this time — more intense, tear-tainted, worried. Their tight, happy family had been ripped apart.
Packing his suitcase, Win was struck by how drastically different that hotel room now looked and felt.
Nothing will ever look and feel the same again.
It was a startling, sudden epiphany. He had crossed a Continental Divide of sorts. On yesterday's side had flowed a babbling, pleasant stream—life before Erik was killed. On tomorrow's side, an angry torrent already was crashing downhill as a thundering waterfall—life after Erik's death. Tonight, Win couldn't begin to envision "after," a life comprising days, months and years without Erik.
Devastated and preoccupied with endless how-and-why questions, Win mumbled through several calls to cancel the next two days' appointments, and finally crawled between fresh sheets.
He dozed fitfully, unaware that his son's death had put him, Win Steele, squarely in the cockpit of the most dangerous, turbulent flight of his tenure on Earth.
* *
Captain Michael Greel tossed a damp, sweat-stained Metro uniform into a wicker clothes hamper. Slipping on a pair of khaki shorts, he one-handed a TV remote to display all five local stations as an on-screen mosaic. He cycled the audio among them, catching enough reporter and anchor prattle to confirm that the Erik Steele shooting topped every channel's 11:00 p.m. news. He selected a station showing his own mug and listened intently.
Nailed it, he concluded. As usual.
Greel was a master of the first-round official statement, following an officer-involved shooting. Simple, actually. Throw out a few "facts" to set the stage, and always, always work in his standard: "The suspect pulled a gun, and our officers responded to protect themselves and innocent bystanders."
That's what reporters wanted to hear, and was precisely the reassurance average-Joe citizens desperately needed to hear. Metro was on the job, protecting them. If a dumb ass pulled a gun, of course the cops were justified in hosing him.
Propping pillows against the headboard, Greel settled into a king-size bed and selected Channel 7, KWNV. The reporter was interviewing one of Erik Steele's friends. The tag line under a good-looking guy's image read, "Max Decimus."
Max was extolling the victim's character in glowing terms, when a business portrait of Steele wearing a suit and tie appeared. Big smile. Perfect teeth. Short-cropped red hair.
Handsome dude, Greel had to admit. Better looking than the unsmiling image on Steele's concealed-carry permit and driver's license.
"Erik was the consummate professional," Decimus was saying. "He was an Army tank platoon commander, and he received a number of commendations. I've known Erik for more than ten years, and I can guarantee one thing: Erik Steele did nothing wrong at Ho's today. Nothing! This guy was always incredibly cool.
"Don't believe the crap Metro's feeding us. There's no way Erik pulled a gun. He was murdered by a trigger-happy, scared cop."
Greel frowned. Decimus was undermining every point he, Mikey Greel, had just made on the other channel.
Damn! This might be tougher than…
A cell phone was sounding off. Greel swept it from the night table, checked the caller ID and groaned. Antone Galocci. Greel briefly considered ignoring it, but knew the old Mob boss would keep trying all night, until Greel picked up.
"Hey, Antone. How's the God of Gaming?" Greel said lightly.
"Mikey! You watching da boob tube, boy?"
The distinctive voice was annoying, like gravel scraping plate glass. The accent was unmistakably Bronx.
"Yeah. Got every local channel up. Why?"
"Mikey, ya know damned well why! Your stupid toads shot that Steele kid! It's all over da news! I tell ya, I got a bad feelin' about this. Know what I'm sayin'?"
"Don't sweat it, Antone. I've got this one under control. You know me. Everything's covered. I don't leave… ."
"Hey! You!" Galocci interjected. "Don't patronize me, son! Ya don't bullshit a bullshitter, and I'm smelling your BS clear over here! You listen to me: This Steele thing's gonna be a problem!
"Didya notice that the kid was a West Pointer? And got an MBA from Duke U? Mother of God, Mikey! Wat da hell are you guys thinkin'? This ain't some homeless drug pusher on skid row! This kid's got connections! I feel it in my bones, Mikey!"
When he was wound up, Galocci reverted to a Hollywood-mobster vernacular, his outrageous statements liberally laced with corny, out-of-date slang and metaphors. Whether staged or bona fide, Antone-da-Mob Boss was colorful.
The real Antone was definitely a sobering package, a back East made-man with a fistfull of murders on his conscience. The Cleveland branch had sent him to Las Vegas with orders to reestablish "the business."
As chief executive officer for the Mother Lode Holding Company, Galocci headed a far-flung resort hotel-casino empire stretching from Las Vegas to Asia. He was smart, well-connected and absolutely ruthless. And he had Mikey Greel by the short hairs.
"Antone, I'm not BS'ing. Don't worry about Steele! Yes, I know that he's a Pointer and hotshot MBA. He's also an ex-Army officer, and he sells pacemakers and other cardiovascular equipment for Cardiac Response," Greel spouted confidently. "But Steele's like any other dead dude in Vegas. When I get done with him, the taxpayers will be thanking Metro for taking him out. He's nothing, Tony."
Galocci hated being called "Tony." It sounded too much like the truth—a Mafia thug.
Silence. Finally, "Was, Mikey. Was! Not is! One of your dumbshit Metro death-squaders shot and killed Steele, remember?
"Geez-uz, Mikey! What's goin' on over there? How many people have you numbnuts killed this year already?" Galocci fumed.
"Come on," Greel soothed. "Steele was only our seventeenth officer-involved shooting this year. And not all of those were fatals.
"This is a tough town! We gotta keep this place under control. If we have to kill a few civilians now and then, that's just the way it is, ya know?"
Greel reached for a tumbler filled with ice and scotch. Taking a swig, he smiled as Galocci unloaded again. It was so easy to get under Tony-the-Mobster's skin!
"Only seventeen? Only? Wat da hell, boy? I ain't seen that kinda body count since da war with those damned Colombians in New Yawk! This is Las Vegas! We live or die on tourism and out-of-town gamblers, ya know?
"If da marks in Oakland and Miami and Houston and Des Moines get a whiff of this Steele deal, folks ain't gonna come to Vegas! And if those rubes don't show up and leave their money, we are out… of… business! Get that through your thick skull, ya stupid Mick!"
Greel grimaced. He hated that degrading epithet, and had it been uttered by anybody but Galocci, he'd have reached through the phone and shot him.
"Yeah, I'm well aware of all that. I don't need another of your Vegas-economics lectures, Tony."
Greel was tired and testier than good sense dictated. Especially with this man.
Unpredictably, Galocci laughed. A gritty, rasping cackle.
"Aw, don't get your underwear in a twist, Mikey. Yeah, yeah, you understand. Just don't forget what's at stake, ya hear? We're talking forty million tourists spending billions of dollars a year. Can't risk screwing that up, can we, boy?
"And another thing: This Steele murder's gonna hurt your boss's poll numbers—especially coming on the heels of Lashawn's death, God rest his soul."
Greel almost gagged on his scotch. The late Lashawn Miles had been Galocci's personal assistant, but Greel had caught the young black man passing confidential information about Tony's more sensitive operations to a still-unidentified federal agency.
Antone had made the call to brutally eliminate young Lashawn, and, as usual, Mikey Greel had handled the dirty work. An execution in the kid's bathroom had been a messy goat-rope, thanks to yet another Metro Neanderthal with a badge.
And now, the Steele shooting.
Greel spent another five minutes soothing Galocci's feathers, sipping his scotch and listening to the pockmarked Sicilian roar and fulminate about the implications of Sheriff Alex Uriah being ousted by that upstart lieutenant in the coming election.
"We got ourselves a good thing here, Mikey, but it's a delicate balance. If we lose star players, because your guys jack-up the election, we suffer million-dollar setbacks.
"Let's not screw it up, ya hear?" Galocci said.
"I hear ya, sir," Greel said, again deferential. He'd stroked and groveled enough for one Galocci encounter, and needed sleep.
"Don't worry. I'll take care of this Steele problem. Have I ever let you down, Antone?"
"Naw. Ya always done good, kid.
"Hey, you oughta check your Caymans account. You'll find a little extra something for the Miles deal. A mite dicey, but you pulled it off. And I always take care of my boys, don't I?"
Greel could hear the old pirate sneer. Galocci's world ran on power and money, and he expertly wielded both, relying on a mixture of panache and brass knuckles.
"Thanks, Antone! I very much appreciate that. I'm indebted to you, sir."
Greel grimaced, instantly regretting the words.
"That you are, Mikey. And ya better not forget it."
The connection broke, leaving the implicit threat ringing in Greel's ear. Disgusted, Greel swore and tossed the phone aside.
The old man never missed a chance to remind the Metro officer that, if not for the mobster's intervention, Mikey Greel would be serving time in a New York state prison. As a result, Greel had become Antone Galocci's reluctant clean-up boy, a role he initially loathed, but had grown to accept as an inescapable fact of life.
Two of the TV stations were recapping the day's top news story, the Erik Steele shooting at Ho's-Summerlin.
Greel downed the rest of his drink, pulled a soft-sided briefcase across the bed's down comforter and removed a .45-caliber semiautomatic pistol. He thumbed the magazine free, catching it with practiced ease, jacked the slide back and ejected a round. He held the bullet at arms length, reading its blunt end: Fiocchi. The cartridge's frangible .45 caliber slug would fragment, rather than penetrate a wall. Ideal for home protection.
Erik Steele, you damn sure knew your firearms, Greel mused.
He gripped the H&K USP Tactical with both hands, sighting along the barrel. The front dot was centered on the TV's still image of a smiling, confident Erik Steele.
Too bad you put so much faith in that Second Amendment shit, Erik.
Thanks to Steele's high-profile demise, maybe every other Second Amendment nut in America with a concealed-carry permit would get the message: Only cops deserve to carry guns.