[Jack Randall 01.0] Closure Read online

  “Hello?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. Just thought I’d check in. How are things?”

  “Shitty. How about you?”

  “The same,” Sam answered. Any other reply and Sam would have hung up immediately and gone shopping for a lawyer. This code-phrase stuff sounded stupid, but was still a safeguard they had chosen to use.

  “You pick up that hardware you needed?” Paul asked.

  “Yeah, no problem there. I already have the trigger assembled, and I plan on having a couple tracers on the car soon. So far, everything is working. You think you got enough stuff?” Sam joked.

  “Hey man, I was posing as a mine worker. They buy in bulk. Not like I could just go down to Wal-Mart and pick up a few sticks.”

  “I know; just fucking with you. I don’t think I like the idea of leaving close to a case of this stuff behind in the storage unit. Will the heat mess with it? It’s got to be one-hundred and ten degrees in the place.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly good for it. Cool and dry is best. Most of my friends keep theirs in the basement. But it should be all right. If you don’t want to leave it, ditch it in the desert when you get a chance.” Paul really didn’t care, but Sam worried about things like this.

  “That would be easy; they have plenty of desert. I’ll worry about it when I come to it. So far, everything here is working. Like I said, I’m going to attempt to place a tracer on the car, but even if I manage to plant our gift under it, blowing it around here is not going to be easy. This place is wall-to-wall people day and night. I don’t think there’ll be a place to do it safely. I may have to pass and maybe come back if there’s time later.”

  Paul winced at that. He knew there wouldn’t be time later. “Just do what you can; don’t take any stupid chances. We have more to pick from, you know.”

  “I know, I know. Just really want this guy.”

  “Has he got a lot of company?”

  “The usual, plus some friends for the fight. Nothing to worry about.”

  Nobody Sam would worry about being in the car with the target. Paul read between the lines.

  “Good. Hey, listen to this. Some reporter out of Orlando has been writing about the shooting. He knows about the letter, and he got some pictures of Jack Randall at the scene. He’s got a gift for putting things together. I was thinking of putting him on the mailing list. What do you think?”

  Sam thought about it for a few seconds. He couldn’t see a downside. One more on the list was no big deal as long as they took the same precautions on all the letters. Might even be a benefit. “Sure, if you think it’ll help.”

  “All right, consider him in the club. You need anything?”

  “Some match-grade ammo would be nice.”

  “You have two rifles at $2500 apiece. And you’re still not happy?”

  “Anything to up my chances; it’s going to be a long shot.”

  “Something tells me you’ll do just fine.” Paul knew Sam was looking forward to Orange County. Not just for the target, but for the difficulty of the shot. His brother-in-law rarely missed, match-grade ammo or not.

  “All right, I’m going to listen in next door for a while. Keep the news on; you never know what’s going to happen.”

  “All right. Be careful; don’t crimp the detonator with your teeth.”

  “Very funny. Talk to ya later.”

  The state of Hawaii holds 5,846 inmates in its prisons.

  Approximately 3,916 are repeat offenders.

  —ELEVEN—

  Sam checked his watch. It was nearing 1 a.m., and he had been sitting outside the strip bar for over two hours. The driver and one security-man had been sitting on the trunk of their car the whole time. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it involved a lot of hand gestures. He would just have to be patient. He had left the hotel as soon as the phone call had sent the driver downstairs. He’d managed to beat Profit and his crew to Cheetahs by a good ten minutes. He watched from his position fifty meters away as the man stepped out of the Cadillac’s passenger side door. He had already committed the plate number to memory. The two men Profit had left behind with the car were not pleased, but did as they were told. Sooner or later, one of them would have to take a piss.

  As if on cue, the bigger one left and walked toward the entrance, out of sight around the corner. The other man slipped into the driver’s seat and started the car. The music was loud enough for Sam to hear it from his place down the street. The driver then lit a cigarette, and leaned the seat back. This was what Sam had been waiting for.

  He quickly palmed the transmitters and left the car. He crossed the street, giving himself the angle of approach he needed to pass by the rear of the car. As he got closer, he saw that the driver had his eyes closed. Good. He stopped for one second to untie his shoe. He walked with the laces flapping until he was close to the car. Quickly kneeling down behind the rear bumper, he was out of the driver’s sight. Two transmitters were rapidly affixed to the rear bumper and to the frame. He then calmly tied his shoe, before standing and walking toward the entrance. A glance behind him revealed the driver, his eyes still closed, singing along with the girl on the CD.

  “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 which 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, which led to the second switch, which led to the detonators, which 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. 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. 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 wa
s 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 among 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 which 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, which he took product of 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 waiting 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 was 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 then 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.

  A few minutes later, Sam followed.

  • • •

  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 didn’t really 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 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. This 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,” Sam muttered under his breath.

  Fifteen minutes later, he turned his attention to the announcer. Sam 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.

  They heard 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 continually 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 would be 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.