"The people of God who are destined for prison
will be arrested and taken away;
those destined for death will be killed."
Revelation 13:10
Gray Manor reread a curt message from Rico Rodolfo, summarizing an encounter with the same cop, who had shot and killed Comet.
The Checkmate director's blood pressure inched up, as he envisioned how close Castle had come to being murdered by the same unhinged Metro officer. The chances of those two crossing paths would seem astronomical, if not for the half-loop Erik Steele memorial ribbon affixed to Castle's pickup truck.
Manor double-tapped his crypto-secure iPad to open a link Castle had forwarded. It was a news clip about Comet's family dropping its lawsuit against the Metro police department, Sheriff Alex Uriah and the three officers who had shot their son to death. Apparently, the Steeles had been forced into an untenable legal and financial corner, which had prompted the dismissal.
It closed with Steele saying, "In a way, dropping the lawsuit is liberating. It frees us to launch a number of initiatives that have been on hold." He'd declined to discuss what those might be.
Good on ya, Win! Keep the bastards guessing!
Whatever Steele had up his sleeve, Manor assumed it was part of the "asymmetric warfare" campaign Erik's father had mentioned, during a previous TV interview.
This latest twist in the cascading tragedy of Erik's murder-by-cop had distressed Manor tremendously. Something in his psyche snapped, as he watched a TV interview with Metro's sheriff. Uriah's feigned sympathy for the Steele family, and humble comments about "getting on with their lives," following the lawsuit dismissal, had been the final straw for Bishop. He knew Uriah's statements were utterly insincere.
The day before the Steeles dropped their lawsuit, NSA's Echelon system had snagged a teleconference between Uriah and Metro's attorneys. The subject of discussion had been a proposed settlement with the Steeles to avoid the costs of long, drawn out litigation. Metro had recently paid Lashawn Miles's family $1.7 million, and the Steele case could top that substantially, if it went to trial.
Uriah had gone berserk, screaming "Those damned Steeles will not get a dime from this department!" His irrational rant, punctuated by F-bombs, shocked a room full of Metro attorneys.
Uriah's public statements, in contrast with his closed-doors tantrum, had underscored an accusation Todd Bright had made—a blunt declaration that Manor could not bring himself to believe, at the time: Cops lie.
However, the Steele inquest hearing, subsequent officer-involved shootings in Las Vegas, and, finally, Uriah's on-camera blather, about the Steeles' lawsuit dismissal, had clearly validated Todd's assertion.
Manor had allowed more than enough time for any officer tainted by Metro's blatant cover-up of Comet's murder to step forward and tell the truth. Maybe show up at the local FBI office, ready to talk—and with the Ho's surveillance video in hand.
It hadn't happened. Manor now accepted it wasn't going to happen. Las Vegas truly was the Sin City caricature its mayor openly promoted, a modern Sodom plagued by corruption and dishonesty. Although Bright's intel team had determined that roughly half of Metro's officers were good cops, dedicated to their protect-and-serve oaths, those had been silenced. Professional law enforcement officers labored in the shadows, trying to do the right thing, but they were under the thumb of an unprincipled, vindictive tyrant.
Todd Bright, the brilliant domestic-counterterrorism pioneer, had been correct. Vegas was the centroid of a Cartel of Corruption that now threatened the fiber of America. The confluence of so many integrity-challenged politicians, judges, district attorneys, union thugs and police officers, aided and abetted by corporate conglomerates headed by unscrupulous billionaires, had given birth to a dangerous cartel that must be destroyed.
Final preparations for Phase Two of Operation Gold Shield had been completed. Today, Checkmate was initiating a rapid, hard-hitting campaign.
All the pieces were in place. The target list had been compiled and vetted—although it kept expanding, as egregious shootings by Metro police officers continued unabated. The advanced intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance systems were installed and tested. Finally, cutting-edge, super secret weapons had been validated and their crews trained.
It was time to act.
Via secure communications, Bishop gave Checkmate operators the GO signal, unchaining the full force of Operation Gold Shield.
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were riding, and Las Vegas was their destination.
* *
The curt text message appeared simultaneously on every cop's cell phone, striking fear in roughly 3,000 Metro employees: "Las Vegas police officers: Your reign as hunters and killers is over. You are now prey. You kill, you lie, you die."
Despite frantic, yeoman efforts by Metro's sophisticated information technology experts and hackers, the message would never be traced to its origin.
* *
"Tally on primary," a sensor operator announced.
"Target acquired. Locking on… . Tracking," the mission commander and pilot responded.
The two Lawhead Corporation operators were seated in a cockpit-like remotely piloted aircraft control center, each scanning a bank of flat-panel displays. An image of a shirtless, overweight figure dominated their largest screen. The image expanded, as the sensor operator zoomed closer. A small crosshair danced on the target's baseball cap.
Checkmate's director hovered over the Gremlin RPA pilot's shoulder, scrutinizing the close-up image.
"That's our boy," Bishop said. "Ready?"
"Not the best angle," the contractor pilot said. "I'll move the bird off a bit to improve the PK."
Gray Manor nodded. "Do it. I want the highest probability of kill."
* *
The figure on those screens was Olek Krupa, crossing a Sun-baked concrete deck bordering a residential swimming pool. Tall, slender evergreen trees ringing the walled yard stretched fingers of late-afternoon shadow across the water's glass-smooth surface.
That oval basin of blue was the Las Vegas Metro patrol officer's favorite place of relaxation, his personal refuge. After a stressful shift, tossing back a couple of brews and floating in cool, azure water was precisely what a hard-ass cop needed to unwind.
Krupa dropped a six-pack cooler on the pool's bull-nosed edging, covered it with an oversized towel, and descended submerged concrete steps.
Ahhhh! Perfect temp!
Coaxing a floating lounge closer, he eased a portly frame into its net-sling seat. Refreshing liquid washed over his legs and abdomen. Krupa wedged a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer into a plastic cup holder and reclined the buoyant lazy-chair.
The rotund officer turned the lounger to face a waning Sun, closed his eyes and sighed. Thankfully, Amy was working late, leaving him alone and unhassled, for a change.
The bitch had been impossible the last few months, all weird and jittery. Nothing was wrong, she claimed, but he wasn't stupid or blind. Or deaf, either. He'd seen the way she watched him, like he was a damned alien.
And he'd overheard a phone conversation with her mom. Amy had whispered, "I'm afraid! Oly's killed two people!"
She definitely had changed. Since that damned Steele shooting, his wife of nine years had given him the silent treatment. And gone stone cold. In bed, she was stiff and icy, finding any excuse to not have sex. Hell, she was scared of even being touched!
What a kick in the kisser! His own wife, who knew perfectly well that a cop might have to shoot somebody, was freakin' out. She didn't understand that, by hosing Steele, her husband may have saved a dozen people from harm!
That's what an honorable-mention citation from the National Association of Police Officers had claimed. Yeah, the NAPO award was a sham, totally fabricated by the Vegas police-union boss, Dick Nardel, who was on the NAPO board. Dick had gamed the system to "neutralize" noisy critics of Steele's killing and burnish Metro's image, but what the hell!
None of that mattered to his high-and-mighty wife! To her, he was nothing but a two-time killer, someone to fear. And she actually believed the bullshit being spouted by Steele's old man, who never missed a chance to sound off about how Krupa had murdered his son. Murdered!
The old fart dared to discredit the official Metro account. The loudmouth kept telling the Las Vegas media the same thing, over and over: That he, Officer Olek Krupa, had screwed up and killed Erik Steele, because the perp had a BlackBerry phone in his hand! And Amy was buying that story, not Krupa's version! That really teed him off!
Angry, Krupa slammed the cold Pabst in one long slug. He crushed the can, overhanded it into a wastebasket, and paddled to the pool's edge. Retrieving a second Pabst from the cooler, he ripped the pop-top and forced the beer into its holder.
He reclined and closed his eyes again. Drifting across the pool's calm surface, he breathed deeply, trying to wash guilt and frustration from his mind.
For months, he'd had nightmares about the Steele shooting. He kept seeing Erik's shocked expression, as the muscular former Army officer collapsed, a red hole in his chest, another in his thigh. The jarring cacophony of Akaka and Malovic opening up, firing five more slugs into Steele's back.
Krupa was particularly haunted by an indelible image that refused to go away: Steele's BlackBerry skidding toward Krupa's boot, the only "dark thing" on Ho's entryway concrete. In a recurring, endless-loop dream, that smartphone mocked Krupa, as he stood over it, Glock 21 at the ready. The phone's glass screen always flashed to life, displaying two flaming red eyes and a fanged mouth that growled, Murderer! No gun! Murderer!
Regardless of what Captain Greel dictated in the light of day, nightmares screamed the awful truth in darkness: Steele had not touched his firearm. Krupa had been scared shitless, and he really did screw up by panicking and firing, killing Steele instantly.
Krupa knew it, and so did ninety percent of the Metro police force. Fortunately, the "Blue Wall" had linked arms and presented a solid front, protecting him, the department, and the sheriff's reelection campaign.
Nevertheless, he'd also been isolated. He had the feeling his sergeant was watching closely, hoping Krupa-the-Killer would fumble an arrest or blow up at a traffic stop — like he damn near did with that guy in the silver Tacoma.
Krupa sensed a shadow cross his face. Opening one eye, he squinted skyward. No cloud. Nothing.
Damned raven, he concluded. The black desert birds usually squawked, even on the wing. He'd heard nothing. He took a deep pull of Pabst, satisfied that the first beer was taking effect. Nice, relaxing buzz.
* *
"Rats! Didn't mean to drag the bird's shadow over the target, sir," the Gremlin RPA pilot apologized. "The 'stealth cloak' doesn't entirely dissipate its shadow. Sorry… "
"Forget it," Manor said. "He didn't spot the bird."
Thanks to a metamaterial formed from nano-engineered constituents, the Gremlin's skin literally bent light around the airframe, effectively shielding it from view. Olek Krupa could have stared directly at the aircraft, but his retinas would have registered only empty blue sky. In effect, the RPA was invisible.
"How's the angle?" the Checkmate chief asked.
"Good to go, sir." A faint crosshair danced at the center of Krupa's bare chest. "Ready to fire."
Manor paused, then commanded, "Cleared in hot. Take him out."
The Gremlin pilot flipped a red-plastic cover and pressed a square switch labeled Master Arm. He double-checked the crosshair's position, then thumbed a "pickle-button" on the side-stick controller in his right hand.
* *
More than 100 miles away, a slender missile—roughly the size of a fat ink pen—was ejected from a tiny carriage rack mounted under the Gremlin RPA's wing. A high-energy-density, solid-fuel rocket fired, accelerating the missile to supersonic speed in seconds, trailing a faint streak of blue.
Microscopic optical sensors in the nose were locked onto Olek Krupa's chest, conveying signals at the speed of light to a microprocessor that, in turn, controlled the missile's guidance thrusters.
Krupa never heard death homing on him. Flying faster than the speed of sound, the missile outran its acoustic shock wave and slammed into its target, just below the sternum.
Krupa's body failed to register pain. It didn't have time. A proximity sensor in the missile's nose detected the chest cavity's penetration and triggered a measured explosion, blasting billions of carbon nanotubes in all directions. At hypersonic speed, particles measuring hundreds of times smaller than a human hair were devastating. Tissue, bone and organs were instantly liquified, as if shot through Satan's blender.
Krupa's brain took note of massive trauma to the host and triggered reflexive muscle contractions. The cop's mouth gaped, and a fleeting, throaty grunt emanated. Eyes flared and froze in a forever-stare of bewilderment.
A trickle of blood oozed from the tiny hole in Krupa's chest, initially pooling, then inching along a crease of flesh. The red dribble touched water and rapidly dissipated.
* *
Well after dark, Amy Krupa found her husband floating in the pool, silent and immobile. Eyes dilated, as if startled, and mouth agape. Any sound he might have uttered was lost to the desert night.
Standing at the pool's edge, Amy knew her husband was dead. A minuscule, blue-tinged hole was visible in his naked chest, linked to the pool's water by a trail of dried blood.
She was shocked, but not anguished. Despite a wish to the contrary, she felt only profound relief. And a bizarre, almost obscene sense of satisfaction.
She had survived. That pudgy little piece-of-shit would never hit her again. Never shoot another innocent person. Never hide behind a badge and gun to justify the small-minded brute's inherent evil.
Finally, she was free.
Amy left her husband's lifeless body untouched. It appeared weightless, suspended in the night, illuminated from below by a soft glow of underwater lights.
I'm glad you're dead, Oly.
She returned to the kitchen and calmly dialed 911.