Closure (Jack Randall) by Randall Wood Page B

spent the day on the Strip and Sam could not afford to follow them. With security cameras everywhere in the casinos, he did not want his face seen in multiple places the same time as his target. He had no doubt that the FBI would soon be reviewing all the tapes looking for someone tailing Profit. Disguise or no disguise, he couldn’t risk it. Besides, with the tracers on the car, Sam really didn’t need to follow him closely, he just needed the radio to track the signal from the car and his own rental car. One of thousands in the city, it was never looked at twice. So Sam cruised the Strip every hour or so, and waited for the radio to beep as he got close to the car. A few times he entered some parking garages to see the car up close. Most were under the hotels and full of people coming and going. Sam quickly ruled out blowing the device in a garage. The risk of fire and bystanders was too great. He would just have to be patient. His time would come. Sam had never been patient. It had taken some good football coaches, a few drill instructors, and some time at war to teach him the advantage of discipline. Sam was very good at what he did. So good he taught others before he left. That experience was invaluable now. Time would offer him a chance, and when it did, he would be ready. He checked his watch, he had time for a meal and a nap before the fight.
    •      •      •
    The MGM Garden Arena was a boxing promoter’s dream. It housed thousands of ticket holders. No expense had been spared to make this one of the best facilities of its kind in Vegas. It had more than enough lighting, sufficient entrances and exits and enough air-conditioning for a large crowd of rowdy fight fans.
    Sam arrived halfway through the second match. Two welterweights were firing the crowd up for the main event. The two men were evenly matched, and although the crowd didn’t know it, they were seeing the only real boxing that was going to take place that night. The noise was already putting the arena’s sound dampening to the test. It was Sam’s first time at a live match, and he found he didn’t really like it. The crowd seemed to get into it just a little too much for his taste. Besides, he was here to work.
    Raising his binoculars to his face he saw a group of people move toward the section he had been eyeballing all night. He had been lucky to overhear two of Profit’s men discussing where they would be seated for the fight. The group tonight consisted of Profit, his two decorative ladies, two security men, and a few semi-celebrity friends. They made a grand showing of taking their seats.
    Sam could see them quite clearly from his seat in the upper deck on the opposite side. He watched Profit smile at his ladies and friends. Drinks were brought. His crew yelled at the fighters, demanding some blood. It was going to be a fun night.
    “Enjoy it while it lasts you piece of shit,” he muttered under his breath.
    Fifteen minutes later, Sam turned his attention to the announcer. He couldn’t help but smile when the guy launched into his familiar introductions of the fighters and on into his catch phrase: “Let’s get ready to rumble!” The guy was perfect. One of the best jobs a guy could have. It was right up there with the guy who announced the President at the State of the Union address. He had read somewhere that this guy had actually copyrighted the phrase, unbelievable. It did work its magic on the crowd. They responded by standing and cheering and Sam acquired the first of many drops of beer on his jacket. The crowd was primed for the fight. Nothing like seeing two men beat each other to a pulp.
    The usual instructions from the referee and the bell sounded. The Englishman was immediately on the offensive while the Champion danced around him. The crowd around Sam began to continuously yell instructions, insults, boos, and cheers. Sam lost his view of Profit through the binoculars as he was constantly jostled by the fans