by Mike Bogin
“We’re losing national sponsors,” Thumbs told him again, harping on the same theme every single day. “Marketing can’t keep sewing together this quilt of local sponsors to fill the gap!”
Elliot resisted, but he knew Thumbs’ fears about bottom-line realities were real. “Marketing staffs get paid on commission, Emerson. If they can’t sell the product, then we don’t make money. Ratings don’t mean anything with sponsors bailing! Enough! This is killing the bottom line.”
EE and Thumbs, with their writers, were busy reviewing the remaining programming and plugging in ad spots when their intern entered the studio ahead of a voluptuous blonde who announced herself as “Gina, the Holistic Adult Entertainer.”
EE glanced up to Gina and returned to the program notes without paying much attention.
“Are you Emerson Elliot?” she asked seductively.
Emerson glanced up past her tits, wondering what kind of brain-dead double lump of silicone would come in not knowing who he was.
“Mr. Elliot?”
“What?” EE snapped back at her.
From behind her back, she pulled out a white, legal-sized envelope. “You have been served.”
“Fuck you!” EE shouted, staying away from the envelope. “Jeffrey, if you let this bitch in here, your ass is fired!” he screeched at the intern.
The lawsuit, naming Elliot as the Defendant, was filed for an undisclosed sum for “actively promoting violence and threatening public safety.” Elliot struggled to recall what the heck they were even talking about. After a long pause, he remembered that Montclair Police had killed a homeless guy, a vet.
The families of the injured cops. They were suing him.
Thumbs quickly searched the news reports. One of the Montclair PD officers had suffered a severe brain injury in the golf course explosion. Another officer was in a full-body cast after fracturing multiple vertebrae. Nerve trauma…nobody could determine his prognosis. The officers and families had named Elliot as a “primary contributor.”
“Anybody ever heard of the First Amendment?” Elliot screamed. “Get the lawyer,” he shouted at Thumbs.
“I wouldn’t count on a First Amendment defense,” their in-house attorney told Elliot. “For-profit commentary holds the potential for civil liability here. They have a case. Thin one, maybe, but it will be expensive to defend, Emerson. Our general coverage caps at a million dollars. This can blow through that threshold in a heartbeat.
Emerson, my bailiwick is the FCC and arguing with the family values nutcases. These police officers may legitimately need lifelong medical care. Exposure could reach tens of millions.
Get yourself the best experts in constitutional law that you can buy. Maybe they get this dismissed on constitutionality. If it goes past the first round, they’ll bring in personal injury defense representation. That will mean hiring investigators and medical experts. There will need actuaries and insurance consultants and on and on. It all costs money. My guess is you better set aside a half-million dollars just to start. That much could go straight into retainers.”
Tens of millions? A half-million just to get started? Shoot ’em in the fucking head.
* * * * *
Since the river, Major Gonzalez had been living, eating, and breathing Jonathan Spencer. This was personal. Ed Gonzalez had never been good at laughing at himself; MSJS had made him look like a fool.
Special Agent Turner hadn’t bought the story that their presence at the river had been a coincidence. There was also the matter of forty to fifty thousand dollars in damages to rented motor craft.
“Our little side show is on the main stage,” Gonzalez told Al. “There’s going to be internal surveillance over everything we say or do.”
Al was thinking along similar lines. The phones, the computers and the offices were FBI-owned and none were exempt from internal monitoring.
“Going forward, we need to cloak everything we say and do. We meet at the apartment. We’re turning off cell phones. I have the means to sweep for planted listening devices.”
Compared with what he was about to propose, the mess in the apartment was the least of his concerns.
He knew that they could never get authorization. Too many conflicting interests.
“Whatever we do going forward will be a rogue operation, major. Think about it.”
“I don’t need to think about it. I’m in.”
The four foot-by-four foot entry area and all along the hallway was stacked with boxes of magazines destined for the garbage collectors. More magazines, many dating back to the Seventies, were piled atop the kitchen counters. Trudy’s bedroom door was open. No bed, no dresser. Still more boxes.
Gonzalez brought his ATL with him, the same sniper who had been aboard the Arcadia during the firefight. Owen and Tremaine rounded out the group.
“From a behavioral standpoint,” Al began, “the shooter is all about consistency. The I Kill Rich People mailing, the target precision, the fact that he has gone to considerable effort not to harm anyone other than his rich targets, proven by the fact that we’re all here and breathing; these data points are significant. It might be going too far to say that he wants to be liked, but certainly he holds himself to a strict standard. This is a warrior. He lives by a code of honor.” The Behavioral Analysis Unit report described classic patterns completely consistent for a career military man.
“I’m sorry,” Owen countered, “but when you kill people, you forfeit the right to ask for anything. This isn’t complicated. Killers are bad guys. Fuck ’em.”
“History can vilify anyone,” Al maintained. “In 44 BC, conspirators amongst the Roman Senate stabbed Julius Caesar twenty-three times, killing Caesar because Caesar promised a farmstead to every retired Roman soldier who served Rome. That was a direct challenge to the rich for having so much more than their fair share. There are some parallels today. We all get taught that the senators killed Caesar to protect democracy in the Greek tradition by slaying the tyrant. But that was never the truth. History gets written by the winners.”
Owen shook his head. “Are we really sitting around talking about Julius Caesar?” he griped. What the hell?
Major Gonzalez found himself agreeing with Owen. “Nobody is going to debate our moral mathematics, Al,” the major affirmed. “His mission is to take out specific targets; ours is to drop him stone-cold. If we had to wait and debate, I wouldn’t be here. I had more than my lifetime share of those politics. I’ve seen that hand-wringing debate and delay wreck good operations too many times.
Open kill orders are never issued domestically. Never. Not officially. Nobody will step up to put their name to the order, so pre-authorization does not exist, not on U.S. soil. So nobody up the chain of command gets wind of this operation.
When we get the shot, we take him down. That’s it. That’s the reason I’m here.
Detectives,” Major Gonzalez told Owen and Tremaine, “Think these things through and get right with yourselves. This is serious. You don’t want to wonder about this in the middle of the night two years from now. You make this happen, it’s on you. Me, my men, we’re not issuing the orders.
Guys, history can turn on you. You can be a hero today, but down the line you don’t know who will be calling you the bad guys.”
This time Al stepped in, redirecting them back on task.
“We know now that he sourced targets from event calendars on the web. The river proved that. Thanks to Spencer’s actions, there are next to no elite events at all. No more Whack-a-Mole for him. The rich are in hiding. Getting to them is tough. So his target options have dwindled.”
“Since the river, he’s going to be more careful than ever,” Gonzalez observed.
“Exactly,” Al agreed. “He’s going to be wary, but if we place the right announcement on these websites, it has to get
his attention. We need to employ every nuance, every element that will help us bait that trap. We have to attract Jonathan Spencer without tipping our hand.
Major. on the river your men competed on his playing field. He chose the spot, the timing. He had the upper hand. Not this time. This time we pick the place, the timing, and the methods.”
“Home-field advantage,” Tremaine noted aloud.
“No more trying to fire two-hundred meters away off rocking boat decks,” Gonzalez added. “First, we need a credible venue. I need enough isolation that I can set this up under control.”
“Major, first we need to attract Spencer,” Al postulated. “That isolation you say you need is entirely meaningless if he won’t show up.”
“I’m thinking he needs to be challenged,” Owen offered. “Just look at what he has done up to now. Like it or not, the dude has style. But he also needs to think he has the capacity to get out afterward. He isn’t a suicide bomber.”
“You’re getting inside his head,” Gonzalez complimented.
“A sports stadium,” Owen continued. “The Meadowlands, Yankee Stadium, Shea. Big open parking lots so once he’s inside we can shut it down tight.”
“Even when the teams aren’t playing, they’re always having fancy events at those places,” Tremaine agreed, jumping in and running the idea out further. “Luxury boxes, on-site caterers. Lots of people coming and going. One more person might think he could be inconspicuous.”
Gonzalez considered the venues. Open visuals were good, but stadiums were full of blind spots. He lacked the manpower to blanket anything so big.
“Get me the killing ground,” he decided finally. “I’ll take him down.”
It was imperfect, but still better than any other option they had.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Shea. Citi Field. Inside the Five Boroughs, not Jersey. Forget Jersey. Yankee Stadium was too close to outside buildings, parks. Better cooperation at Citi, too. Both the owners and their wives had been at Morris Levy’s party. They were vested.
Dansk and Turner were left in the dark. Owen’s plan was to alert Dansk and bring on NYPD support when it was too late for her to play any role in the mission. She could have the credit, all of it, but afterward.
When it was all over, it would play as FBI assets supporting NYPD, and NYPD supporting FBI. Command would see through it, but the media would eat it up and when everyone thinks you’re a hero, you don’t want to rock the boat.
“No events at Citi on the 6th, Thursday, ahead of a three game home stand, Mets against the Atlanta Braves on the 7th, 8th, 9th,” Owen reiterated for Tremaine, Al, and Gonzalez. That was the window they needed. Venue and dates lined up. But reality hit Gonzalez in the face.
“Shea has four seating levels plus the roof, with distances up to four hundred meters from one side of the roof to the other. Do you know what goes into a four-hundred-meter shot across a stadium? We need fixed positions just to begin. I have eleven snipers available to me in this region. I’ll need three times that number to cover the stadium. I can’t just bring up two dozen men from other regions without detailing the operation. That is way beyond my authority. It’s hard enough to keep this under wraps just here.”
“We don’t need to cover the whole stadium,” Al explained, pulling up the stadium map. “Look at the luxury suites. Everything will be concentrated here, here, and here.” Three-dimensional views depicted the luxury suites relative to the entire stadium. The luxury suites had a clear view to the field. From the stands, only twenty-five to thirty percent of the seating on the middle and upper tiers could view the fronts of the suites.
The logic registered, but the major didn’t trust computer modeling. “This all looks good on paper, but it won’t wash in practice. I rely on computerized graphics and I’ll be getting men killed.”
“But isolating his targets to the luxury suites narrows the coverage, right?” Al confirmed. “And narrowing the coverage area leverages your squad strength.”
Gonzalez shook his head. Al’s easy use of jargon made him uncomfortable. But he conceded the point. Isolating Spencer’s target, the luxury suites, would drive Spencer to limited positions.
“If I can fix weapons behind cover here, here, and here,” Gonzalez showed them, “we’ll get multiple weapons on each position he can take.”
Eyes in the skies. What Gonzalez really wished for was a drone. Having a combat drone could pipe macro views and close-scanning straight into their tablets just like tactical operations in a military theater.
“All this is fine in theory, but I need to get on-site with my team. See the entire stadium. Feel it. We can’t afford to have this guy find his way behind another A/C grate or behind a cement column or in any of a hundred other spots. What if someone inside the luxury suites actually gets killed?”
“Not possible,” Al responded. “The suites are fronted with soundproof 3/4-inch thick laminated glass. The people inside them will be police officers.”
Owen and Tremaine looked puzzled. “How do you expect to make that happen without the word getting around?” Tremaine asked.
“We are going to bring along a precinct,” Al suggested. “Limousines, luxury suites, meet the Mets, baseball signings, the works. All in street clothes. Mets honor New York’s finest.
We need people in those boxes. Nobody will put them into real danger and they won’t even know what is happening until it is all over. The NYPD officers will be getting free beer and a chance to socialize with the Mets.”
Tremaine had to question the proposal. “You’re going to play a whole precinct? That’s your plan? Have you ever seen a roomful of NYPD police having fun? A room full of partying cops doesn’t exactly look like a night of Verdi at the Met.”
“By the time the Precinct shows up, everything will be over,” Al argued. “We just need to set up full limousines coming inside the stadium. The major’s men will be deployed in positions inside the stadium before the shooter gets an opportunity to scout anything. We’ll have cameras on every gate, every entrance, and every ramp.
Spencer will be down before he ever takes aim on anything.”
Owen looked to Gonzalez, who ran his palm across the top of his close-cropped scalp but reserved his judgment. “I’ll sign off on this only after my team gets a full day on-site. I’d prefer two.”
No mission was ever a go until the available facts were understood. Gonzalez was resolved to identify every variable and a work-around for each one.
“I want to see that entire third level corridor secure, along with every inch along the way from the limousines to the suites. We already know about an open entry, two elevators, and the hallway outside the suites. Men’s room. Women’s bathroom. I have myself and eleven men. I’ll sign off when I’m certain that we have the manpower and the firepower to get it done.”
“Plus the two of us,” Owen insisted. “Don’t act like we’re not in this room. We’ve been in this from the beginning, Major. We’re seeing this to the end. Nobody is putting NYPD up for bait and shutting us out of this operation!”
The major drew in a deep breath, leaving Al to jump in ahead of the lecture about reality and Jonathan Spencer. They had all heard that before. They had all been at the river.
“Bull and Cullen will be inside with the Precinct, major, in case of any penetration through your coverage. You’re free to focus on your men and their deployment. Agreed?”
* * * * *
Across the following day and a half, Gonzalez ran two tandem teams through the stadium. Alpha Team was unified by the goal of evening the score. The elite snipers had been embarrassed by the tough schooling Spencer gave them on the river.
Alpha would run as rovers, moving in the background like free safeties in a defensive backfield, with each man carrying a Heckler & Koch MP5 9mm submachine gun. Short barrel, qu
ick response, deadly in close action. Team Barracuda would be in fixed positions lined up to double fire on every location offering targeting on the luxury suites. Six and six, with TL/ATL and full security.
Nobody was waiting on orders. Authorization to fire was firm straight from the moment of deployment.
Each of the six fixed-positions would have M110s set on bi-pods and fronted by a 30-inch by 30-inch Mets sign. Concealed cameras tied to six-inch by four-inch LED screens would be put to use for spotting their target. These were synced to their sniper rifles. From fixed-position, they could sight and fire across three hundred meters without ever offering any physical exposure. Barracuda Team would be virtually invisible.
Barracuda security ran laser sweeps to map blind spots greater than sixteen inches square, while Team Leaders and Assistant Team Leaders keyed on Spencer.
Al stole still images and video clips from other websites to create the bait: “The Financial Services Industry Charities” and “The Night When Wall Street Gives Back.” Al’s fingers moved across his keyboard like a twenty-year-old computer genius. With the live clips and photos plus graphics he pulled from Adobe software, Al created an event with four years of background history, external links to Wikipedia, and entertainment guides. The site had sponsors (with each sponsor’s recognized logo), links to multiple real charities that the event would support, and even a PayPal button for online ticket purchases with tiered pricing for Supporters/Gold Members/Platinum Members/Diamond Patrons. Individual ticket prices started at $2,000 for Supporters. Whole tables of 10 for Diamond Patrons at $50,000. Dinner and Live Auction 8 to 10. Live music and dancing through midnight.
