Dead Man's Hand

by Luke Murphy

  Watters was silent.

  “We’ve held up our end by agreeing to do it your way,” Dale said. “There’s still a warrant out for your arrest and I can’t get it overturned just yet. But my boss has agreed to give us some leeway and time to execute the plan. Now I need something from you.”

  “I’ll help. But I want something in return.”

  Dale signaled to the sergeant to pick up another phone and listen in. “What do you want?”

  “When this is over, you’ll owe me. I don’t trust witness protection programs, but you can do a couple of things to get me started on a new life.”

  Dale turned to the sergeant, who nodded. “Okay.”

  “Good,” Watters said. “Now for what you want to know. Earlier this year, Pitt told me that Sanders had put a substantial bid in for Doug Grant’s casino. He declined the offer, which infuriated Sanders. It’s my belief that Sanders’ greed led him to commit these murders.”

  “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.”

  “Baxter has disappeared, sir.”

  Dale looked at Jimmy, who rolled his eyes.

  “Baxter has breached the perimeter. They can’t see anything through the rain, Dale.”

  “Bullshit! Baxter is not a ghost.”

  “No, he’s just good at that part.” Jimmy hesitated before adding, “You need to make a decision.”

  “I know.” He checked his gun. “Do we go in and blow our cover, or do we wait and put Watters’ life at risk? Check your weapon. Baxter is not going to give himself up.”

  Calvin could at least exhale when Rachel was driven away and her safety was confirmed. He hadn’t heard from Dayton, who was supposed to call when Baxter had been spotted. He’d seen no sign of the killer through his monitors until a motion sensor picked up movement.

  He knew Baxter was coming.

  He shut off the computer monitor in case the light gave him away. Then he slipped on night-vision goggles and positioned himself behind the computer room door. The door was slotted so he could shoot outward, but low enough to make an incoming shot difficult.

  He heard the click of the side door and Baxter stepped through the doorway, equipped with a Beretta 92FS Compact M and night goggles.

  Calvin waited as Baxter neared, not risking a shot. He only wanted to disable with a shot to the leg.

  When Baxter was within range, Calvin clicked back and aimed low. As he went to pull the trigger, his two-way radio said, “Baxter is in the house!”

  Calvin looked down for half a second and consecutive, multiple shots ricocheted off the front of the door, one through the narrow metal slot. One inch to the left and Calvin’s head would have exploded.

  When he peeked back through the slot, Baxter was gone.

  This killer was good and Calvin only had a few minutes before the cops rushed the house.

  Now Baxter knew this was a trap. He’d be waiting to pick off cops and escape. It would be a firing zone.

  Calvin had to get Baxter first and his odds were low. He grabbed his .45 and checked the single action to make sure he had all eight rounds. Easing open the door, he poked his gun and head through the doorway, slipped in and sidestepped his way through the front room. He heard footsteps upstairs.

  He took the steps one at a time, thankful the old, worn-down floorboards didn’t creak. When he reached the top and stuck his head up over the last step, two bullets flew past and smashed the wall.

  He couldn’t risk a wild, blind shot that might kill Baxter. Calvin had to evade him until that one perfect shot.

  With a deep breath, he launched himself off the top step and into the next room. Three more bullets hit the wall beside him as he dove head first, arms extended to break his fall.

  Calvin had counted eight shots fired by Baxter. Chances were he had to reload his Beretta or at least pull a second weapon. That meant seconds to reach him.

  Calvin stayed along the floor, crawling the hallway. When he reached the end, he rose and leaned against the wall outside the room where the bullets had come from. He couldn’t hear anything, only his own heavy breathing.

  He pivoted and extended his arm into the room. As he inched inside, he was too late to spot Baxter, who kicked Calvin’s arm and jolted his weapon to the floor.

  Before Calvin could react, Baxter caught him flush on the jaw with hard metal, dislodging the goggles. Calvin was stunned for a moment, but he was able to shake that off before receiving another blow from the butt of Baxter’s pistol to the bridge of his nose. He instinctively reached for his nose as his eyes watered.

  The taste of warm, metallic blood brought him back to his football days. Adrenaline kicked in—no thinking. He heard a new clip snap into the gun pointed at his head.

  From the dark, he heard, “Goodbye, Calvin Watters.”

  But Calvin swung his body. The bullet hit his right shoulder, where the sleeveless bulletproof vest did not cover, and pain erupted. He rolled into Baxter, dropping the hit man to the floor. Calvin gritted his teeth, got into a three-point stance and exploded off his feet, barreling into Baxter’s midsection.

  He heard the gun hit the floor, followed by Baxter’s night goggles. Now both men were blind. Feeling in the dark, Calvin landed a solid punch to Baxter’s throat and the two men wrestled.

  Baxter went after Calvin’s bad knee with a swinging kick but missed.

  Then the lights to the entire workshop came on.

  For the first time they looked at each other and both saw their guns at the same time. Both men dove for their weapon.

  Calvin, half a second faster, aimed and fired. The bullet hit with precision where he had wanted it to—mid-upper thigh—but hit a major artery and exploded, blowing Baxter’s leg off at the femur bone. Enormous clumps of thigh, blood and tissue hit the walls, ceiling and floor. Baxter fell to the floor, grabbing at the open wound and screaming. But he still attempted to crawl to his weapon.

  Calvin rose to his feet and kicked the weapon away. Baxter stopped squirming and rolled onto his back, staring up into Calvin’s eyes.

  Blood leaked from Baxter’s cut lip when he spoke. “Finish it!” He said, barely audible from the blood and spit in his mouth.

  Baxter rose into a one-knee seated position, moving toward the weapon that hung at Calvin’s side. Baxter pressed his head into the muzzle of the gun.

  “Hold the gun like a man!”

  Calvin nudged the gun against Baxter’s temple. He struggled to stay conscious from the mind-numbing pain. His eyes burned, his nose stung and his shoulder throbbed.

  Then he heard a voice.

  Chapter 38

  “The bullet was a clean in and out.”

  Dale was jolted awake by a soft hand shaking his shoulder. He had fallen asleep in an awkward position, scrunched up, legs hanging over the arm of an open-armed, fully upholstered hospital chair bolted to the floor. A nurse stood over him, holding a clipboard to sign. The Las Vegas cops were picking up Watters’ medical expenses—somehow. There would have to be some accounting magic for that one.

  “No problems?”

  “Nope.”

  Dale got up and wiped sleep from his eyes. He took the pen and signed on the dotted line.

  “Is he awake?”

  “Room 314.”

  He headed down the hall. He paused outside room 314 and stretched, his back muscles were in a tight ball. He opened his cell phone.

  “Jimmy, Watters is awake.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Not yet, I’m just going in now.”

  “I’ve been thinking about this all night. Do you think we did the right thing?”

  “I don’t know. I understood Watters’ logic. He got us Baxter. We would have caught him sooner or later, but Watters took a lot of chances, even if he had his own interests in mind.”

  “Okay. But he’s still a leg breaker too, somebody who has got to enjoy that work. Don’t forget that,” said Jimmy.

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m just leaving the house. Tina cooked me Sunday breakfast.”

  “I’ll meet you back at the office.”

  “What about Rachel?”


  “Tell her Watters is okay. But I think we should keep her where she is. There’s no telling what the pushback might be now that we have Baxter in custody. Whoever hired him could counterattack. She’s safe where she is.”

  Dale hung up.

  He stood outside and looked through the small glass-paned section of the door at Watters lying in the hospital bed. He saw the face of a hero and was all the more grateful that Watters had survived. He hoped that Watters could see some of Dale’s admiration, because saying directly what he thought and felt would only embarrass the man.

  He knew, from what Watters had told him, that he was an expert marksman, but he also knew that Watters had never shot at anything but paper targets.

  In case someone was looking for Baxter, Dale used false names and told the medical staff at the ER to keep Watters’ and Baxter’s admissions quiet.

  After a light rap on the door, he stepped inside. The fetid smell of sanitizer and unwashed bed sheets greeted Dale. Watters’ head had been propped up on two pillows, but his eyes weren’t all the way open.

  “Detective Dayton, I recognize you from the Vegas website.”

  “Calvin Watters.” Dale smiled. “The man with the plan.”

  They shook hands.

  “How long have I been out?”

  “Just the night.” Dale pulled a chair close to the bed. “How do you feel?”

  “Like I got hit by a bus. How’s Rachel?”

  “She’s in a safe house, like we agreed. When you feel up to it, I’ll bring her in, but I don’t think the timing is right, yet.”

  Watters nodded.

  “You scared the hell out of us, Calvin. When we heard the gunshots, we took off in a sprint. I’m glad you had given us the layout of the workshop so I knew where to find the generator, but when you weren’t in the computer room, I thought the worst. When we found you upstairs, it looked like World War III. We were lucky Baxter didn’t die, even with the tourniquet I put on. Thank God we had the paramedics on standby.”

  “Thanks for staying by my side. You weren’t the only one scared.”