Hunt the Dragon

Chapter Four

Crocker lay on a lounge chair by the Caesars Palace swimming pool in the ninety-degree Las Vegas heat, his skin turning reddish brown from the Nevada sun, obscuring the navy anchor on his forearm, a snake wrapped around a dagger bearing the legend “Too Tough to Die.”

The place he thought he really should be was the Ukraine, but his CO, Captain Sutter, had sent Mancini with him to back up Jeri Blackwell. Crocker suspected it was really an excuse to give him time to get his head together. Everyone on the team knew he was suffering from anxiety and the aftereffects of a string of difficult missions.

Despite the sumptuous surroundings and the nearly naked bodies, his mind drifted back to his recent phone call with Holly. She was happy, she said, with her new life. She had told him in no uncertain terms that their marriage was over. All he could do was pour out his heart to her, as well as he could. No sap; no squishy sentiment. He simply told her, “I love you with all my heart and have always operated under the assumption that we would spend the rest of our lives together. I don’t want to be with anyone else.”

She had responded coolly, “I appreciate how you feel, Tom, but that’s not a possibility anymore.”

Bam! Door slammed in his face. A whole bucketful of hurt.

Part of it, he knew, was his responsibility, part of it hers. The fact was that while focusing on his work with Black Cell, his marriage had unraveled. He was fully aware that he and Holly had problems. Both of them had been suffering from different forms of PTSD-Crocker from his various deployments, Holly after she had witnessed the execution of a colleague in Tripoli.

But how can you know what’s going on in someone else’s head?

He had given her space, which is what she said she wanted. They had both sought therapy and supported each other. They both took pride in their physical and mental toughness. They worked things out. The bond between them had seemed rock solid. But it wasn’t. Okay, yes, he had gone on another deployment when she’d wanted him to stay home. But this is what he did for a living. It was his calling, his mission. Didn’t she understand that?

Maybe she did. Maybe that was the problem. Whenever it was a choice between his teams and her, he always chose the teams. But not in his heart! He carried her and Jenny there always. Thinking of them got him through the tough spots.

He had no interest in fighting with her. He wanted Holly to be happy. He promised her half of everything, but…how could you love someone and do something like this? How could you build so much together and throw it away? Maybe the marriage had never meant as much to her as it had to him. Obviously, she had been imagining a future without him for some time. But it didn’t matter. Neither did the beach house, the cars, or their other possessions. Neither did the money he was still sending her every week to cover expenses.

But he still wanted his old life back. Even his eighteen-year-old daughter, Jenny, had moved out and into her own Virginia Beach apartment, where she was living with a friend while she worked three days a week at a clothing store and attended community college.

He wouldn’t feel sorry for himself. That wasn’t in his DNA. He still had his health, the job he loved, his daughter, brother, sister, father, and teammates.

He turned to Mancini soaking up the sun beside him. The two of them had spent the past several days at the nearby Nellis Air Force Base firing range and kill house. Endless rounds of 5.56mm and 9mm ammo fired at paper targets. Endless repetition of cover tactics, fire angles, engagement points. They had been sent to train SEALs fresh out of BUD/S in desert tactics and close quarters combat (CQC).

By 4 p.m. it had been a long hot day, but Crocker’s mind and body still wouldn’t settle down.

Maybe I should take a run in the desert, or swim laps in the pool.

Then he remembered he couldn’t. He was about to meet a young woman that an ST-6 teammate named Storm had set him up with. All the guys had been looking out for him, which meant a lot.

“You hear from anything from Jeri?” he asked, wondering again if their current assignment wasn’t really an excuse to get him some R &R.

“She told us to hang tight,” Mancini replied out of the side of his mouth. Much of his face was covered with thick dark stubble. “She’ll call us if she needs us.”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s the babe you’re supposed to meet?”

He glanced at his Suunto watch-the one Holly had given him. “I don’t know if she’s a babe,” he responded, “but she’s a performer. A gymnast and dancer, according to Storm.”

“I bet.”

The introduction had come after Storm heard that Crocker was going to Nellis. He said, “You two might hit it off. Cyndi’s a fun girl-kind and smart. When you’re out there, you should look her up.”

Over the past several days he and Cyndi had exchanged e-mails. He learned that she had a five-year-old daughter and had moved to Vegas from Spokane a year ago. She was currently part of the Cirque du Soleil troop performing its show O at the Bellagio-described as an aquatic masterpiece of surrealism and theatrical romance. He had a ticket to see it tomorrow night and was nervous about meeting her. Felt awkward and unprepared.

“You stoked?” Mancini asked over the top of the magazine he was reading-his arms, neck, and torso covered with tattoos and scars; his longish dark hair masking the place on his head where he’d been grazed by a terrorist’s bullet in a Paris hotel elevator.

“Kind of. Yeah. What’re you reading?”

“An article about fractals. Images of dynamic systems found in nature-like trees, rivers, coastlines, clouds, even a young lady’s eyeballs. They derive from the principle of recursion but scale differently than other geometric figures.”

“You’re a fucking freak, you know that?”

“Thanks, and back atcha. Who got up this morning at six a.m. for a fifteen-mile run in the desert?”

Crocker smiled. He still had a sense of humor about himself. You performed to the limit of your abilities and hoped for the best. The fact that all individuals were islands held apart by ignorance, distrust, and fear wasn’t his problem to solve. His job was to protect the sheep from the wolves. To help, protect, rescue, and heal people when he could.

Right now he was trying to relax and quiet the stream of second-guessing about the hearing next week. It seemed as though the entire population of Caesars Palace’s four towers had come to cool off in six pools that made up the Garden of the Gods Pool Oasis. Male and female conventioneers, tourists from Asia, vacationers, professional gamblers, high-end hookers, young partiers, confidence men, honeymooners, weekend revelers from L.A. fresh off Route 15. All seemed contained in their private bubbles, barely aware of one another and their surroundings.

When Crocker looked closely he saw that the statues were molded of plaster and resin, and many of the human bodies had been sculpted, tucked, and smoothed by surgeons.

“That her?” Mancini asked, pointing to an approaching tall, dark-haired woman in a leopard-print bikini and large designer sunglasses, her back straight, her chest and chin thrust forward as though she were a movie star attending a premiere.

“I hope not,” Crocker said.

The polished and buffed woman, projecting attitude and entitlement, stopped in front of them and pointed at the empty lounge chair beside Crocker. In a low voice she asked, “This taken?”

“Yes it is, ma’am.” The breasts seemed fake, the lips cosmetically plumped, the skin around her eyes and cheekbones pulled too taut.

“Well, it’s mine now.” She set her bag on it, turned her back to him, and lowered her skinny ass down.

He was going to say that the chair was reserved for someone else but was too polite. If Holly were present she’d have scolded him, saying that off the battlefield he let people push him around. And he’d have responded, “No, baby, I respect people. Besides, some things aren’t worth fighting over.”

As the imaginary argument with Holly continued in his head, Cyndi stepped onto the patio wearing a white baseball hat and a light-blue wrap-type dress, spotted him, and approached.

Her shadow falling over him, she asked, “Tom Crocker?”

He looked up into her sunlit face. An impression formed in his head-friendly, unpretentious, pretty. He stood quickly, smiled, and offered his hand.

“Cyndi? Uh…thanks for coming. It’s really nice to meet you.” He suddenly felt like a teenager on a first date.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked.

“Of course. Yes, of course.” He stood up, turned, and offered her his chair.

Without the least bit of modesty or hesitation, she set down her tote, untied the sash around her dress, removed it, folded it, removed her hat, and shook out her shoulder-length blond hair. Her torso, legs, and arms were strong and toned.

Crocker couldn’t help but stare and admire her near-perfect proportions and the radiance of her skin. Now he looked away awkwardly. Behind the magazine, Mancini shot him a pirate’s grin.

“Come with me,” Cyndi said, offering her hand. “Let’s cool off.” So easy and natural, like they’d known each other for years.

He followed into the waist-high water in the circular pool built around a colonnade with a golden statue of Julius Caesar at the center. She reminded him of someone, one of the many girls he had dated in high school.

He was trying to remember the girl’s name as he offered, “It’s really nice to meet you.” Then realized he’d said that already.

“Thanks.”

“So…uh…how do you know Storm?”

“He and my brother went to high school together.”

“Oh, nice.”

She bounced up and down in the water and pushed back her hair.

“You’re in great shape,” she said.

“So are you.”

“Thanks. You coming to the show tonight?” she asked sweetly, shielding her blue eyes with her hand.

“No, tomorrow. I’d like to meet you after, for a drink, if you want.”

“That would be nice.”

She was younger than he had imagined from the photo she had sent of her with her daughter, and slightly taller.

Off to the right, glancing off the water, and over “Summertime” by the Zombies playing over the PA system, he heard a man raise his voice. Even in an intimate moment like this, a part of Crocker remained alert to his surroundings. He noticed a large muscular guy standing before two men sitting on the other side of the pool.

“This your first visit to Vegas?” Cyndi asked, lowering her head into the water, then coming up so that it washed down the front of her pink bikini top.

“No, sixth or seventh. I’ve lost count. I mean, I like it, but it’s really not my kind of place.”

“That’s what everybody says, and they keep coming back.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that.”

The muscular guy seemed to be complaining that the two other men had been taking pictures of his girlfriend. One of the men-who looked Asian-held a camera with a telephoto lens. That appeared to be the problem. The muscular guy in the bathing suit was demanding to see the camera so he could delete the photos. The second man-tall and stocky with short brown hair-gestured to him to go away.

“Something the matter?” Cyndi asked, leaning into him.

“No, no. Not at all.”

“Storm told me a lot about you.”

He blushed like a ten-year-old boy. “Really? What?”

“I’ll tell you later.” She turned, wrapped her legs around his waist, and leaned back in the water. “This helps stretch my back.”

Playful and pretty, just like Storm had said. His gaze traveled up her smooth thighs, past her pelvis, into her waiting eyes. In his head they were already in his room upstairs, making love.

He glanced over her right shoulder past the columns for an instant and saw the two men standing and facing the muscular man and a security guard in a maroon blazer. The one with the camera wore an old-fashioned blue bathing suit and leather sandals. The taller man had on plaid pants, a white polo, and loafers. They both looked out of place.

Foreigners? Crocker wondered. Pervs. Snapping photos of topless women sunning themselves?

Lying back in the water, Cyndi pulled nearer until their crotches were close. He was thinking that it would be so easy to enter her in the pool. All he had to do was lower her legs below the waterline, pull the hem of her bikini bottom aside, and lower his trunks.

He slammed the brakes on that train of thought. He barely knew her. There were hundreds of people in the vicinity. Things were happening too fast.

Before he could say anything, he heard men grunting and looked up to see the muscular guy trying to wrestle the camera away from the Asian man. The guy with the camera kneed him in the crotch, then wheeled and kicked him in the chest, causing the muscular guy to stumble backward and hit the tile deck back first. When the security guard tried to intervene, the tall foreigner shoved him so hard he lost his balance and fell into the pool. The men turned and ran toward the casino just as an old woman stepped onto the patio.

Crocker waded forcefully to the side of the pool and shouted, “Lady, look out!”

She seemed momentarily confused by the sound of his voice and blinded by the sun, so she didn’t step aside when the first man bolted toward her. He was looking over his shoulder as he ran and crashed into her full force, throwing her off her feet and into the planter behind her.

Others nearby were slow to notice, but not Crocker. He turned to Cyndi, muttered “Just a minute,” hopped out of the pool, and gave chase.

Barefoot and wearing only a bathing suit, Crocker ran across the marble floor, trying not to slip or crash into anyone, past the line waiting to get into the Bacchanal Buffet, and veered left onto a long carpeted hallway decorated with large photos of Ancient Rome. The two fleeing men a hundred feet ahead turned right at a sign that read AUGUSTUS TOWER.

Why he was doing this, and why he had left Cyndi waiting in the pool, hadn’t crossed his mind. He had reacted instinctively. Now he pushed hard the 150 feet to catch up. A uniformed guard saw Crocker running toward him and raised his arms to block Crocker’s access to the elevators.

“Sir, easy. Slow down! What seems to be the problem?”

Crocker stopped, chest heaving. Fellow hotel guests of various nationalities stared at the scars covering his torso and arms.

He blurted out, “Those two men who just passed…they assaulted one of your security guards and a guest. They need to be stopped!”

“Oh…Okay, sir,” the guard said. “Yes, I saw them just now. I’ll notify security.”

“No, I’m sorry. That’s not good enough…I need you to let me pass.”

Just then he heard his name being called behind him and turned to see Mancini catching up, the veins standing out on his tattooed neck. He was holding a cell phone, which he pushed toward Crocker. “Boss, it’s Jeri! She wants to speak to you!”

“Now?”

“Yeah, now.”

“You tell her about the incident at the pool?”

“I did, yeah.”

Ten minutes later, amid a cacophony of bells and jingling, the two SEALs negotiated banks of pinball machines and gaming tables, and arrived at Jeri’s office. She stood at a desk with a wall of video monitors behind her, talking on the phone. Jim Walker, the assistant director of hotel security, wearing a maroon blazer and sporting a Burt Reynolds mustache, stood beside her.

“Yes, Mr. Leong. That’s right, Mr. Leong. Carl Wong and Jon Petroc. I know. They claim to be part of a Chinese diplomatic delegation from your Ministry of Industry. Thanks for checking. Yes, please, as soon as you can. Thanks for your time.”

She hung up, muttered “Douchebag,” sipped from a cardboard cup of coffee on her desk, and sighed. “Hi, Crocker. That was the Chinese consul. I asked him to check the validity of their passports, and he asks me to comp him and his family for dinner for six at your most expensive restaurant. Can you believe that BS?”

“Hi, Jeri.”

“Thanks for coming.”

“We just saw two guys wrestle with your security guards and run off.”

“Yeah, I know. Carl Wong and John Petroc. Those are the guys I’m talking about.”

She turned to Walker, who had the glazed look of someone who’d seen it all.

Walker asked, “Which restaurant does the Chinese consul want to go to?”

“The Guy Savoy.”

“Of course. Call François. You got his number?”

Crocker stood in his black jeans and T-shirt that he had changed into, looking confused. “You talking about the guys we saw by the pool?”

“Yeah,” Jeri nodded. “Wong and Petroc. They’re holed up in their room and refuse to come out and talk. Claim to be holding diplomatic passports and working for the Chinese government.”

“They didn’t look like diplomats,” Crocker said.

“Didn’t act like them, either,” added Mancini.

She held up her hand to Crocker and Mancini, and picked up the phone again. “Just a sec…François, it’s Jeri. Yeah, Jeri Blackwell from the Secret Service. Comment tallez vouz, honey? I need a table for six, eight o’clock. Cram ’em in the toilet if you have to, but make it happen. Thanks.”

She hung up and pointed to the monitors on the far right behind her. “They’re in there. The Titus Suite in the Augustus Tower. That’s where they ran to when you were chasing them just now. See? Completely dark. What kind of diplomats know how to find and disable the monitors in their hotel suite?”

“Shady ones,” Crocker answered, trying to grasp what was going on.

“They’ve got something that’s interfering with our electronics, too.”

“You really believe they’re working for the Chinese?” Crocker asked. “Why are they here in the first place?”

“Trouble. What else? I want to show you something.” Jeri picked up the phone again and said, “Lester, come into my office for a minute and bring the strongbox.”

Two minutes later a man in a blue-and-black teller’s uniform entered-gray hair, gray mustache, late fifties. He carried a metal box, which he set on the desk.

“Lester, these two studs are friends of mine. Show ’em what you found.”

Lester turned to Walker, who nodded. Then he used one of the keys on a chain attached to his belt to open the metal case. Inside were stacks of new hundred-dollar bills. He pulled one out and handed it to Crocker.

“Thanks,” Crocker asked.

“It’s counterfeit,” Lester said. “So are all the others. We’ve taken in almost a hundred thousand dollars’ worth in the past two days.”

“Who’s we?”

“Caesars Palace.”

Turning to Jeri, Crocker said, “These match the ones we grabbed in the Ukraine?”

“You’re smart, honey,” she replied, nodding toward the teller. “Check ’em out.”

Lester removed a jeweler’s loupe from his pocket and held it to his right eye. “If you look closely, they all have the same anomaly along the lapel of Franklin’s jacket.”

He handed the loupe to Crocker and used a pencil to point to the fine lines in question. “Missing is the microprinting near the collar. It’s a small detail, but significant. All the new Treasury bills have it. These don’t. Here’s a genuine Franklin for comparison.”

Crocker checked the real one and barely made out the words “United States of America” along the collar.

“Same as the ones we seized in Ukraine.”

“Yup,” said Jeri.

He passed the bills and loupe to Mancini. “What do you want us to do?”

Jeri said, “Nothing yet.” Flipping through the papers on her desk, she found a report and passed it to Crocker.

“We did a high-resolution scan of one of the bills and sent a report to headquarters. They told us it was part of set of counterfeits, known as 2HK1, that have started to find their way into circulation in Hong Kong, Thailand, Hawaii, and Russia over the past month and half.”

“How much?”

“Millions of dollars’ worth. This is the first time they’ve appeared in the U.S. And here are the guys we think have been passing them.”

She handed him a set of stills taken by surveillance cameras. They showed individuals of different nationalities standing at casino cashier windows and blackjack tables, handing cashiers and dealers hundred-dollar bills. The time signatures in the right-hand corners indicated the pictures had been taken over the past thirty-six hours. None of the faces in the pictures matched those of Wong or Petroc.

Crocker shrugged. “I don’t get it.”

“We call the guys in the photos storks. If Wong and Petroc are doing what I think they are, they’re the suppliers,” explained Jeri. “They’re selling the fake stuff at fifty to sixty percent face value to storks, who quickly cash it in and split town. We haven’t caught a one of them, but we’re looking.”

“When did Wong and Petroc arrive?” Crocker asked.

“Two days ago, shortly before this bullshit started. These counterfeits have been showing up at casinos all over town. I figure they’ve spread about two mil worth already.”

“Why don’t you just arrest them?” Crocker asked.

Jeri thanked Lester, who left with the locked box and counterfeit hundreds, then continued. “The fact that they’re carrying diplomatic passports poses a major obstacle. I figure we need two things to happen before we can grab them. One, the Chinese consul general establishes that the passports are fakes. And two, we get clearance from the State Department.”

Mancini said, “By the time that happens those two characters will be long gone.”

“I like this guy, Crocker.”

Crocker asked, “How can we help?”

Jeri rubbed her hands together. “We’ve got ourselves a cat-and-mouse-type situation. I’ve got guys all over town chasing down the fakes, and I know Treasury’s not going to commit more officers until clearances have been given to make arrests.”

“Bureaucratic nonsense.”

“No, it’s China. They’re big crybabies. Unfortunately, our economy depends on the cheap shit they sell us. So our government is afraid of even watching them carefully. Nobody wants to upset the Chinese.”

“How do you know it’s the Chinese?”

“Don’t know for sure, honey. Maybe they ain’t really Chinese. It’s Nevada. They could be from anywhere. All I can do in my position is station my guys outside their suite. But if Wong and Petroc pay their bill and leave, which I expect they will, I can’t detain ’em.”

“Even after the incident at the pool?”

“Caesars’ management will let that go.”

Walker, who was sitting behind the desk quietly going through paperwork, nodded. “We’re cooperating with Treasury, but management strongly discourages any kind of commotion at the hotel. It’s bad for business. Any kind of violence keeps people away.”

“Got it.”

“That’s where I’m thinking you come in,” Jeri said. “One of those assholes slammed into your eighty-year-old aunt and didn’t apologize. As far as you know, you don’t know anything about them holding diplomatic passports. So you confront ’em outside the public areas, like, say, the parking lot. A fight breaks out. You get some shots in, then I call Las Vegas PD and have them arrested. LVPD cops don’t know shit about diplomatic immunity. They end up holding those guys for a couple hours at least, while we go through their suitcases and see if we can find more counterfeit bills. Not exactly legal, but it’s the best we can do.”

“Sounds sweet to me,” said Crocker.

“You think you can extend your stay past the weekend if we need to?”

“That’s up to Captain Sutter.”

“I’ll call him. My money says Wong and Petroc will be moving soon. I’ll have my guys keep an eye on them and let you know. Just don’t kick their asses in a public place, like the hotel or casino. Okay?”

“Ten-four.”

“Yeah, guys,” Walker added. “Please be discreet. No blood on the carpets or YouTube moments. Management will lose their shit.”