David Golemon - Ripper

“Just like him.”

The man inside the Tahoe was parked across the busy street. The Black Team had been out front watching for the better part of thirty minutes. Smith never uttered a word but had held up his hand several times when one of the three men inside the Tahoe attempted to ask a question. His eyes never left the pawn shop.

As far as he could discern it was a busy place of business. He saw very little out of the ordinary. Smith looked to his left and the field supervisor he had chewed out earlier. He looked at the man’s hand and then smiled to himself. “Give me your ring and watch,” he said as he held out his large hand.

The man next to him was about to ask a very stupid question, especially stupid considering how his day had gone thus far with the director of the Black Teams. Instead of doing the stupid thing, he removed his watch and his wedding ring and gave them to Smith. He would have asked why he didn’t use his own watch, or his own wedding ring, but stopped short when he saw how much more expensive the man’s wedding ring was compared to his, and with the Rolex he wore, well, he decided not to break the bond of trust he was now trying to develop.

“Thank you. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Smith left the large Chevrolet and then waited for a city bus to pass before he sprinted across the street and entered the Gold City Pawn Shop without a second’s hesitation.

The agent from the Las Vegas district watched Smith go and then turned away and looked out of the side window. He knew the man as the most ruthless person he had ever met in his life. He had been recruited by Smith right out of the army, claiming he and others were about to rebuild an elite paramilitary unit that would work closely with the CIA and NSA. Needless to say, he had jumped at the chance. But now he realized that if the job didn’t kill him, the man named Smith surely would.

Smith looked down at the ornate door handle that was probably cast sometime in the 1940s. He depressed the thumb plate and knew immediately that he had touched something other than brass. Under his thumb he felt slick, cold glass. He opened the door without pausing and stepped into the pawn shop. He held the door open a moment as two teenage girls left holding a bag full of CDs. He smiled and nodded as they giggled their way past. He closed the door and then looked around the shop. There were musical instruments hanging on the walls, large-screen LED television sets, and stereo systems. If this was a front , he thought, it was convincing .

Smith started up the aisle toward the back of the store where he noticed an older man leaning against the glass cases reading a magazine. As he looked at the many pawned items on display, he watched the man without him ever knowing it. He saw the clean-shaven face and the well-trimmed hair. That was when Smith smelled military. As he stepped to the counter he also saw that he was being observed by no less than fifteen cameras, far too many for a small pawn shop. The older man noticed his approach and then closed his magazine.

“Howdy, what can I do ya’ for?” the man asked as he looked Smith up and down.

“Well, I just want to get these appraised,” he answered with a return smile as he held out the wedding ring and the watch.

The older man behind the counter looked at the two items and then smiled. “Without looking through my jeweler’s loupe, I can tell you the ring isn’t what you probably think it is, and the watch, well,” he started to say as he pulled a large cardboard box out from under the counter, “as you can see, I have a bunch of that crap already.” He looked at Smith, and then he relented a little. “Having a hard stay in Vegas my friend?”

Smith smiled and tried to look embarrassed. “You can say that.”

“Okay partner. I’ll give you fifty for the ring. On the condition you take that fifty, put gas in your car, and go home. Do we have a deal?”

Smith placed the ring on the countertop and then nodded his head as if he were embarrassed to no end.

“Ah, don’t sweat it my friend, we all have our moments. You just had yours and now you’ve learned from it.” The man, a staff sergeant in the U.S. Army and part of the security team for the Event Group Complex, took the ring and then slid a paper form toward Smith for him to fill out. “Name, address, phone number, and sign at the bottom of the page. And I’ll tell you what, I’ll treat this as a loan, so you can get it back before the wife finds out.”

“Thanks buddy — thanks a lot.” Smith watched as the clerk turned and went into the back room. When the thick curtain parted he could see two other men standing in the back with the refuse of junk collected by the gambling lowlifes that frequented this place. He saw one of the men look up at him just before the curtain slid back into place. The man was medium sized, and he was black. Their eyes locked for the briefest of moments, but in that short time Smith had confirmed what he already suspected. The place was a front for something. What, he didn’t know yet. But the black man with the bandage on the side of his jaw was the very same man from Mexico they had pulled out of that culvert outside of Perdition’s Gate. Smith would recognize him anywhere.

As the old man returned from the back room, he handed Smith his fifty dollars in cash. He read the receipt of exchange and then smiled. “ID please.”

Smith produced the fake license that corresponded with the fake name and address he had given on the loan form. The old man wrote down the license number and then slid the ID back.

“Now, you go home,” he looked down at the receipt, “Mr. Smith, and we’ll see you when you come back to get your ring.”

“You bet,” Smith said as he pocketed the cash and then placed the watch that he couldn’t pawn into his pocket.

Smith strolled confidently through the pawn shop and then hesitated at the door to see what was happening behind him thanks to the reflection in the thick glass. The old man watched him for a moment and then went back to the magazine he was reading. Smith opened the door and left. As he crossed the street he felt inside of his coat pocket. The watch that he couldn’t pawn appeared and he smiled as he dropped it into the gutter beside the Tahoe. He entered the backseat and handed the man his fifty dollars.

“They took both the watch and the ring.”

The man just looked down at the cash in his hand. That was all he received for the wedding ring and the watch his wife gave him last Christmas.

“This place has something under it, I can smell it. A passageway, something…,” Smith said as his words trailed off in thought. “We may have to call in another favor and get some geological data of the area leading to and from that pawn shop.” He smiled to no one but himself as a plan started to form. “Now, let’s go to the private address out on Flamingo Road.”

Inside the Gold City Pawn Shop, Will Mendenhall stepped out from behind the curtain and watched as the large man crossed the street and vanished. He shook his head as he tried to think.

“What is it, Lieutenant?” the sergeant asked as he again closed his magazine.

“Did that guy look familiar to you?” Will asked as he watched the gathering darkness outside to see if the man would reappear.

“Familiar? One thing you should remember from your time at this counter, sir, is that everyone looks familiar.”

Mendenhall smiled at the memory of the boring days on gate duty. He slapped the sergeant on the back. “Yeah I do remember.” He turned as one of the marines in the back room looked out from behind the curtain. He made sure no customers were in the shop and then faced Will.