Sin City Assassin (The Bill Dix Detective Series Book 3)

Sin City

Assassin

Authored by

C. L. Swinney

Copyright © 2014 by

RJ PARKER PUBLISHING, INC

ISBN-13: 978-0991899890

ISBN-10: 099189989X

United States of America

Edited by:
Hartwell Editing

Cover design by:
Aeternum Designs

License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the author and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author. All rights reserved. No parts of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written authorization from RJ Parker Publishing, Inc. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and federal imprisonment.

Chapter 1:

Fifty “boats” (1,000 count each) of previously seized ecstasy lay neatly stacked across a recycled blackjack table in downtown Las Vegas. Next to them sat a Colt .45 and a briefcase containing $250,000.00 in U.S. currency. Department of Justice Special Agent Michael Andrews, working undercover as a major narcotic trafficker for the last two years, sat nervously at the table tapping his fingers on the dingy worn felt. He’d been impressed that he was able to get so much money to flash, but it had come with a cost. The bosses had made him handcuff the money to his wrist. Andrews considered it to be a problem because if someone came to take the money, they’d have to kill him or cut the briefcase off. He chuckled and shook his head, recalling the foolish things he’d done in his career while working undercover. He forced himself to regain focus, as he was just about to meet a potential new source of the most sought after narcotics on the streets: pharmaceutical pills.

Andrews looked around the small, secluded section of the Fremont Hotel. The area was unknown to the public, relatively secure, and had been used by Andrews and other criminals for seedy deals for the last three years. He outwardly wore his game face, but he’d done enough undercover deals to know to expect the unexpected. He replayed in his mind several previous narcotics transactions with people supposedly working for the main man. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something made him feel uncomfortable. He racked his brain trying to figure out what it could be.

The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up when he realized the problem. Realizing it was too late to abort the mission, he spun around to see two massive men running toward him at full speed.

Damn it, it’s a rip off
! He lunged for the Colt .45 with his left hand while trying to dodge the two men barreling toward him. Instinctively he tried to depress his panic button, but couldn’t get to it.

He felt it before he heard it—a single gunshot that caught him right in the chest. The two men pummeled him while trying to yank the briefcase from his wrist. The last thing he remembered was hearing a thick Canadian accent from one of the attackers before a blunt object knocked him unconscious.

One of the two attackers left the room, and within seconds, returned with bolt cutters. He cut the briefcase from Andrews’ wrist and they calmly walked away.

The undercover protection team, positioned just around the corner, had no idea what had just happened to Special Agent Andrews.

As Andrews regained consciousness, he rolled over his arms, which activated the emergency signal. He managed to look up when he heard the door bust open. He assumed the attackers were coming back to finish him off.
Why didn’t they kill me
? His analytical mind was puzzled. Then he calculated they had at least a two-minute head start on the rescue team.

When Andrews saw it was the UC rescue team coming through the door, he chuckled.
Well, there’s not much better for undercover credibility than getting shot at
, he thought.
I hope the bad guys didn’t see the cavalry coming.
Thoughts of his pregnant wife helped him control his breathing and remain calm. He wanted nothing more in life than to tell her again how much he loved her. He decided he would survive this and, when he was physically able, he’d hunt down the person who set him up and kill them regardless if he was wearing a badge or not.

Chapter 2:
 

Before Sergeant Steve Petersen, with the Miami-Dade Police Department, could ask his best friend and soon-to-be-retired Miami-Dade Police Department Sergeant, Bill Dix, if he saw the stack of plain clothes cops running through the front door of the Fremont Hotel, Dix held his hand up and said, “Don’t even ask. You’re on vacation, and I’m close to retiring. If we don’t meet the wives in fifteen minutes, we’re both toast.”

Petersen looked at his friend in shock. For once, something big was going down and Dix wanted nothing to do with it.

Dix put his arm around Petersen. “Buddy, this whole retirement thing probably won’t last, but I’m going to give it a shot. I’d like to know what’s going on there,” he pointed to where the team had just disappeared, “but we have dinner dates, plain and simple. Let’s get out of here before we see something we don’t want to see.”

They walked down the alley to take a shortcut to cross at the streetlight. They’d already missed dinner the night before, oblivious to the time while chasing Jack Daniel's with Bud Lights, and neither wanted to get in too much trouble for doing it again.

Petersen laughed. “You can’t retire, man! You’re in the prime of your life.” He paused. “Well, of your
senior
years anyway.”

Suddenly a door to their left crashed open and two burly men stumbled out and ran right into them. Dix noticed the size of the men and detected a major problem in their urgency. He saw an aluminum briefcase in one of the men’s hands and guessed it was regular size, but, in the guy’s hands, it looked tiny.

Dix looked at Petersen with a raised eyebrow, suspecting the men had just robbed someone. He wondered if they were related to the police activity they’d just seen heading into the front door of the casino.

In a split-second, both men produced guns and grabbed Petersen and Dix with bearlike force. They manhandled Petersen and Dix and repositioned their bodies to use them as human shields. Dix looked at Petersen again. It was the first time Petersen could ever remember seeing Dix look scared.

Dix wrestled to free himself from the man holding him and noticed what he hoped were cops coming to the open door from the casino to the alley. He said very calmly, “We’re cops, let us go.”

The perpetrator holding Petersen spoke in a Canadian accent, “Shit, man, we gotta go. Let’s beat it, eh?”

Petersen also wrestled with the man holding him, but he was unable to free himself.

A silver
Range Rover tore down the alley from the opposite direction of where the altercation was occurring. It skidded just short of Dix and his captor. At the same time, two men in expensive suits with hand guns ran through the open door and began yelling at the men holding Dix and Petersen to stop.

The passenger door of the Range Rover flung open and a man with a MP5 sub-machine gun jumped out. “Eh, you two put down your guns and we let the hostages go, otherwise, you’re dead. I’ll count to three.”

Dix knew it was a mistake. If the men in suits dropped their weapons, they’d be dead. His heart pounded in his chest as he frantically looked for a way out.
Where the hell are the real cops!

The two men in suits looked at each other, shook their heads, and then looked back at the man with the MP5, who began counting.

“One, two….” Before he got to three he began spraying bullets wildly. One of the suited men went down, while the other one ran for cover and shot back haphazardly.

From the open door to the rear of the casino, Dix saw muzzle flashes indicating someone else was firing rounds in his direction.
Jesus, this is bad!
He felt the grip lessen around his chest and he instinctively tried to duck down and look for cover. Bullets whizzed by him as the two men with the briefcase sprinted toward the Range Rover. The man holding Petersen released his grip and he ran toward the others. He shot recklessly behind him while he ran.

Dix felt helpless as he watched Petersen get hit by a bullet from one of the guys in the Range Rover and fall over.
Shit
! Without thinking, he bolted toward the downed man in a suit, grabbed his gun, and began firing at the Range Rover. Bullets peppered the car, but the windows stayed in tact. He switched his sights on the legs of one of the men nearing the Range Rover. A round caught the man in the leg, causing him to squeal in pain and fall just short of the Range Rover.

The people in the car didn’t even pause. They blew right past Dix, violently turned onto the road, spun the tires, and sped away.

Dix saw pedestrians in the backdrop, so he didn’t continue shooting at the car as it sped away. He looked over to see Petersen wasn’t moving.

The guy Dix had shot was trying to drag himself away.

Dix advanced with the intent of finishing the bastard off. Seeing Petersen down caused him to throw any sense of compassion and judgment out the window. Suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks.

“Put down your weapon! Police, drop it!”

Dix looked to his left and saw six undercover officers screaming and pointing their guns at him. He paused as he felt the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He momentarily considered shooting the suspect in the head.

Dix slowly put the weapon down. “I’m a cop, my partner over there has been hit, please, please get him medics!”

The undercover officers tried to assess the scene while frantically calling for backup.

“Guys, we’re cops,” Dix pleaded. “You got one bad guy behind me trying to crawl away, and you got two security guards lying over there.” He motioned toward his right. “Please, get my partner help!”

A seventh man came through the door huffing and puffing and scanning the scene in a panic.

Dix watched as the man took in the situation and appeared to formulate a plan.
Wait, do I know him?
he thought.

The man looked at Dix and froze.

“Son of a bitch, Bill Dix, is that you?”

“Yeah Randy, it is, Steve’s hit and lying over there—he needs medics ASAP!” Dix didn’t care that guns were still pointed at him. He started walking, then running, toward Petersen.

The man Dix knew, Las Vegas Police Department Sergeant Randy Frazier, waved off his people and grabbed his radio to call for code three medics with an officer down. He motioned for his men to handcuff the three gunmen while he updated dispatch with the current situation.

Dix tried to assess Petersen, but he was in shock seeing him lying there motionless.
Get it together!
He could tell from his days in combat that the wound Petersen suffered was a through-and-through. He had been shot near his right shoulder and neck area and it was bad.

Petersen regained consciousness and grabbed Dix’s hand.

Dix hoped he wouldn’t let go. “Hang in there, Steve! You better not give up! We have a dinner date to get to!” Dix pleaded with his partner and best friend.