The Dying Time (Book 1): Impact Read online

  Chapter 5: The Mugging

  Denver

  Shark Cassidy and his partner, Skull, both sported poorly done jail house tattoos of spider webs, daggers and other creepy crap, mean streaks, foul tempers and a morbid fear of their boss Viper. Where they differed was Shark had a full head of dreadlocked hair and a relatively straight nose, whereas Skull, as his name implied, bore a shaved head and a squashed nose that looked like it had repeatedly encountered a ball bat.

  Being professional muggers they surveyed the night-owls moving along Larimer Street, looking for prey. Shark snorted as a woman scurried by, head down, oblivious. She might as well wear a neon sign that said, “Victim!”

  He was tempted to take her, even though she looked like poor pickings. It was getting late and the after-dinner crowds had thinned out. But just then Skull nudged him and pointed to a foursome laughing their way along the street.

  Normally, the two muggers picked on singles or couples, but these two couples were whitebread, never any trouble. In fact, the tall guy looked vaguely familiar, like maybe Shark had seen him on the tube. And the women, especially the blonde, were foxes, which added to the fun. He motioned Skull to follow them when they turned east up 17th, and he loped on down to 18th so he could circle around and cut them off. It was going to be a good night.

  The foursome had just finished dinner at Croc’s, where the girls split a Crocobrownie sundae, and were chatting as they walked back to the Brown Palace, catching up with each other's lives.

  “Glad to be home?” Michael Whitebear asked his lifelong friend.

  “You better believe it, Paleface.” Jim Cantrell answered. Since the fifth grade, when they first met, Jim had kidded Michael about being a white Indian. “Besides, what with the tour, the recording contract, and those stupid talk-show spots, I haven't had time to do any song writing, let alone see my honey.” He gave his wife Jill a hug. “And in her delicate condition, I want to be here to keep her from getting too paunchy.”

  “Paunchy!” Jill gave him a playful shove. She was six months pregnant and only “showed” to those who knew how slender the former model kept herself.

  “And if you think women are delicate,” Ellen Whitebear chimed in, “you try having a baby.”

  Jim beat a hasty retreat. No man ever won that argument. He changed the subject. “So, man, how does it feel to have the President calling to ask favors?” Ellen had told him and Jill about The Call at dinner. She was unable to resist the temptation to let Jim know he wasn't the only VIP at the table.

  “Weird, but good, you know?” Michael shrugged.

  Ellen slid her arm around his waist and gave him a squeeze. “Always modest,” she said with a bright smile.

  Jill Cantrell, who knew all too well that lack of privacy was the price of fame, turned to Ellen with eyebrows raised. “You sure you're ready to be married to a celebrity?”

  “Hey, for better or worse...” Ellen's voice faded along with her smile as she saw the black man step around the corner and bring out a gun.

  The first part of the mugger's ambush went as planned. They achieved surprise. Guns flashing, Shark and Skull shoved the four into a trash-choked alley.

  “Look, you can have the money. Just don't hurt us, okay?” Jim said, holding out his wallet.

  Shark snatched the billfold and slammed his 9mm Beretta against Jim's head, knocking him to the ground. Anything Shark hated it was a whiney whitey.

  “You think this ‘bout money, honky? You wrong. This ‘bout power.” He waved the gun in their faces. “I got this, I got the power. This let me take yo money an’ anything else I want.” He stroked Ellen's cheek with the gun barrel. “Right, Sweetcakes?”

  Michael tensed, but froze as Skull jammed a pistol into his side. Yellow flames danced dangerously in his normally warm, brown eyes.

  “Oh, my! Cat-eyes don't like it when I touch his woman.” Shark smiled like a Pirhana and tapped Michael on the bridge of the nose with his Beretta. “Cat-eyes, you don't want to die, get down on yo knees an’ beg me to fuck Sweetcakes here.” Shark's groin stirred, as much from the jolt he got humiliating and hurting his victims as from the rape to come.

  Shark's free hand raised Ellen's skirt and groped her while he aimed the Beretta between Michael's eyes.

  But “Sweetcakes,” seeing her man's eyes flash gold and fearing more for him than herself, punched Shark hard in the throat and threw herself on his gun-arm, biting his hand as her weight pulled him off balance and they fell.

  Michael spun, forearm knocking Skull's pistol aside, and drove a vicious blow up under the man's sternum.

  “Urk!” Skull gasped and stumbled back a step. Michael plucked the man's Glock from nerveless fingers and smashed it into Skull's temple dropping the man like a sack of cement.

  Michael whipped around and took one swift step, planting his black wingtip on Shark's bruised throat, bending over, shoving the Glock into the choking man's mouth.

  Shark's pupils dilated and he froze. Ellen scrambled to her feet, Shark’s Beretta in her hand.

  One glance into Michael's cat-yellow eyes and Shark's heart almost stopped. Pure death stared at him. How the hell had this happened? Well-dressed white dudes weren't supposed to be bad.

  “You okay, sweety?” Michael's deathlike whisper told Ellen how far gone he was, and she knew she had to get him back quickly.

  “Honey? Please don't. I'm all right.”

  Michael trembled with the effort of not pulling the trigger while Sharks eyes grew wider and wider and his lips purpled. Finally, Michael jerked the pistol out of Shark's mouth, breaking an incisor. He stepped back, removing his foot from Shark’s throat, letting the man breathe.

  “Thanks, Honey,” Ellen said, then, very deliberately, took two steps forward and stomped Shark's unprotected crotch.

  He blurted a strangled squeal and blacked out.

  “That was for pawing me, you son-of-a-bitch.” Ellen shook as she leaned into Michael's two-arm hug and whispered, “Man-of-mine? Remember when you wanted to teach me how to use a gun and I wouldn't let you?”

  Michael nodded, stroking her hair gently.

  “I'm ready now.”

  Jill was helping Jim to his feet, stunned expressions on both their faces. Blood oozed down the side of Jim's head, almost covering his ear, dripping onto his Armani silk jacket. He steadied himself and looked at the unconscious muggers. A sickly grin appeared on his face.

  “I see you haven't lost your touch,” he said. He and Michael had been on the same fire team in the war.

  “If you two’ll call the cops, Ellen and I will wait here for them,” Michael said.

  Jill thought fast. “Do we have too?”

  Jim caught on immediately. “Let'em go. No real harm done except to them.” Michael started to object, but Jim cut him off. “This headache is nothing compared to what we'll go through if the press gets wind of this.”

  Ellen shook her head. “If we let them go, they'll be mugging someone else tomorrow night.”

  “She's right, Jim,” Michael added.

  “C'mon, man,” Jim pleaded. “What are we going to charge them with? What can we prove?” He pointed to his head. “Simple assault? Assault with a deadly weapon? Way the system works, they'll be out mugging by tomorrow night anyhow.”

  “You know Jim and I haven't had much time together the past several months,” Jill said. “If the press gets wind of this there'll be TV crews shoving cameras in our faces for weeks. It'll be worse than that time Jim met my sister Irene for lunch and the tabloids published photos of his ‘scandalous affair.’ Please?”

  Ellen was weakening. “I can see the headline now, Michael. Troubled Land Band Leader Mugs Muggers.” She gave her man a sad look. “And the way gangster blacks play the victim game anymore, we'll be lucky if it's not us up on charges.”

  Michael knew when he was licked. With a disgusted shrug he retrieved Jim's wallet, and frisked Shark and Skull, coming up with a pair of switchblades, a .25 auto, and a set of
brass knuckles.

  “You really want to turn this scum loose?” He gave it one last try.

  “I know it doesn't set well, man, but you haven't been hounded like we have,” Jim explained.

  “All I know, is we're making a mistake,” Michael snapped. “Society’s in one hell of a fix when guilty men aren't prosecuted because their victims will be harassed. Now, come on. We have to get you to a doctor.”

  Shark lay still, groin throbbing, feigning unconsciousness and seething with hatred, as the four walked away. Troubled Land Band? Jim Cantrell! Shit! That's why the dude looked familiar. But what Shark wanted was cat-eye's name. That honky had payback comin'. He sucked his hand, where Ellen bit him. The blonde bitch too. Then a way to profit occurred to him. If Cantrell didn't want publicity, maybe he'd pay to avoid it?

  And after the payoff, Shark decided, he'd sell the story to The Star. No, he backed up a step, remembering his place, first, he'd tell Viper.

  *

  Provo

  Betty pulled her first loaf of bread out of her All American Sun Oven and placed it on a rack on their screened in back porch to cool. She was using the solar oven because her kitchen was so hot from pressure canning all morning.

  She looked at the piles of zucchini and Blue Lake green beans and sighed. She still had at least thirty quarts to put up and, not for the first time, wished she’d sprung for the All American 941 model pressure cooker which held nineteen quarts at a time instead of the 921 she’d got that only held seven.

  But, she wasn’t a weightlifter so how would she hoist that 941 when it was full?

  Normally her neighbor, Fern Cummins, and her daughter, Cheryl, helped with her canning--as she did when they were at it, but today Fern was laid up with bad cramps and Cheryl was baby sitting for another family.

  Betty wiped her hands on a white chef’s apron and got back to work, deciding that, after she finished this batch she was going to get one of those Masterbuilt propane turkey cookers and do all her canning outdoors.

  *

  Hollywood

  Lola MaDonna stepped into her dressing room and flopped into a chair in front of the mirror. Fourteen hours of shooting for the sixth, or was it the seventh straight day. Her legs were sore, her back ached, her neck popped every time she turned her head and her eyes! God! With bags like that she didn’t need luggage.

  She unbuttoned her blouse and heaved a sigh of relief as she unsnapped her bra. Instantly her backache eased now that the fastener wasn’t pressing against her spine.

  She tossed it in a hamper. Bra! More like a harness. Still, she knew she shouldn’t complain. Her oversized breasts had led to her first break in film. And…she hated to admit it, they, along with her violet eyes and fiery red hair, were the main source of her continued appeal. Whatever pays the bills.

  She grabbed her creams and removed any makeup Will had missed then applied her street face. She had just re-buttoned her blouse and grabbed her car keys when she noticed the flowers.

  Two-dozen bright red, long-stem roses set in a gold-trimmed Lenox China vase. Her smile changed from tired to interested. She liked Lenox. The card was embossed silk. It read like a haiku:

  Talent

  Beauty

  Winged Mating of Eagles

  It was signed simply: Joseph Scarlatti. No phone number. No “from a secret admirer.” No hint that she should be able to place a face to the name. Intriguing, but she received anonymous gifts from men all the time. Still, the touch of class had lifted her spirits.

  The next evening saw another two-dozen roses in another Lenox China vase, and a card of embossed gold leaf. The card read, “Mr. Joseph Scarlatti requests the pleasure of your company over dinner at a time and place suiting your convenience.” This time there was a phone number.

  She smiled, picturing him tall, dark, handsome and romantic. An Italian Prince or Count, certainly a gentleman. She reached for the phone, deciding on the spur of the moment to grant Joseph Scarlatti’s request.

  She was right about him being tall.

  Chapter 6: The Reporter

  Washington, DC

  “No comment,” Farley Moffat said and hung up.

  Monica Helms, Washington correspondent for the American Broadcasting Network, stared at the disconnected phone in her hand and knew something was up. Late night White House meetings, a flurry of activity at the Pentagon, mysterious convoys, the President canceling photo ops--it all added up to a story, if she could find out what was going on.

  She hung up the phone and studied her carefully lacquered nails--hot pink to match her formfitting business suit. Fair skin, long, jet-black hair, a deceptively angelic face, green eyes, and a figure-eight shape completed a package that mesmerized any man who wasn't blind or gay.

  Monica had used her appearance to advantage her first few years in Washington, but by now everyone knew that a piercing sharp brain lurked behind that dazzling exterior. “The prettiest shark in the sea,” one disgruntled Senator labeled her.

  Opening her iPhone address book, she began paging through her list of contacts. Somebody had to know what was happening.

  She stopped at the listing for Donna Markwright, shook her head slightly as if realizing this would go nowhere, and placed the call.

  After three rings she heard, “Monica darling! How is my favorite niece? Is Lucy doing well?”

  Donna and her sister Lucy were named for Donna Reed and Lucille Ball. Lucy had broken her leg three week ago and had her good and bad days.

  “Mom is fine, Aunt Donna. I was wondering if you could tell me what’s--”

  “Monica,” Donna interrupted. “You know I won’t leak anything the President doesn’t want leaked.”

  “So does he want anything leaked?” Monica asked.

  “It was lovely hearing from you dear.”

  Monica’s lips twitched in a small smile. Just what she’d expected. Maybe she should call Carl. No! She wasn't going to open that old wound. Maybe she should haul out a camera crew and practice a little ambush journalism.

  Her iPhone rang.

  “Helms,” she answered, always the professional.

  “Say pretty lady. Why don't you and me paint the town red tonight.”

  Speak of the Devil. She looked around to see if anyone was close enough to overhear, but no one was in earshot.

  “Carl?” Her heart skipped a beat.

  “The one and only. Are you free tonight?”

  She read between the lines. He wouldn't call her unless it was important, and his light tone suggested he didn't trust her phone line.

  “Since when was I ever free?”

  He laughed and said, “Dinner then. Same time, same place.”

  Five minutes later, back at the White House, Farley Moffat told the President that, “We might have a problem.”

  *

  Club 7, 10 p.m.

  Carl gasped when he saw her.

  Candlelight danced in Monica's jade green eyes and the tip of her tongue slid sensuously along Carl’s lips as she greeted him with a kiss. Her soft white dress, cut well above the knee, flowed over her body, hugging every delightful curve and contrasted perfectly with her indigo black hair. Diamonds he had given her sparkled from her ears.

  She was giving him the full treatment. This, mister, is what you’ve been missing.

  His heart clogged his throat, while lower down another part of him reacted strongly. He swallowed hard, hugged her to him and whispered into her ear.

  “Act normally. We’ll talk when we dance.”

  “Well hello, Mister Romance,” she answered, as they pulled apart. Her smile turned brittle.

  He held her chair and said, “When you hear what I have to say, you'll understand.”

  She looked into his hazel eyes and saw a collage of emotions, sorrow, concern, a touch of fear, and, her heart skipped a beat, something warm. Her smile brightened. Whatever happened tonight, it would be open and honest, and those were ground rules she could live with.

  Surrep
titious cameras wielded by the surveillance team Farley had assigned to her that very afternoon recorded their every move. The music was too loud for them to get audio.

  On the dance floor, Carl warned her that what he was about to say wasn't for publication...yet. Still later, on the tousled sheets of a bed at the Watergate he told her the rest.

  “An asteroid? Operation Genesis?” Monica couldn't believe it. “Extinction, chaos and terror?”

  “The very same,” Carl said with a satisfied, post-coital sigh.

  “God!” She kissed his cheek. “Somebody up there must be really steamed at us.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me...but at least we have a chance to stop it.”

  “How long are the odds?” she asked.

  “Good enough for us to bet our lives on them,” he replied.

  She shuddered as violent images erupted in her imagination, and snuggled into Carl's arms for comfort.

  They talked through the night, Carl sharing the apocalyptic nightmares that had been brewing inside him since Harry Garrison’s phone call, Monica holding him, stroking his head, asking reporter questions, while deep down inside she couldn’t quite believe what he was telling her.

  The next morning, over coffee, she asked, “So what are we doing about it?”

  “Everything we can,” he replied.

  “I don’t know if that’s good enough, Carl. People have to be warned, especially those on the coasts.”

  “I agree,” he said. “But it’s too soon for that. If we made the announcement now the resulting panic could sabotage our attempts to prevent this disaster. It would devastate the country, the world. We need time to prepare shelters in the caves of Tennessee, Missouri, New Mexico and Arkansas; time to find safe zones for everyone else where we can build and stock refugee camps.”

  “But, Carl,” she began.

  “Monica, thousands, maybe tens of thousands, could die before their time if we warn them too soon. Also, and please think about this, we have no place for them to go. If everyone flees the coasts to the interior before we’re ready for them it will lessen the chance of survival of those already inland. And that’s a slim enough chance already.”