Two Faces Have I

By Jeff Kaye

Jack Stoner is having a bad day. A psycho thief wants to kill him for being a snitch, a serial killer has set him up as a murder suspect, and hes about to cross paths with an organized crime boss, which will cause a sexy female F.B.I. Agent to enter his life and add to his troubles. On top of all this, hes having problems remembering he is really a cop named Jake Slater, who has been left undercover far too long. Follow him through Nevadas glitter towns on an emotional and action-packed tour of the dirty little secret Law Enforcement calls undercover work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 13, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469111339

Jeff Kaye

After a career in high-technology, Jeff Kaye has worked with a number of global NGO’s such as Global Witness, Transparency International (UK) and Tax Justice Network. His first book, Last Line of Defense, was a story of corruption in the international arms trade.

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Copyright © 2003 by Jeff Kaye.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

CHAPTER 67

CHAPTER 68

CHAPTER 69

CHAPTER 70

CHAPTER 71

CHAPTER 72

CHAPTER 73

CHAPTER 74

CHAPTER 75

CHAPTER 76

CHAPTER 77

CHAPTER 78

CHAPTER 79

CHAPTER 80

CHAPTER 81

EPILOGUE

This book is dedicated to all my brothers and sisters of the badge, but especially to the extraordinary breed of Law Enforcement Officers who live in the abyss of the Undercover world. You are the unsung heroes of our business. No one truly knows of the mental and physical sacrifices you make in the name of public safety. Stay healthy. Stay alive.

"Two faces have I. One who laughs, one who cries. One says hello,

and one says good-bye. One does things I don’t understand. It

makes me feel like half a man."

-Bruce Springsteen

CHAPTER 1

JACK STONER FOUND himself staring down the barrel of a 9mm pistol as he stood in the dingy men’s room of Bollinger’s Bar. His first thought was that he was about to die in a filthy men’s room, inside of an even filthier bar, in a town he hadn’t even heard of until ten years before. He looked around and saw there wasn’t even a spot on the floor where his dead body could fall without landing in a puddle of someone else’s urine. He made up his mind that he was not going to let his life end like that.

He looked into the beady, bloodshot eyes of the man known to him as Red. The gun was pointed at Stoner’s stomach. He knew he had to do something quickly. The little red haired psycho was more than capable of pulling the trigger and sending Stoner to his grave.

He’d been shooting pool when Red had asked to talk to him in private. He’d left his worn out black leather jacket hanging on a wall hook next to the pool table as he followed Red through the bar towards the men’s room. His own gun was in the pocket of his jacket, which now seemed to be miles away instead of in the next room. His gun was useless to him now.

The beers he’d drank earlier would throw off his coordination if he tried to use any of the fancy moves he’d learned so long ago to take the gun away from Red. He decided to use his well-practiced line of bullshit to buy some time and see what happened.

He stared Red in the eyes and said, What’s going on Red? What’s up with the piece?

Red held his gaze and said, I think you’re a snitch Jack. The people I introduced you to last night got busted by the narcs an hour after we left their apartment. You were the only new person in that room Jack. It’s got to be you who snitched them off. They’re looking at some long jail time if they’ve got to go to court on this. I brought you around Jack, so it’s up to me to waste you and make sure you don’t testify against them. It’s just business Jack. No hard feelings, huh?

Stoner needed to keep the conversation going. He needed more time. What did they get popped for Red?

They was holding about two ounces of crystal meth when the cops kicked in their door. They’re inside on trafficking charges.

Use your head Red. I bought a couple of hot guns and some computer equipment from your friends. If I were the snitch, they’d have gone down for that. I didn’t buy any cringe from them.

Damn Jack! I never thought about it like that.

Red’s hand was trembling. He had the shakes that come from using too much crank. The gun was in the single action mode. Stoner was afraid it would go off even if Red decided not to shoot him. Time was running out. He had to make his move. He slowly moved closer to Red as he talked.

In as calm a voice as he could muster he said, Come on Red. Think about some of the things I’ve seen you do. If I was gonna give anybody up to the cops, it would be you, not those two-bit punks we dealt with last night. You know I’m no snitch.

Red had a confused look on his face. That’s what I told them Jack. I told them there was no way you could be a snitch. They told me to waste you anyway so we can be sure. I like you Jack, but I guess I’ve got to shoot you.

Stoner was close enough to touch the gun now. He no longer felt the alcohol coursing through his system. His brain was clearing, and his senses were alive. He was so close to Red he could smell the man’s sour breath. It was almost as nauseating as the mixed scents of urine, vomit, and stale cigarette smoke that fouled the air inside the cramped men’s room. His survival instincts chased the fear from his body. It was time to make his move.

Hey Red, is that a Berretta you’ve got there?

Yeah, I think so.

Red turned the pistol slightly to his right so he could read the writing on the slide. Stoner saw his chance. He reached out with his right hand and grabbed the gun by the slide. It was pointed away from him. If it went off the shot would miss him. The next round wouldn’t cycle because he was holding the slide. He twisted the gun in a clockwise motion and it came out of Red’s hand easily. Red had a stunned look on his face as he stared at his empty hand in front of him.

Stoner dropped the magazine out of the gun and put it into the front pocket of his dirty blue jeans. He jacked the live round out of the chamber of the gun and looked at it. It was a hollow point, and would have put one hell of a hole in his belly. He put the round in his pocket and examined the gun.

He looked up and said, Hey Red, is this piece clean?

Red looked more confused then ever. The single, bushy red eyebrow that connected over the bridge of his nose furrowed along with his brow, making it look like he had a spastic caterpillar on his forehead. I think it’s clean Jack. I won it in a pool game last night. The guy I was playin didn’t have enough cash to pay off the bet, so he traded me the gun. Said he had another one stashed away so he didn’t need it. Why’d you take it away from me like that?

I know a guy who’s looking for a piece like this. I’ll take it with me and off it for you so you don’t get into any more trouble with it. I’ll give you a hundred for it.

Stoner stuck the gun in the front waistband of his jeans, pulling his t-shirt over it to conceal it. He pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket and counted out five twenty-dollar bills. He held out the cash to Red, who greedily took it and put it into the pocket of his own grimy jeans.

Red had a smile on his face that showed his missing front tooth. He said, Damn Jack! I knew you wasn’t a snitch. There ain’t no way a snitch is gonna take a gun away from somebody who’s about to off him and then buy it from him. I knew you was O.K.

Stoner reached out with his left arm and draped it around Red’s neck. It was then that he realized how close he’d just come to being killed. His fear gave way to anger, and he used his right hand to punch Red in the stomach with all the strength he could muster.

Red doubled over from the force of the punch and threw up on his own shoes. Stoner let go of him, and he fell to the floor gasping for air and rolling in the puddle of his own vomit.

He looked down and said, Hey Red, if you’re gonna be dumb enough to pull a gun on me, you’d better be smart enough to pull the trigger. I like you, but if you ever pull a gun on me again, I’ll stick it in your mouth and blow up what the cringe left behind of that pea brain of yours. Now go back to your people and make this thing right. If I ever hear my name and the word cops used in the same sentence again, I’m gonna get pissed off and start hurting people, and I’ll start with you.

Red’s words were labored as he said, I should have known better Jack. Anybody wants to call you a snitch again; well they’ll have to deal with me first. Are we cool Jack?

Stoner mad dogged him and said, Yeah, we’re cool. I’ll forget about this one. Wipe the puke out of your beard and get cleaned up. Meet me at the bar and I’ll buy you a drink before I leave.

Stoner grabbed his jacket on his way to the bar. The weight of the .380 pistol in the pocket gave him some reassurance. The ball was back in his court now. If Red tried anything else, he’d kill him where he stood. He called the bartender over and ordered two shots of tequila and two bottles of Budweiser. He drank the shots of tequila down one after the other. He took a long pull off of one of the beers, and handed the other one to Red as he walked up to the bar.

He looked at Red and said, I’ve gotta go. I’ve got people to see tonight. Meet me at the Silver Dollar tomorrow night and tell me how you straightened this out with your people.

I’ll take care of it Jack. You showed me something tonight. You and me are a team.

Fear was creeping back into his body as he headed for the door. He was having trouble walking. He wasn’t sure if the spilled beer was causing his boots to stick to the floor, or if the muscles in his legs were starting to give out on him. He’d never given much thought to dying before. The weight of the Beretta in his waistband reminded him just how close he had come to losing his life, and his career. He took a deep breath as he stepped out the door into the cool night air.

His car was parked at the curb a half block down from the bar. He saw a girl he knew from 4th Street leaning against the front fender of the car. He knew her by her street name of Star. She was a 4th Street hooker he’d been doing a lot of business with lately. He was drained, and didn’t feel like doing any more deals tonight. Whatever it was she wanted to sell him, he wasn’t interested.

He walked past a figure sleeping in a doorway of an abandoned building as he made his way to his car. He didn’t pay any attention to the man covered with newspapers to keep the chill of the night off of him. It was just another of the city’s homeless people looking for a place to spend the night. His hands were shaking, and his mind was still on his brush with death when he approached the girl sitting on his car.

Hey Jack. How’s your night going baby?

Average. You know what they say, same shit different day. I’m kind of busy right now. What do you need?

I don’t want to talk out here Jack. Drive me around the block and we’ll talk.

He got in the car and fired it up. Star slid into the passenger seat. He pulled around the corner and stopped. Tell me what you’ve got Star. I’ve got to get out of here.

I’ve been paging you all night Jack. I rolled a trick earlier tonight. I’ve got a watch and a couple of credit cards I need to off. Can you take them?

Not tonight Star. I’m low on cash. I just did a couple of deals at the bar. Page me tomorrow if you still have the stuff and I’ll see what I can do.

O.K. It’s your loss. I’ll probably off them to somebody else tonight so I can get some cash. I’m kind of sick, you know? I need to get a fix.

She got out of the car and walked back toward the lights of 4th Street. He hated to lose the deal, but he wasn’t in the mood for work right now. His hand was still shaking as he reached under the driver’s seat for the emergency bottle of vodka he kept there. He took a long drink from the bottle, feeling the warmth of the vodka work its way down to his empty stomach. He stared at his reflection in the tinted drivers window of the car thinking again about how close he had come to getting killed tonight. He wondered how much longer he could keep this up.

He thought about his situation as he took another drink from the bottle. He was a cop. He’d been working undercover for almost two years. They’d told him he would only be under for six months when he started. There was no end to his assignment in sight, and things were getting weirder every day. He couldn’t even remember who he was half of the time. An old Springsteen song called Two Faces Have I popped into his head as he sat there. He drained the remainder of the vodka from the bottle and said to his reflection, You’re way screwed up Stoner. You’ve gotta get out.

He looked at his watch and saw it was 10:30 P.M. He needed some company. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number from memory. The phone was answered on the first ring. He said, Hey baby, it’s me. Do you feel like getting lucky tonight?

Her voice was raspy with sleep as she answered, Screw you Stoner. I don’t hear from you for two weeks, and you think you can just pop in and jump my bones? I’m not that kind of girl.

I’ve been busy Nikki. I’ve got some time now. I can be there in half an hour.

There was a pause on the other end of the line before she said, You are an asshole Stoner. At least pick up a bottle of wine on your way over.

He felt better as he hung up the phone. He wasn’t dead, he was starting to get a good buzz, and he was going to end up in bed with a pretty lady if he played his cards right. Maybe there was some hope left for a burned out undercover cop who saw two faces looking back at him from his own reflection. He had one last call to make. He dialed the number to the undercover operations office.

A male voice answered with the usual greeting of, Yeah?

It’s Jack. Tell the boss I’m done for the night. It’s been a long one, so I’m headed home, he lied. Tell him I bought a Beretta nine from Red for a hundred, and I’ll book it in tomorrow. There was nothing unusual about the deal, he lied again. He saw no reason to get anyone worried about his close call in the bar.

O.K. I’ll see you tomorrow kid.

He started up his car and headed towards the freeway, feeling good about the possibility of an all night sex bout with Nikki. He might get killed tomorrow, but he’d make sure he made tonight a night to remember.

CHAPTER 2

STONER AWOKE WITH a start at the sound of the first gunshot. He didn’t feel the bullet hit him, so he’d figured Red’s aim had been off. He dove off of the bed before Red could get off another round. He looked up and saw the menacing little eyes covered by that big, bushy eyebrow. Red swung the gun towards him and took aim. Stoner tried to get up and run, but he found he couldn’t move. It was as if he was tied up and being held in place.

The lamp next to the bed snapped on, casting light on to the grizzly scene. He realized he had been dreaming. No one had tied him up, and Red was not in the room with him. He was tangled up in the white silk sheet he had pulled off of Nikki’s bed when he dove to the floor during his nightmare. His pulse was racing, and his naked body was soaked with sweat. He was having trouble breathing, and he felt as if he was about to vomit.

Nikki was panicked as she jumped out of bed and stood over him. Are you O.K? What the hell is going on? I thought you were having a heart attack.

Yeah, I’m alright. I think I had a bad dream or something. Help me up, will you?

She found the scene comical once she realized he wasn’t dying. She was laughing uncontrollably as she straddled him and tried to help him out of the tangle of bedding. The sight of her naked body standing over him brought back the memories of their night of passion. He breathed deeply, and sucked in air that still carried the light scent of her perfume mixed with the aroma left by their lovemaking. His pulse was slowing, and he was starting to feel better.

What’s so funny?

You are. You’re such a tough guy. You look so helpless lying there. This is the first time I’ve ever seen you looking vulnerable. I kind of like it. What’s up with the nightmare?

He looked up at her as she stood there. Her blonde hair hung over her firm breasts as she bent over to help him. Her skin was tanned, and her body didn’t have an ounce of fat on it. That was the end result of hard daily workouts, and a hundred-dollar-a-day coke habit. She was truly beautiful, but she did come with some unpleasant baggage. How could he explain the dream to her? How could he ever explain to her that she had just given herself so totally to a man she didn’t know. She knew only Jack Stoner, the street criminal. She’d never meet his alter ego, Jake Slater, undercover cop.

His confusion turned to thoughts of desire as he continued watching her. She pulled the bed sheet free from his body, and saw he was fully erect. She stood up and said, My, my. Look what we have here. That must have been some dream you had. You’ll have to tell me about it sometime. She reached out her hand and said, Let me help you up and I’ll see if I can turn your nightmare into a fantasy.

He took her hand and said, The hell with the dream. He pulled her down on top of him. They kissed passionately, and he slid inside of her easily. They made love with a fierce passion on the floor amidst the pile of silk bed sheets. She collapsed on top of him after having her third orgasm of the night. He had also climaxed, but he remained inside of her as they lay together in silence. Her head rested on his shoulder as he stroked her long blonde hair.

Do you want to talk about it Jack? Tell me about the dream, she said.

What’s to talk about? I had a dream. It’s no big thing.

You had a dream that just about gave you a heart attack. Maybe someday you’ll let me inside of your head a little bit. We’ve been screwing each other for over six months, and I don’t know any more about you than I knew the day I met you. It’s not healthy to keep everything bottled up inside of you.

Nothing in his life was healthy. He wanted nothing more than to tell her the truth about him, he just didn’t know how. What was he to say? Hi, my name is Jake Slater. I know that I told you it was Jack Stoner, but I lied. I’m not really a crook either. I’m actually an undercover cop who’s been using you for the last six months so I can get inside your circle of friends and put most of them in prison. Nah. That would probably ruin the mood.

He chased these thoughts from his head. Feelings and emotions had no place in the life of Jack Stoner. He couldn’t tell her the truth about himself any more than he could tell her how he really felt for her. He needed to get back into character. He pushed her off of him, stood up, and walked toward the bathroom. All traces of emotion were gone from his voice when he looked back and said, I need a shower. Go make some coffee, will you? I’ve gotta be someplace.

You’re such an asshole Stoner, she yelled. I don’t know why I put up with your shit.

Because you’re a smart girl Nikki, and you know a good thing when you see it. Now how about that coffee?

He stood in the shower letting the hot water course down his back. His thoughts were on Nikki, and how he could make it right with her some day. She was the classiest girl he’d met in the classless world he was now living in. She deserved better than him. He let his mind wander, and thought back to the day he’d met her.

He’d gone to the Plantation Casino to meet a crook he was working. He sat down at the sports bar thinking about nothing else but how good a cold beer was going to taste on that hot afternoon in May. His thoughts were interrupted when Nikki stepped up to take his order. She was wearing the standard outfit the girls who tended bar at the Plantation were required to wear. He couldn’t help but notice that she wore her black mini skirt a little shorter than the other girls, and the material of her requisite white blouse was thin enough to reveal the dark outline of her areolas. He blew off his meeting with the crook, and ended up in Nikki’s bed that night.

His entire life was a lie, and he’d now dragged Nikki into it.

She wasn’t involved in anything criminal, except that she liked to pack her nose every now and then. She lived in an expensive townhouse in the south part of town known as Old Reno. It was beautifully furnished, and cost more than a bartender should be able to afford. He didn’t ask questions about how she paid for it. He didn’t want to know.

What he did know was that she was good for his business. Every criminal in town stopped into the Plantation at some time or another for the cheap food and drinks. They all knew Nikki too. She was a local legend. He’d sometimes take her with him when he made his rounds to the local bars. The street crooks would see him with Nikki, and they would figure he was O.K. They would usually line up to talk to him just to get a better look at Nikki.

The only drawback to their relationship was that he was not really a street crook; he was a cop. And as such, he had rules to follow. One of those rules was that he couldn’t have a relationship with anyone who was involved in any type of criminal activity, or as his boss put it, You screw one of your crooks, you screw your career too.

He worked around this by making sure Nikki never did drugs around him. He told her that he had almost ruined his life with drugs once, and he didn’t want them around him now that he was clean.

He had two tattoos on his heavily muscled biceps. The one on his right arm was a picture of St. George slaying a dragon. He told her that St. George represented him, and the dragon he was slaying represented his drug addiction. He’d told her, If I feel strongly enough about it to have it inked into my skin, what do you think I’d do to somebody who got me hooked on dope again.

The tattoo on his left arm was a picture of a heart. There was a rattlesnake with icicles dripping from its fangs wrapped around the heart. He’d told her this represented the way he treated women. He’d told her, I am a cold hearted snake, so don’t expect too much from me.

She liked him, but she was also very much afraid of him. She never brought drugs out in his presence, and never asked anything from him in terms of their relationship. In turn, he never had cause to do a case on her, and found it easy to keep his real life a secret from her.

Still, she was a good girl, and he found himself growing more attached to her every time he saw her. She’d had a couple of bad breaks during her twenty-nine years of life. Her modeling career had taken off when she was eighteen. She had brains and good looks. She could have gone far, except for the fact that the scumbag agent she hooked up with took her for everything she had. At the age of twenty, she was left with nothing but an empty bank account and a serious cocaine habit. Instead of being on the cover of Cosmopolitan, she was slinging drinks in Reno and screwing some guy she thought was a hired gun.

She was just one of the many people he’d met while working undercover who had a bad break somewhere in life that caused their paths to cross with his. He’d learned early in his assignment that he wasn’t much different from the people he was working. It made him wonder what he’d be doing now were it not for the twist of fate that had landed him a job on the Reno Police Department. He figured by now some undercover cop would have been working him if he hadn’t gotten on the force. These were just some more of the thoughts that confused him. His head was starting to hurt, and it was only seven in the morning.

He finished showering and dressed in the clean clothes he had brought in with him the night before. He walked out of the bedroom dressed in his usual blue jeans and black t-shirt. Nikki was laying on the antique couch that sat under the arched picture window in her living room. She had placed a white sheet on the couch. She was lying on her stomach, still naked, with her head propped on a pillow facing away from him. Her arms extended lazily in front of her, and hung limply over the arm of the old couch. He thought she was sleeping, until he saw her bend her left leg and point the toes of her left foot toward the ceiling.

Shadows from the first rays of morning sunlight shining through the latticework that separated the large window into smaller rectangles of frosted glass played along her body. He stood staring at her, wishing he were an artist instead of a cop. The vision of beauty in front of him should have been used to inspire a work of art. Instead, it was being wasted on a burned out undercover cop.

She turned to face him and said, I was hoping to get your mind on something other than leaving for whatever it is you have to do this early when you saw me like this.

Well it worked. It made me wonder if you made that coffee before you decided to lie back down and relax. I need some caffeine.

She reached up and angrily pulled the sheet down across her body. You know, sometimes I really do hate you Stoner.

He walked out of the kitchen carrying a mug of steaming coffee. That’s just part of my charm baby. There’s a fine line between love and hate. Stay on the right side of that, and we’ll get along just fine. I’d stick around, but I’ve gotta be some place. I’ll bring the coffee mug back next time.

The object she threw at him smashed against the inside of the door as he closed it behind him. He looked over his shoulder and said to himself, I hope that wasn’t something expensive.

CHAPTER 3

COPS CALL THEIR city cars, G-Rides, which is short for government rides. Stoner’s was a shiny black Z-28, which exuded testosterone just sitting in its parking spot in front of Nikki’s townhouse. He needed a muscle car to fit the undercover persona he had built for himself. He knew the Z-28 was the right car for him as soon as he saw it on the lot, even though it was way out of budget. He’d done some smooth talking to his boss, stressing the importance of matching the car with the driver’s undercover role. In the end, he’d gotten to keep the car.

He popped open the lid to the trunk when he got to the car and threw his overnight bag into the compartment. He pulled his worn out black leather biker jacket out of the trunk. He didn’t like to bring the jacket into Nikki’s house, because it smelled like cigarette smoke from too many hours spent inside the dive bars of Reno. He pulled the jacket on. It was as comfortable as an old pair of gloves, and topped off his ensemble well. The only variables in his daily wardrobe were the logos on his black t-shirts. Today’s selection bore the profound message, Save a tree, eat a beaver.

He pulled back the carpet on the floor of the trunk and opened a secret compartment he’d built into the space next to the spare tire. He took his .380 pistol out of the compartment and slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Next, he took out a cloth bag that held three Rolex watches. He’d checked them out of the evidence vault at the start of the operation. They called them assets in use. He slid a watch with twelve diamonds built into its black face on to his wrist, and put the bag back into the compartment.

The Beretta pistol he’d bought from Red the night before was in there too. He felt a hot flash as he looked at the gun. He thought about the nightmare that had jarred him from his sleep only hours before. He shook off the feelings of fear that were creeping into his head and slammed the trunk closed.

He stood back and looked at his reflection in the tinted windows of his car. His dirty blonde hair hung loosely to his shoulders, his beard was in need of a trim, and his clothes made him look like he was about to pose for the cover of Easy Rider Magazine. Somewhere under that façade was the idealistic twenty-five year old kid who had graduated from the Police Academy ten years earlier. He wondered if he’d ever be able to find that kid again.

He got into the car and fired up the motor. He reached down and flipped the switch on the armrest of the driver’s door that opened the compartment he had built into the door panel. The compartment held a Smith and Wesson 4506 .45 caliber pistol. It was small, but he kept it loaded with Black Talon hollow points. The bullets mushroomed when they entered a body, causing massive damage to internal organs. There were two spare seven round magazines mounted in clips next to the gun. The compartment held twenty-two rounds of instant death.

He reached under the drivers seat and felt the stock of the Ithaca .410 sawed off shotgun that was mounted there. It was his ritual to make sure his guns were in place before he headed out for his job. His guns were all meant to be close range killing machines. His theory was that if he ever got into trouble, he probably wouldn’t have to shoot far, but he might have to shoot a lot. He didn’t want to run out of guns.

The last thing he did before heading out of the lot was pop open the speaker cover on his dash board and insert a fresh micro cassette tape into the recorder he had built into the speaker compartment. A foot switch mounted in the floorboard under the brake pedal activated the recorder. He’d turned it on the night before when Star had gotten into his car. He’d have to book that tape into evidence. The tape he was now putting in would record whatever events would take place inside of his office on wheels today.

He pulled out on to Highway 395 and headed north towards downtown. Reno was nestled in a valley that was surrounded by the Sierra Nevada Mountains to the west, the Peavine Mountains to the north, and high rolling hills to the south and east. The cold air in the winter created an inversion, which kept a layer of stale brown air hovering over the city like a dome. The upper floors of the high-rise casinos poked through the thick smog. They looked like sinewy fingers beckoning those who came too close into the evil that lurks underneath the brown dome.

Stoner thought the city itself was repulsive. Everything was glitter and neon. Even the famous arch in the middle of downtown that proclaimed it to be The Biggest Little City In The World was nothing more than a multitude of light bulbs. He called it, Neon Slime. Even though it was ugly, he loved the fast paced life of downtown Reno. This is where he spent most of his waking hours, and where he felt most alive.

The dashboard clock read 7:30 A.M. It was a twenty-minute drive to the undercover office located in a warehouse on the outskirts of town. They’d chosen an obscure industrial complex to house their operation. The other business owners in the complex didn’t know there was a Police operation running out of the warehouse with blacked out windows, and no sign hanging over the door. Their neighbors didn’t talk to them, or ask any questions. That was how the cops wanted it. Anonymity was a desired quality in any undercover operation.

He walked into the office at 8:05. They were working a day shift because it was Friday. Most of the cops wanted to get a head start on their weekend. Stoner was the only single cop assigned to the operation. The other members of the team would be spending the night with their families, or in one case, with a chippie the wife didn’t know about. Stoner would be spending the night by himself.

Like most cops, he was divorced. He had no one to go home to. His ex-wife had moved back to the east coast, taking their fouryear-old son with her. His son was the only person in his life he really cared about, and he was three thousand miles away.

Stoner was a deep undercover cop. As such, he wasn’t allowed to associate with any other cops, or with anyone who knew he was a cop. This was for safety reasons. He hadn’t seen any of his friends for nearly two years. Being isolated from everything in his real life was one of the things that were making him so weird lately. Thinking about all of this added to the sense of dread he felt coming over him as he walked into the office.

The cops working in the operation spent most of their time in the small office located in the front portion of the large warehouse. The group consisted of four detectives, and one sergeant who supervised them.

They had all taken on false names when they went undercover. Another rule in the unit was that no one called anyone else by their real name at any time. The purpose of this was to get the undercover cops used to their fake names so they would be second nature to them when they were out on the street.

They tried to think of names that used the same initials, and sounded close to their real names. That way, they could easily blow it off if they were with a criminal and someone from their real life saw them and called them by their real name. But of course, they were still cops. They tried to pick names that had some sick hidden meaning known only to them that would add humor to their arrests when they came out from undercover.

Stoner’s real name was Jake Slater. He chose the name Jack because it was close to his given name. Stoner had been his nickname when he was going to Catholic high school back in New Jersey. He’d been cut from the football team for his continued use of marijuana as a way to get prepped for the big games, and the name stuck with him. Thus, the character Jack Stoner was born.

The other cops were already at the office when he arrived. Two of them were seated at their desks, and greeted him with the usual head nod. The other two were in the warehouse engaged in a heated game of darts. They had all become quite skilled at bar games since the operation began. The cops used the dartboard in the warehouse more than they used the four beat up Remington typewriters sitting on the hand-me-down gray metal desks in the office. They did have their priorities.

The unit was set up as a sting operation targeting drugs and stolen property. The idea behind the operation was to put out two undercover cops to network into the inner workings of the local criminal element. These two cops were referred to as Scouts. They would infiltrate the criminal environment and identify viable targets. They spent most of their time inside dive bars, and any other place frequented by the outlaws of the city. They carried enough money with them to make small purchases of contraband, referred to on the street as swag. They wouldn’t carry enough money with them to make large buys. There was too much of a chance of getting ripped off if the crooks thought they could make a big score.

The scouts would set up deals to buy swag from the targets once they identified them. If the deal were too large for the scout to do on his own, he’d call in one of the Moneymen. The groups’ sergeant and one senior detective were the only ones permitted to carry large sums of cash. This prevented the scouts from getting sticky fingers. The brass didn’t even trust their own people when it came to undercover work.

The scouts would always bring the crook to a public place to do the deal. The sting cops had a refurbished cab-over camper they used as a surveillance vehicle. Whoever wasn’t working the deal would be inside of the camper videoing the transaction, and providing cover for the undercover cops. The camper was a beater, but it contained state of the art audio and video equipment, as well as a small arsenal of weapons. The moneyman would show up and do the deal in close proximity to the camper. They’d never been ripped off, but they were well prepared if someone should try it.

This operation was different from others tried in the past, due to the fact that it was mobile. There was no storefront operation to keep up, which eliminated the possibility of getting burned should someone catch on to the sting. The operation was only limited by the imagination of the undercover cops, and they had some very vivid imaginations. The mobile concept worked well, as it kept the crooks off guard. They never knew where they were going to meet for a deal, so they couldn’t plan rip offs.

Every good police operation needs an acronym or it isn’t considered worthwhile. The sting cops tried several different combinations of letters to name their operation, but they kept striking out. They needed something catchy that would include the fact that they were mobile. Stoner was about three quarters of the way into a bottle of vodka one night when he came up with the name, Street Crimes Undercover Mobile Buy and Arrest Group. The brass at R.P.D. loved it. Of course, they were too far removed from the street to realize that for the duration of their assignment, the sting cops would be known as the S.C.U.M.B.A.G.’s. Stoner’s mind worked in mysterious ways.

The group had been staffed with officers borrowed from different units within the department. Stoner was one of the two scouts. He’d transferred in from the street crimes unit, where he’d spent two years working hookers and dopers. He had been getting a little burned out on that and welcomed the challenge the new assignment would give him. Looking back, he’d give just about anything to be back there now. He missed the camaraderie, and the fact that he could be himself when he clocked out at the end of his shift.

The other scout was a 34-year old African American named Lorenzo Clayton who had transferred in from uniform patrol. He’d only been with R.P.D. for a year and a half, but he’d served with

L.A.P.D. for seven years before moving to Reno for a taste of the quiet life for him and his family. He wanted his kids to have the chances he never had growing up in the inner city.

Lorenzo took on the undercover name of Clarence Carter. His street name was C.C. He said this was because he was brought up in Compton California, and C.C. was the acronym given to the street gang the Compton C.R.I.P.S. His brother was in that gang, and died in a drive-by shooting on his eighteenth birthday. Lorenzo was only fifteen when he got to see his big brother in a body bag. That was the day he started hating gangs.

One day after some heavy drinking, he’d told Stoner that he only had one confirmed kill in his career, and it wasn’t on duty. Stoner figured he’d found the person who killed his brother, and did what he had to do. He didn’t ask any questions. He just said, "A man turns his back on his family, he ain’t no