The Last Town (Book 2): Preparing For The Dead (2 page)

“Jock!” Meredith said again, her voice louder.

“I said
New
Mexico, not Mexico,” the ticket agent said. “Hearing counts, my limey friend.” He looked away from Sinclair as another customer approached, asking him the same questions Sinclair had. Sinclair was about to have another go at the young man, but a much bigger individual in a cowboy hat stepped in front of him.

“You’re done here, Hollywood,” the man said.

Sinclair glared at the taller man, but allowed Meredith to take his arm and lead him away.

“We need to get out of here,” she said, being the voice of reason she usually was. As they walked away from the gate, joining the rest of the flow already on their way to McCarren International Airport’s baggage claim area, Sinclair saw several people glancing at them. Not because of his celebrity, damn it, but because of Meredith’s beauty. Even though she hadn’t been a supermodel in almost twenty years, her height, poise, tawny blond hair, and the aura of elegance she emanated demanded attention. Not that Sinclair gave a damn—he hadn’t married her for her looks or her mind, but for her family’s money. While Sinclair earned an average of two million dollars per year—nothing to laugh at, considering he had been born to lower-class stock from East Sussex, England—Meredith Thorn was potentially worth hundreds of millions of dollars, thanks to the hard work of her grandfather and father, titans in the New York real estate scene. Meredith’s fortune allowed Sinclair to call the thirty-third floor of 15 Central Park West his principal residence. That he lived in a high floor of the limestone-clad tower known as one of New York’s most prestigious condominiums was a dream he never thought he could realize.

But Meredith was a weary soul, and she liked changes in latitudes. While Sinclair was happy to stay in New York where he hosted his weekly hour-long syndicated television show,
The Sinclair News Hour
, Meredith wanted to travel. It was a pain in Sinclair’s arse, having to leave New York once a month for quick getaways to places like Seattle or Hawaii or Vancouver. It wreaked hell on his broadcasting schedule, but since Meredith had access to the family jet, Sinclair found he could tolerate it. After all, almost nothing beat flying in style in a luxurious Bombardier Global XRS, even if it was just to Canada.

But for this trip to Vegas, the jet hadn’t been available. Sinclair grudgingly allowed himself to be mistreated by the airlines, and for his trouble, he was now ensnared in what appeared to be a complete shutdown of all air travel. There were a couple of silver linings to the situation, however. One was that Meredith owned another condo in Vegas, and the other was that Sinclair was actually scheduled to broadcast from Los Angeles that very night. While not being able to catch a plane to LAX was quite inconvenient, they would be able to drive to the City of Angels in just a few hours.

It took over an hour to get their luggage reclaimed from the grounded jet, and then they had to try and find ground transportation to Meredith’s condo at the Mandarin Oriental. That was another ordeal in and of itself, as Sinclair and Meredith had to compete with thousands of other stranded fliers. Sinclair spent over an hour trying to find a cab or limo or even a bus with little results. It wasn’t until Meredith tried that a vacant cab suddenly appeared, driven by an athletic black man with a smile that seemed to be a yard wide. His grin diminished substantially when Sinclair climbed into the vehicle after Meredith, and when it became clear Sinclair wasn’t just sharing the ride, the driver became downright surly as he drove them back downtown. He also drove more slowly than necessary in a bid to drive up the meter. Sinclair stiffed him on the tip for that.

“So what will we do now?” Meredith asked as they entered the lobby.

“What do you mean? I have to work tonight,” Sinclair said. “I’m due in Los Angeles by five.” He hadn’t been unaware that the world was starting to stumble across a rough patch, and he wanted to take advantage of it to try and pump up his ratings. He was down in almost every major market, and while no one had threatened to not renew their syndication contracts, Sinclair could feel the pressure building. He had decided to shoot a special in Los Angeles, where gun violence was at an all time high. While he was reviled by the NRA and gun-toters of all stripes, Sinclair had a personal hatred for guns and the invariable loss of life they fueled. And all the American nitwits could come up with was they were protected by the Second Amendment of a historical document created by a bunch of wig-wearing insurrectionists. Sinclair had a word for his opposition: Pikers.

“I don’t think it’s safe to go there,” Meredith said. “Things are getting weird now, Jock.” As she spoke, the
pop-pop-pop
of distant gunfire sounded. Sinclair and the doorman standing nearby turned and looked out the lobby windows. There was nothing to be seen other than a FedEx delivery truck sitting in the circular driveway—the taxi was long gone. The driver paused momentarily as he unloaded his vehicle, looking south. The gunfire sounded quite distant, and it ended as quickly as it had begun. Just the same, Sinclair felt a bolt of alarm run through him. Jock Sinclair had no use for guns of any kind, and hearing them in action somewhere in the city came quite close to terrifying him.

“You may be right,” he said to Meredith after a moment, and was surprised to hear his voice was quaver-free, “but I’m not sure Las Vegas is going to be any safer. We should leave. Now.”

“I need to use the bathroom, and then I need to call my parents and let them know,” Meredith told him. “I couldn’t get through on the cell, so I want to go upstairs, Jock.”

“Well, be quick about it,” Sinclair snapped. “I’ll get the car and bring it around. Rafael, help me load the bags when I come back?”

“Sure thing, Mister Sinclair,” said the uniformed doorman.

Sinclair left without thanking him and strode to the door that led to the parking garage. Meredith clucked her tongue, and he broke stride.

“What?” he asked.

“Aren’t you going to see me upstairs?” she asked, a slight, petulant tone in her voice.

Sinclair snorted. “You know the way.”

R
eese had to
admit, the National Guard guys seemed to know what they were doing. As they made it back to the stationhouse with several Guardsmen in the Humvees and the rest on foot, Reese couldn’t help think that he was surrounded by a bunch of bad asses that made even the SWAT guys look like wusses. With their helmets, packs of gear, tactical vests, chest protectors, assault rifles, and even pistols and grenades, the Guardsmen caused quite a stir as they double-timed it back to Hollywood Station.

If nothing else, at least I get to arrive in real man style,
he thought as he alighted from one of the Humvees when it came to a halt in the precinct parking lot.

“Whoa, the Marines have landed,” said the desk sergeant at the front when Reese led the Guard command element inside.

“I take offense at that,” Captain Narvaez, the commander of the Guard unit, said.

“These guys are Army National Guard,” Reese told the sergeant.

“Yeah, I know,” the sergeant responded. “What do you need, Reese?”

“Need to find Pallata and figure out how we’re going to put these guys to use,” Reese said. “Where is she?”

“Command post, in back,” the sergeant said. “How many guys you got with you?”

“Eight right now, with another ninety coming in,” Narvaez said.

“Ninety? Well, shit, what do you guys think this is, Anzio Beach?” the sergeant said, laughing. Reese didn’t get what was so funny, especially since the stationhouse was buzzing with activity. Cops were coming and going, and sirens wailed outside. Citizens were already queued up at the front door, either coming to file complaints or seeking some degree of safety from the deteriorating situation that loomed outside. While Reese hadn’t seen a lot of action just yet, Narvaez had informed him on the short drive from the parking garage on Ivar Street that the city was beginning to unravel. He’d even shown him some pictures he’d taken from the Black Hawk that had transported them from Griffith Park to the top level of the parking garage. Most had shown fires and terrified Los Angelinos trying to get out of the city. All the major freeways were already clogged up, and the bigger surface streets were, as well. Reese didn’t know how the LAPD was going to be able to get anything done.

“Maybe you should come with me, and leave the rest of your guys here,” Reese said to Narvaez.

“I’d like to bring Plosser with me,” the captain said. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a tall man with broad shoulders and a dull expression on his face. The man’s insignia had a lot of chevrons on it, but Reese didn’t know shit about Army ranks, as he had never served in the military. “He’s my senior NCO, we’re kind of joined at the hip.”

“Yeah, okay,” Reese said. He looked at one of the uniformed patrolmen who had accompanied him to the parking garage to link up with the Guardsmen. “Bates, you’re ex-military, right?”

LAPD Patrol Sergeant Bates was almost as tall as Narvaez’s NCO, and he had the same kind of bland look to him. Reese knew it was an act—in real life, Bates was a cut-up who could have been a stand-up comic if he hadn’t already been a committed cop.

“Yeah, Army,” Bates said.

“You stay here with the troops, then. Try and, uh, liaise with them or something, while me, Captain Narvaez, and Sergeant Plosser go meet with Pallata.”

“That’s First Sergeant Plosser, sir,” Plosser said.

Reese spread his hands. “Hey, whatever.” He looked at the rest of the soldiers, standing in the middle of the lobby like an island of utility uniforms. “You guys just vamp for a bit, but do what Bates tells you. Keep your weapons slung, you’re in a police department precinct headquarters, and having guys standing around with guns makes people nervous.”

“Hell, we let
you
do it, Reese,” the sergeant behind the desk said as he reached over to answer a ringing phone. “Tell Bullet Nips we say hello,” he added before he snatched up the phone and brought the handset to his ear. Bullet Nips was Captain Miriam Pallata’s nickname, on account that one of the cops had come across her Facebook page and found a photo of her in a wet bikini. Even though Reese tried to steer clear of ridiculing senior officers, he had seen the photo, and the nickname was apt. Pallata had nipples the size of .45 rounds.

“All right, all right, enough of this bullshit. Let’s go, Captain. You guys will need to leave your weapons out here, can’t bring them with you to where we’re going.”

“Uh, not a problem,” Narvaez said, though Reese understood it was, in fact, a problem. Just the same, both he and Plosser handed their assault rifles and pistols to some of their teammates.

“Good to go,” Narvaez said.

“The vests,” the sergeant said. “Can’t go walking around with magazines of ammunition strapped to your chests, gents.”

Narvaez and Plosser exchanged glances. The first sergeant shrugged and removed his tactical vest, handing it off to one of the men. Narvaez did the same.

Reese walked toward a steel door that the desk sergeant buzzed open for him. He led Narvaez and Plosser through it and heard it slam closed behind them as they walked down the corridor. The cops in the area all looked at the two soldiers with suspicious eyes—the LAPD wasn’t used to having troops roaming the halls wearing combat gear, even if there were no weapons present—and Reese found himself repeating, “They’re with me.” It didn’t stop the stares.

Reese led them through the stationhouse to where the command post was set up. It was a fairly large room with several workstations set up, and two large monitors on the wall which conveyed all manner of information: location of patrol units, unit status, video feeds from cameras installed throughout the district, and information on other first responders, including the fire departments and emergency medical services. Just a quick glance at the screens told Reese all he needed to know. There was a hell of a lot going on in Hollywood’s area of operations, and the district wasn’t even a hot one yet.

He found Pallata at one of the desks, talking with other senior members of the watch. Pallata glanced over at him as he walked up, still talking, and Reese watched as she flicked her eyes from him to the uniformed Guardsmen beside him. Reese waited for her to finish up while Narvaez looked around the center, hands at his sides.

“I guess it’s old school to you, huh?” Reese said.

Narvaez shook his head. “Man, we’re so behind the times from a technology perspective, you’d be amazed.”

Pallata turned to them finally. She was a short, busty woman with dark hair and skin, and chocolate brown eyes a man could lose himself in. Reese knew that for a fact, since he’d spent some time looking into them when they were sleeping together, about a million years ago. Actually, it had only been ten—since then, they’d both gone their separate ways in the LAPD, finally coming together again at Hollywood Station, where she was the vice commander. She’d never mentioned their old affair, and neither had he. The past was the past.