Luke Murphy - Dead Man's Hand

“Lots of people can see that scenario, but what’s your proof? If you don’t have it, there’s no real deal here for us.”

“Not yet, but I know how to get it.”

“How?”

“I also know who killed your officer.”

“What?” Dale looked at Jimmy.

“His name is Derek Baxter. He’s an ex-Marine. He had to have been hired by Sanders.”

“What’s the proof?”

“Find Baxter. He’ll talk.”

Watters told them about the hit man following him and what he thought the sniper’s next move would be. Dale listened quietly, not liking the situation one bit.

“Okay,” Dale said. “This sounds possible. But I’m not happy. A lot of it is guesswork. You think I should protect you from everyone after your hide because of a guess and an internet search?”

“Detective, how many assassins have you caught in Vegas? How many murders-for-hire have there been in the last ten years, would you say? The newspapers suggest ten or twelve.”

“So, smartass, how can we get this guy out into the open?”

They went over details for almost twenty minutes.

When they had hammered out the finer points, Dale said, “Okay. Send his photo and all you have on Baxter.”

“Done. One last thing. I need Rachel out of the house.”

“The girl’s with you?” Dale wasn’t really surprised though.

“Yes. I know how we can get her out before Baxter moves in.”

Dale agreed.

When he hung up, Jimmy spoke. “I agree Watters is smart, but Baxter is a professional killer and is going to drop him.”

“Probably so. Do you have a better plan?” He was getting tired of everyone else’s plan—kill Watters and put all the killings on him or try Watters and do the same thing. Jimmy was his old friend, but no saint about justice.

The fax spit out Baxter’s picture and the plan of Watters’ fortress, including the location of booby traps.

Dale looked at Jimmy. “Call in Parker, Duncan, Smith and Ramirez so we can set it up. In your spare time, try to explain why a guilty killer would give all his best secrets and defenses away? Maybe we have a super-genius here and it is all a crazy trap. But I’m pretty smart too and when you’re not lazy or hanging out with street sleaze, so are you.”

Chapter 37

Clouds dark and heavy with rain poured down on Vegas that evening.

Calvin popped a couple of painkillers. Not a full dose, just enough to reduce the pain. He felt as if he were back in college with pre-game jitters. He started to enjoy the ride from the most powerful drug in the world—adrenaline.

He looked for Baxter on the quiet, unmoving monitor. Out there lurked a high-powered scope set for him and Rachel. Calvin got up to choose his weapons.

He pushed the computer desk against the wall, rolled up the area carpet and grabbed a round metal pin that lifted a trap door.

He followed the stairs into the damp, dark bomb shelter. On one side, there was enough canned food for several months. On the other, an arsenal.

He took down an armful of various weapons and then went to conceal them around his fortress. Then, he got the call.

“Yeah,” he answered.

“Everyone’s in place. Good luck, kid.”

Calvin hung up and checked the monitors again. Silence. Nothing. Although he couldn’t see Baxter, he could feel the ex-Marine’s presence. Calvin heard Rachel’s footsteps behind him. “Are you ready?” he asked.

She gave him a slight, timid nod.

In what felt like a trance, he moved to the emergency generator and switched the power off to the entire house, except for the computer room. Total blackness fell.

Calvin and Rachel moved to the garage.

Baxter had circled the house, rejected the back exit as too obvious and then taken a position on the roof of a building down the street. He had a view of the front right side of Watters’ hideout, where he had a shot at anyone emerging from about three quarters of the house. This was his third position in the last forty-five minutes.

He had a 7.62 x 51mm M40 resting on a tripod and was blacked out against the tar and gravel of the roof. He would be hard to spot from another rooftop, let alone a helicopter. A military black-camouflage tarp covered him and was little help against the increasing rain, the drops smacking loudly against the vinyl.

The intensity of the moment took him back to his days in Afghanistan.

As he waited, he replayed the last conversation with his employer. Sanders had nerve. Baxter thought about just killing Sanders for a moment, but decided that was a bad option. Someone else might talk. No, that would ruin his rep.

He put on the thermal-imaging nightscope and was chambering a new round when he heard the first faint wails from police sirens. A row of patrol cars approached Watters’ house from both directions and stopped. With the road barricaded by the diagonally parked cars, six officers stood behind the vehicles with their weapons drawn.

Had Sanders decided to use the cops and double-cross him?

If Watters slowed the cops down, or even somehow managed to get away, Baxter would attempt a head shot. Most likely he’d get another one when the cops led Watters out in cuffs.

The shooting started. Glass shattered in the house and cops ducked behind their open cruiser doors as Watters returned fire. As two cops approached the house, a series of bombs detonated. Concrete and metal flew around the neighborhood. The explosions sent the cops scurrying for cover.

Perfect—with this much happening, he could take Watters out and then vanish, unnoticed.

Then he saw something that gave him pause.

A group of cops circled the back of the building and disappeared.

More gunfire ensued. Then quiet. Either Watters was in cuffs or dead.

Baxter couldn’t believe when four cops ran from the building, got into cars and rocketed away. They were already gone before Baxter realized that only three cops had gone in.

He had to move. The police had underestimated Watters’ security and he didn’t have much time before the LVMPD would return with a much larger force, perhaps even SWAT.

He couldn’t allow a second raid to happen and Watters get caught. Baxter’s job was to kill Watters, period.

That time had come.

“The hit man we are up against seems to be slipping a little,” Dale said to Jimmy.

Watters was informed that Rachel was out.

Dale said, “Easy part done. Now, capture a killer, keep a suspected killer alive and hope that a Vegas leg breaker is not setting us up.”

He rotated the knots out of his neck and surveyed the area. “Make sure everyone removes their blanks and loads live ammo.”

Jimmy made the call.

The observation point was the parked car a block from Watters’ workshop. The entire workshop and surrounding area had been under long-distance police surveillance, outside the sniper’s perceived area of operations, so he wouldn’t detect them. The whole team was sitting on Dale’s “go.”

“Let’s move,” he said.

“But we haven’t spotted Baxter yet,” Jimmy said.

Dale knew Baxter had a plan. But what was it? “I know and I don’t like it. Let’s proceed with caution, but remain out of sight. Gradually tighten our surveillance circle.”

“If we move, Baxter will see us.”

He slammed his fist against the dashboard. “Okay, let’s wait. But the first sign of Baxter and we’re gone.”

Dale felt a sharp pain in his chest when the radio squawked again.

“Target B located and identified,” came over the radio.

Jimmy smiled. “Baxter’s taking the bait.”

Dale opened his cell phone and grabbed the door handle when the same voice returned. “We lost him.”

“What?” He grabbed the radio. “Team leader, repeat.”