Chimera (26 page)

The big man’s eyes flew open in shock; first from the sudden impact of the icy water, and then from the searing pains in his ribs and sternum that sent hot needles into his brain with every slight movement of his legs, arms and upper torso.

“Okay, sport,” Bulatt said as he yanked the big man to his feet, and then held him steady until he finally stopped blinking in shock and gasping for breath, “now that we’ve come to a mutual understanding, I think it’s time we had a serious talk with some of your friends.”

*
   
*
   
*

The receptionist looked up — first in surprise, and then in shock — as Bulatt shoved his bleeding and strapping-tape-secured assailant in through the front door entrance to Hood Electronics; and then proceeded to support and muscle the barely-conscious man past the reception counter toward the right-side door in staggering eighteen-inch steps.

“Can I help —?” the receptionist tried.

“That’s all right, I’ll announce myself,” Bulatt said as he shoved his trussed-up assailant through the second door.

Bill Rightmore was still holding the phone in his hand, trying to understand what his frantic receptionist was trying to tell him, when a big man — whose arms and feet were restrained by strapping tape — staggered through the closed swing-doors to his research lab and then collapsed to the floor; immediately followed by another familiar figure with a pistol in one hand and a federal agent badge case in the other.

“What the hell —?!” Rightmore started to demand, his right hand making a reflexive grab for a nearby drawer before Bulatt waved him off with the Sig Sauer.

“Federal Agent,” Bulatt said calmly as he sat down on the edge of one of the lay-out tables, and placed his badge case back into his jacket pocket.
 
“Move over by the doors.”

“But —?”

“Do it now,” Bulatt ordered, calming aiming the Sig at the ashen electronics expert’s chest with his right hand while he pulled his Blackberry cell phone out of its belt holder with his left.

“You won’t shoot me,” Rightmore tried as he began to move grudgingly toward the now-closed doors.
 
“You can’t; I haven’t done anything to provoke you.”

“Yes, you have … and yes, I can, Mr. Rightmore, because I consider you to be a very dangerous man; someone who is perfectly capable of going for a hidden weapon — as you tried to do just a moment ago — and making a lethal attempt on my life.
 
That will be my testimony before the board of review; and, if necessary, on the witness stand.
 
You, of course, won’t be testifying.”

“But I am not —”

“Yes, you are.
 
Pick him up,” Bulatt directed, motioning with the Sig at the taped man sprawled on the floor as he began working the Blackberry with his left index finger.

“But —”

“Pick that man up and brace him against those doors, right now, Mr. Rightmore; or take a bullet in the knee, your choice,” Bulatt ordered as he selected the Blackberry’s CALL function.
 
He could hear a commotion starting up in the distant reception room.

“Listen to me, you don’t know what —!”

The sound of heavy boots began to echo down the hallway.

Bulatt shifted his aim to Rightmore’s left knee.

“No!
 
Wait!
 
Don’t shoot … I’ll do it!”

The heavy doors crashed open just as Rightmore managed to get Bulatt’s semi-conscious assailant standing upright; the left one slamming into Rightmore hard and sending both men tumbling to the floor.
 
The re-bounding impact of the door knocked the first newcomer off-balance, causing him to stumble into his partner; whereupon both men tripped over the sprawled legs and arms of Rightmore and the still-unconscious parking lot assailant.

By the time the two newcomers managed to regain their balance, they found themselves staring at the working end a Sig Sauer .40-caliber semiautomatic pistol; and at a federal agent belt-badge visible under Bulatt’s open jacket.

“Hello, this is Special Agent Gedimin Bulatt, of the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service, requesting immediate assistance,” Bulatt said, watching the two newcomers as he spoke calmly into his Blackberry cell phone.
 
“I’m in the office of a Mr. Bill Rightmore, the owner of Hood Electronics in the city of Redmond; and I’m holding a gun on three men, at least two of whom are visibly armed and presumably dangerous.
 
There’s fourth man in the parking lot — in the back of a dark blue van — that I’ve chained to the trailer hitch, and probably a couple others on the perimeter.”

There was a pause.
 
“No, I’m fine here, but I would appreciate it if you’d send some officers by to check on the fellow in the van; make sure he’s ok.
 
Yes, as soon as you can; but no, a code-run won’t be necessary.
 
Yes, thank you.”

Bulatt shut off the Blackberry, set it on the table, and then stared amiably at the two newcomers.

“That was the local police dispatcher,” he explained.
 
“There should be uniformed patrol officers arriving in the parking lot, oh, I’d say within three-to-four minutes, tops.
 
I understand they’re pretty good about officer-needs-assistance calls around here, even when it involves the feds.”

“You son-of-a-bitch,” first arriving newcomer whispered.
 
Both of the casually-dressed men looked thoroughly pissed, and ready to go for the holstered weapons under their unzipped jackets at any second.

“Yes, I agree; a truly nasty trick to play on a fellow fed, assuming that’s what you fellows really are,” Bulatt said.
 
“But your two thugs out in the parking lot deserved what they got; and you will too if you don’t decide to start talking in the next couple of minutes.”

“I’ll take Tommy with me, and drive him and Joe out of here with their van,” the second newcomer said to the first as he bend down and dead-lifted his bound and semi-conscious comrade to his feet.
 
“You cover; this asshole’s not going to shoot.”

“Not unless one of you does something really stupid, like go for a gun,” Bulatt agreed.
 
“And I’m not even going to shoot if both of you decide to turn around and walk back out that door,” he added.
 
“But I don’t think you’re going to want to do that without these.”
 
He held up a pair of padlock keys.

“Why would I need keys?” the second newcomer demanded.
 
“I’ll just cut the fucking chain off.”

“Possibly because it’s going to take you at least a half-hour to hack-saw your way through that chain, or the locks, assuming you manage to find a decent hacksaw with some extra blades,” Bulatt suggested, “and I’m guessing at least that long to find bolt-cutter big enough to do the job.”

“You ever hear of a fucking blow torch?”

“That ought to do the trick,” Bulatt agreed; “but don’t forget, if you do decide to use a torch, the heat transfer’s probably going to cook your buddy’s larynx before you complete the cut; even if you start at the hitch end of the chain.
 
You’ll know it’s time to stop when he starts screaming, so you might keep a bucket of cold water handy.”

The second newcomer blinked, and then stared at Bulatt uncertainly.

“None of which really matters, or is even relevant,” Bulatt went on, “because you guys don’t have a half hour.
 
I copied down the license plate of that very distinctive blue van; which means I can have a serious, multi-jurisdictional APB out on the street in five minutes or less if you both try to run.
 
End result: I interrogate you guys down at the local police station sometime later today, under more formal conditions; but I don’t think you want that.”

The second newcomer started to say something, and then hesitated.

“What
one
of you really wants to do, and I really don’t care who,” Bulatt went on calmly, “is to go outside, unlock Joe from that bumper hitch, and get him — and, of course, Tommy, here — into one of your other vans and onto the freeway, as quickly as possible, and certainly before the cops get here, while the other one stays here and talks to me.
 
And, just as a reminder, you
are
running out of time to make that decision.”

“What keeps us from just taking Tommy and Joe out of here and telling you to go fuck yourself?” the first newcomer asked suspiciously.

Bulatt shrugged.
 
“Aside from the fact that I still have the upper hand, and might decide to shoot your ass at any moment,” he pointed out, gently waving the Sig, “I’d say the rapidly approaching cops; and, of course, Mr. Rightmore here, who isn’t leaving under any circumstances.
 
He and I still need to talk.”

“Mind if I call my supervisor?”

“Be my guest.”
 
Bulatt shrugged.

The first newcomer carefully pulled the unzipped flap of his jacket open, clearly revealing a semi-automatic pistol secured in a well-worn shoulder holster; then slowly unclipped a cell phone from his belt, opened it up, thumbed a couple of buttons and brought the phone up to his ear and mouth.

“Tomcat-two,” he said after a moment, “I’m in the lab.
 
Turns out subject White is federal wildlife agent.”
 
A pause.
 
“No, actually, at the moment, we’re under his control.”
 
He briefly summarized the situation, and then listened for a few seconds.
 
“No, he’s not being cooperative at all.”
 
He listened a few more seconds before saying: “yes, sir, will do.”
 
He then set the still-open cell phone down on the table, and then turned to his partner.

“Take Tommy out of here and link up with the boss.
 
I’ll stay here,” the first newcomer directed, gesturing his head at Bulatt who agreeably tossed the keys to the second newcomer.
 
They both watched the wiry but clearly muscular man hurriedly drag ‘Tommy’ out the door.

“Okay, sport,” the first newcomer snarled as he suddenly whirled back toward Bulatt, “You and I are —”
 

The first newcomer’s hand — now wrapped around the grip of the shoulder-holstered pistol — was still coming clear of the jacket when three concussive explosions rocked the lab.
 
Three hollow-pointed rounds struck the attacking newcomer center-of-chest, the impacts sending him staggering backwards and crumbling to the ground in agony.

After waving his now-smoking pistol suggestively to keep the shocked and now speechless Rightmore in place, Bulatt walked over to the sprawled gunman, reached down and scooped up the dropped pistol, put it on the bench, and then used his right boot to turn the gasping and trembling man over onto his back.

The man tried to ignore the painful damage to his chest, and get back up to his feet; but his eyes bulged in agony at the first attempt.
 
After an even-less-effective second attempt, he remained on his back and glared helplessly at Bulatt — who briefly examined man’s reddened face for signs of shock, then bent down, picked up the dropped cell phone, and brought it up to his ear and mouth.

“Hi,” he said calmly, “this is Special Agent Bulatt, AKA subject White; and no, I’m still not being cooperative.”

“What just happened in there?” a familiar voice demanded.

“Ah, Agent Smith, I believe.
 
How odd that our paths should cross again.
 
But to answer your question, your man here went for his gun, so I shot him.”

“You … shot one of my men?!” ‘Agent Smith’ rasped in disbelief.

“Three rounds, center of mass, three-inch group, in self-defense,” Bulatt replied matter-of-factly.
 
“Good thing you guys bought the expensive vests instead of the cheap shit.
 
He was flopping on the floor for a while, and turning an interesting shade of purple, trying to catch his breath; but he looks pretty stable now.
 
Probably cracked his sternum in a couple of places; but I stayed away from his heart, so the bruises ought to heal in a few weeks.
 
Pity he and the other fellows didn’t have the foresight to insert ear-plugs before I arrived, but I’m sure their ears will stop ringing after a while.”

“All right, Agent Bulatt, here’s the deal.
 
You have precisely two minutes to walk out of there with your hands up or I’m sending in —” Smith started to say when Bulatt interrupted.

“Two minutes ought to be just about the time my Redmond Police buddies start showing up and taking everyone into custody who isn’t willing to identify himself as a federal law enforcement officer,” Bulatt pointed out.
 
“And, so far, I’m the only one who has.”

There was another pause.

“Your time is rapidly approaching one minute and counting,” Bulatt reminded, “and, yes, I will take a polygraph if things ever get to the formal review board stage; which I’m sure they won’t.”

“I — we need to talk, face to face,” Smith finally said.

“Fine with me,” Bulatt said agreeably.
 
“Come on in; and don’t forget to bring along someone to haul this character out of here.
 
He’s starting to smell; I think he shit his pants.”

“I’ll bring two —” the voice started to say, but Bulatt interrupted again

“No, I said you’ll bring one, and no weapons.
 
We’ve got plenty here already, and I really don’t want to have to write any more ‘shots fired’ memos; they tend to upset our Washington Office.”

*
   
*
   
*

Approximately five minutes later, the all-too-familiar ‘Agent Smith’ — now dressed in jeans, boots and a flannel shirt, but with no concealing jacket or visible weapons — cautiously opened the swinging doors of the electronic lab.

“Just us
federales
,” Bulatt said from his sitting position on the lab table.
 
“Come on in and take a seat.”