Closure

  “All too easy,” Sam said to himself.

  He continued on until he passed in front of the building and on down the street. He would go another two blocks before circling back to the rental car.

  Back in his hotel room, Sam pulled out the diagrams and books that Paul had sent. The radio and servos were spread out on the bed. The table contained electrical detonators, wire, a pair of simple swing switches, a small block of batteries mounted in series, and the soldering iron, hot, and on its stand. Sam had just finished laying out the circuit he planned to use, and was double checking it against the drawings. Nothing fancy, but then it didn’t need to be. Sam had rigged a simple circuit that he planned to trigger using the servos from the remote control radio. The batteries were wired to the first switch that led to the second switch that led to the detonators that then led back to the battery. He planned on using at least three detonators in case any of them were bad. The servos were matched to the throttle and right turn controls of the radio. He would have to do both to detonate it. It was the only safety measure he had built in. Homemade explosives were not Sam’s game. He was a shooter first. He had always had a sharp engineer on the team when he was in the army for things of this nature. That was a long time ago, and Sam had forgotten most of it. This would do for what he needed. He had already determined that the frequency he was using was not in use in this area. He had used the frequency finder all day without one hit. Downtown Vegas just wasn’t a good place to fly your remote control airplane. Cell phones, security cameras, TV remotes; they all used a different bank of frequencies. He would be as safe as he could.

  When Sam was done, he took the small mounting board and attached the large magnet to it. He then checked the device again. The magnet had no effect. The light on the meter moved just as it had before. Good. He would attach the detonators and the dynamite when he was ready to use it. Three sticks should do it, maybe four. It had to fit under the car without being seen. Sam gathered everything up and placed it in the shoe box he had brought it up in. The box went into the shopping bag. The shopping bag he placed under the bed, out of reach of the maid’s vacuum cleaner.

  Sam then got out the directional radio and listened for the car. It pointed in the direction of the strip club. No movement yet.

  Sam gave up and went to the bathroom. His stomach was giving him some warning signs. He had forced himself to eat earlier, and he was having to do that more and more often. While it didn’t surprise him, he still got mad when it happened. He had taken excellent care of himself his whole life. Yes, he had pushed his body hard in the past, but that was no reason for it to retaliate now. He would just take his pills and try to get some sleep. Maybe tomorrow would provide the opportunity he needed. He was tired.

  * * *

  Danny’s editor was not in a good mood. His best reporter was asking for something unusual, and on a Monday, too.

  “Ed, it’s going to happen again, I’m telling you. This guy is just getting started. I need to be there when it does!” Danny was pleading his case while pacing in front of his editor’s desk. Ed had his seat tipped back, his feet up on his desk and watched Danny appear and disappear between the piles of paper and books.

  “Lemme get this straight. You think the guy who shot Addicot is gonna go out and shoot some more people? Why?”

  “He left a message, Ed. A letter to the FBI. Why would he do that if he just wanted to kill Addicot? Sure the guy had enemies, but why not just shoot him and be done with it? No, this guy has an agenda. He left the ‘Why’ with the feds, nailed it to a tree like a gift. Why leave it to a federal agency when the locals or state could just as easily get the message. It just doesn’t add up. I think it’s gonna happen again, it’s gonna happen soon, and it’s gonna happen somewhere outside Florida. I need to be there when it does!”

  Ed sat up and looked at Danny. He reminded Ed of himself from the first day he had come onboard. Young, full of energy, still had some ideals and drive left.

  “You really think this is serious?”

  “The FBI does. Look who they sent down here. Their golden boy.”

  Ed sat back and scratched his head with one of the hundreds of pencils he kept lying around. He hated pens, ruined too many shirts. Danny had some points. He also had a lot of unknowns. But he had been smart enough to hang around the scene, and come back with a story that had more than what the other guys had.

  “All right. All right, I’ll sign off on one trip. Be humble, Danny, you’re a metro guy and the other egos will not like it. Go down to travel and get an open ticket. Pick out a photographer to go with you. I’ll explain it to the bean counters. Don’t screw me on this one.”

  Danny reached across the desk and planted a kiss on Ed’s shiny head. “You’re my hero, Ed, that’s what I tell everyone!”

  “Yeah?” Ed smiled. “Go away.”

  Danny did just as he was told.

  * * *

  Sam was in his hotel room finishing off a room service breakfast. He had been listening for the past three hours as the gang members got themselves up and around. He had heard grumbling and verbal sparring over the shower. Room service had come and gone twice. Some loud snorting he took to be cocaine use. Nothing remarkable yet.

  Profit’s voice finally joined the group and things quieted down. Breakfast was again ordered. The talk then turned to the day’s plans before the fight.

  “We can hit the strip for some dice, boys, The Prophet can always use more profit.” It was a line he had used many times. His crew laughed obediently.

  “However, it would trouble me to be seen exiting my coach in its current condition. Mooky, you did wash my ride since we arrived?” He looked at his subordinate with a glare.

  Mooky was suddenly delinquent. He quickly recovered.

  “I was just leaving to do that P. JJ was going to help me.” Mooky looked to his friend for help.

  “Yeah—Yeah, same place we used last trip. No problem, be back in an hour.” JJ got up and glared at Mooky as he left the room.

  “Very good.” Profit smiled as his breakfast was placed in front of him. “Are you still here?” He looked at Mooky.

  Mooky turned and followed JJ out of the room.

  “Boy needs a shock collar,” he joked.

  * * *

  Sam was out the door and racing to his car with the gym bag in his hand. He managed to pull out onto Tropicana Avenue in time to fall in behind Mooky and JJ in Profit’s car. He was glad he had decided to finish the assembly that morning. They continued down Tropicana toward the airport, and then pulled into a detail shop with a long automatic carwash. The cars were lined up waiting to get in. The desert really laid a layer of dust on everything. It looked like the business catered to limousine and hotel vehicles. The drivers could be seen gathered in the waiting area out of the heat, drinking coffee while they waited for their cars. Sam pulled his car right up to the rear of Profit’s car and got out with the gym bag in hand. As he turned to go to the office, a young Hispanic-looking kid ran up to him. After a brief Spanish phrase, he snatched the key out of Sam’s hand, replaced it with a numbered piece of paper, and with a smile was gone. Sam smiled. Perfect.

  He turned and walked to the rear of the building where the cars entered the gate. Another young man was busy spraying down the cars and sliding plastic over any rear window wipers as they entered. He didn’t even look up as Sam took up a position leaning against the wall. From this position he was out of sight of the crowd inside and had a good view of the parking lot. The next car, a nice Lexus, was pulled up to the gate. As the driver bailed out and ran back to the parking lot, Sam casually stepped forward to inspect the interior. He stepped back as the track engaged, and it was pulled forward to receive its spraying. He repeated the move with the next car, a Cadillac SUV. Profit’s car was next. Sam unzipped the bag to expose the device. With one hand he reached in and connected the detonator bundle to the screw connection to complete the circuit. He spun the wing nut down till it w
as tight. The bomb was no longer safe. As Profit’s car was pulled forward, he again stepped forward to admire the interior. As he bent over to gaze into the passenger side window, he quickly dropped to the ground, pulled the bomb from the bag, and placed it on the inside of the frame directly under the passenger seat. The magnet grabbed onto the frame with a bang that startled Sam. He gave it a quick tug to ensure it was in place, and then casually rose and returned to his position leaning against the wall. Out of the corner of his sunglasses he checked on the attendant spraying the cars. Not even looking in his direction. A look across the parking lot revealed no one else. Sam checked out the two cars going through after his in the same manner before walking to the other side of the building to await his car. The same smiling boy drove it out where it was attacked by an army of other young boys with towels. After a quick rubdown the boy ran up with his keys. Sam peeled off enough cash to pay for the wash, and left the young man a big tip. Sam pulled out into eastbound traffic until he could pull a U-turn. He then proceeded into the Burger King across the street from the carwash. He watched out the window as Profit’s car was vacuumed and dusted inside. The tires were treated without the bomb being discovered. Sam finished his chicken sandwich just as Mooky and JJ pulled out and headed back to the hotel.

  Sam followed a few minutes later.

  * * *

  Profit and his crew spent the day on the Strip and Sam could not afford to follow them. With security cameras everywhere in the casinos, he did not want his face seen in multiple places the same time as his target. He had no doubt that the FBI would soon be reviewing all the tapes looking for someone tailing Profit. Disguise or no disguise, he couldn’t risk it. Besides, with the tracers on the car, Sam really didn’t need to follow him closely, he just needed the radio to track the signal from the car and his own rental car. One of thousands in the city, it was never looked at twice. So Sam cruised the Strip every hour or so, and waited for the radio to beep as he got close to the car. A few times he entered some parking garages to see the car up close. Most were under the hotels and full of people coming and going. Sam quickly ruled out blowing the device in a garage. The risk of fire and bystanders was too great. He would just have to be patient. His time would come. Sam had never been patient. It had taken some good football coaches, a few drill instructors, and some time at war to teach him the advantage of discipline. Sam was very good at what he did. So good he taught others before he left. That experience was invaluable now. Time would offer him a chance, and when it did, he would be ready. He checked his watch, he had time for a meal and a nap before the fight.

  * * *

  The MGM Garden Arena was a boxing promoter’s dream. It housed thousands of ticket holders. No expense had been spared to make this one of the best facilities of its kind in Vegas. It had more than enough lighting, sufficient entrances and exits and enough air-conditioning for a large crowd of rowdy fight fans.

  Sam arrived halfway through the second match. Two welterweights were firing the crowd up for the main event. The two men were evenly matched, and although the crowd didn’t know it, they were seeing the only real boxing that was going to take place that night. The noise was already putting the arena’s sound dampening to the test. It was Sam’s first time at a live match, and he found he didn’t really like it. The crowd seemed to get into it just a little too much for his taste. Besides, he was here to work.

  Raising his binoculars to his face he saw a group of people move toward the section he had been eyeballing all night. He had been lucky to overhear two of Profit’s men discussing where they would be seated for the fight. The group tonight consisted of Profit, his two decorative ladies, two security men, and a few semi-celebrity friends. They made a grand showing of taking their seats.

  Sam could see them quite clearly from his seat in the upper deck on the opposite side. He watched Profit smile at his ladies and friends. Drinks were brought. His crew yelled at the fighters, demanding some blood. It was going to be a fun night.

  “Enjoy it while it lasts you piece of shit,” he muttered under his breath.

  Fifteen minutes later, Sam turned his attention to the announcer. He couldn’t help but smile when the guy launched into his familiar introductions of the fighters and on into his catch phrase: “Let’s get ready to rumble!” The guy was perfect. One of the best jobs a guy could have. It was right up there with the guy who announced the President at the State of the Union address. He had read somewhere that this guy had actually copyrighted the phrase, unbelievable. It did work its magic on the crowd. They responded by standing and cheering and Sam acquired the first of many drops of beer on his jacket. The crowd was primed for the fight. Nothing like seeing two men beat each other to a pulp.

  The usual instructions from the referee and the bell sounded. The Englishman was immediately on the offensive while the Champion danced around him. The crowd around Sam began to continuously yell instructions, insults, boos, and cheers. Sam lost his view of Profit through the binoculars as he was constantly jostled by the fans around him. More beer on his jacket. By the end of the first round Sam had had enough. He rose and followed an already drunk fan down the row and in the direction of more beer. He moved off against the flow of people to the nearest exit sign. After some twists and turns, he was back in the casino. He got his bearings and exited out the lion-head entrance on the corner of the Strip and Tropicana. Turning left, it was a quick walk across the street to his own hotel. He found a chair in the sports bar, and played some Keno for appearance’s sake while he watched the fight on several big screens. He thought about his problem. He had the means, but no safe place to implement them. How could he use the bomb without taking out a bunch of innocents? Profit would be flying back tomorrow to Los Angeles. The bomb was useless after that. Sam had no plans to try this on the man’s home ground. He would be noticed in a heartbeat. Here in Vegas, he could blend in with the crowd. He had to find a way to do it here.

  The Champion went down in the eighth round after he stuck his chin in a left hook. Sam thought it looked fairly real. The new champ was crowned, and the crowd began to leave. Sam rode the elevator to his floor and picked up the directional receiver from under the bed. It showed the car heading up the strip towards Caesar’s Palace. He next pulled out the frequency checker. Nothing on the band he was using. Good. He placed them both in the gym bag and headed for his car.

  The boys were at The Mirage this time. He watched them from the blackjack table as he had before. The bets were bigger tonight. Obviously the man had lived up to his name regarding the fight. Their rowdiness soon drove the other players away and attracted some additional security. Sam left and went to his car. He traced three different routes back to the hotel, but all of them had crowds and traffic. This guy was flying out the next day. He had to find something soon.

  Sam sat at a red light and fought back a pain in his gut. He was running out of options.

  “Dumbass!” he yelled at himself. The answer was obvious.

  Sam proceeded down the Strip to Tropicana Ave. He then turned left and followed it out past the carwash and on to the airport. About a mile from the airport, he ran into a construction zone. Traffic was forced across the median and into one lane with a concrete barrier on one side and a mile of orange barrels on the other. The other lane was stripped down six inches and roughed up for re-paving. Some crew worked under klieg-lights, but otherwise the area was empty. Sam exited the work zone and drove on to the airport. He then made a U-turn and drove back past the same spot. The timing would have to be perfect, but it would work. It had to, it was his only option. Tomorrow was Saturday. Did the crews work on Saturday? They didn’t in Michigan. He’d have to play it by ear, and hope they didn’t here. He drove the route four more times with his eyes on the odometer and his watch. It was going to be really tight, but this was the best idea he had come up with yet. He needed one more bit of information, and for that he needed the internet.

  Sam spun the wheel and turned back towa
rd the hotel.

  —TWELVE—

  The state of Idaho holds 5,887 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 3,994 are repeat offenders.

  Sam was tired. After returning to the hotel last night he used his laptop and looked up every flight to Los Angeles that he could find for the next day. There were several and he didn’t know which flight Profit planned to be on. He had then listened till 3 a.m. on the microphone till he fell asleep. He woke up when the phone rang at seven, the machine voice telling him to have a pleasant day in Las Vegas, and thank you for choosing the Tropicana Hotel. After silencing the phone, he slipped the headphones on and listened. Not a sound came from the room. Had they left already? Had he missed his only chance? Sam cussed himself for falling asleep.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a toilet flushing. They were still there! He could hear a door shut, and some quiet voices. Someone started snoring. Good, it wasn’t the maid, and he still had a little time. Sam slid one earphone off and grabbed the phone. After ordering breakfast, he quickly packed his bags and disassembled everything but the laser. He would have to move fast once he knew they were leaving. Despite his stomach, he had ordered a pot of coffee. He had to stay awake. Dr. Maher would not be pleased, nor would his stomach later. But like he had been told in the Army: Mission first; welfare of the men second.

  Three hours later Sam heard the phone ring. A 10 o’clock wake-up call. The snoring stopped, and several voices could soon be heard. An hour later breakfast had been ordered, delivered, and eaten. Showers had been taken. Money had been counted. Hookers sent packing. Hangovers were being nursed. Finally, Sam heard what he had been waiting for.