Chimera

CHAPTER 28

Redmond, WA

The Hood Electronics building was located in an older industrial section of Redmond, Washington, just west of the Sammamish River and about three miles north of the far more spectacular Microsoft facilities. According to King County records, the one-story cement block structure had been built thirty-six years ago, and had five previous owners — all electronic manufacturing operations that had quickly gone out of business.

But from Special Agent Gedimin Bulatt’s perspective, the grey and purple paint on the building looked new; the surrounding parking lot for employees and visitors had recently been resurfaced and striped; there were forty-two cars in the lot — almost all relatively new and well-cared-for — taking up almost half the parking spaces; and the Plexiglas sign high over the main entrance looked modern and intriguing.

Must have found yourself an interesting and profitable niche in the electronics manufacturing business, Mr. Rightmore, Bulatt thought as he put down his telephoto-lens-equipped digital camera. Can’t wait to find out what that might be.

Bulatt figured he had every right to be suspicious and skeptical of what appeared, on the surface, to be a perfectly normal light manufacturing company.

In the past hour, a total of eight supposed customers had driven into the Hood Electronics parking lot, entered the building, and then departed ten-to-fifteen minutes later. The two individuals who had left with small packages in their hands displayed all the outward signs of being biologists or naturalists. The remaining six — actually three separate pairs, all of whom had left empty-handed — looked and acted, as far as Bulatt was concerned, like federal agents or cops.

Especially the last two — the ones he’d just photographed — who gave the distinct impression of being off-duty members of a SWAT team; as well as men who put a lot of emphasis on their weight training, aggressive demeanors, and constant sweep-checks of their surroundings.

Surprised you guys aren’t wearing bright red SWAT t-shirts with eight-inch-letters on the front; which actually wouldn’t be a bad idea, Bulatt thought as he made a few more notations in his field notebook, not liking what he was seeing at all.

The federal, state and local law enforcement academy lectures were routinely filled with horror-story examples of how things could go terribly wrong when undercover investigators from completely different or isolated agencies suddenly found themselves converged on a single suspect or location; having no idea that anyone else was in the immediate area.

It was a relevant concern to Bulatt because he was reasonably sure there were at least two identifiable federal agencies among those three sets of supposed customers; both of whom were known for keeping their shooting review boards very busy.

Wonderful, just wonderful, Bulatt muttered to himself as he tapped his fingers contemplatively against his field notebook, checked his watch again, and then stared out across the parking lot. Now what?

The ideal solution would have been to maintain his position for another hour or so, observing and photographing the apparently steady stream of clients who did business with Hood Electronics; and thereby, ideally, gain some sense of what was going on before he inadvertently stepped into some kind of cops-and crooks crossfire.

But it was one-fifty-five in the afternoon, he was still recovering from jet-lag, and his appointment with the owner of Hood Electronics was for 2:00 PM. It was also starting to rain steadily now, which would make viewing and photographing through the windows of his rented van increasingly difficult. And if the temperature dropped another couple of degrees — as it likely would — the rain would turn to snow, which would make covert photo surveillance in an open parking lot virtually impossible anyway.

And just to make things more interesting, the two likely SWAT team guys were still sitting in their dark blue van, about half-way between his position and the building… and there was at least one other van with dark-tinted windows in the parking lot that seemed to be occupied

… and a new green truck rigged with an over-the-cab camper unit in the warehouse was parked across the street, about a hundred yards away, at an odd angle, and generally looking out-of-place among a half-dozen much-older cars and trucks.

All of which told Bulatt that he’d probably been under surveillance from the moment he’d driven into the Hood Electronics parking lot.

The question was: by whom?

He was tempted to pick up his cell phone, call Mr. Rightmore’s secretary, and ask to change his appointment; but he knew that might make things even worse.

If he was right about the general occupations of the supposed Hood Electronics customers, it was likely that one or more of the interested parties would follow him back to his hotel room — probably using a team and vehicle he hadn’t seen yet — and monitor his activities until they finally figured out he was a covert federal wildlife agent working a Clouded Leopard case with other Interpol officers.

Which wouldn’t be all that big of a deal, all things considered, as long as one of those interested parties isn’t a group of extremely dangerous international hunting guides who probably have special ops training and weapons; and may be looking to replenish the flashers they’d lost at Tanga Island a few days ago, Bulatt thought morosely.

Shit.

Sighing to himself, Bulatt placed his wallet, camera, field notebook, 40-caliber Sig Sauer pistol, extra magazines, badge and credentials into an extremely sturdy titanium camera case that couldn’t be opened easily without either the combination or some serious metal-working tools; took out his covert wallet; locked the case; slid it behind his seat; picked up a small zipped black nylon satchel; then got out of the van, locked the door, ducked his head away from the wind-driven rain, and began walking toward the brightly-painted building.

In doing so, he was able to ignore the seemingly empty dark blue van parked about ten spaces ahead and to his right.

At the building entrance, he paused to take a final look around the parking lot, acting as if he’d been waiting impatiently all this time for someone else to arrive. Then he pulled the door open and walked inside.

The receptionist at the front counter looked up expectantly with a pleasant smile. “Yes, may I help you?”

“Hello, I’m Dr. Drew Pratt.” Bulatt handed her one of his covert business cards that listed him as a research biologist for the state of Idaho. “I have an appointment to see Mr. Rightmore this morning.”

The receptionist checked her schedule.

“Yes, here you are; Dr. Pratt, nine A.M. Just a moment please.” She picked up a phone, punched in a two-digit number, waited a moment, then said “Mr. Rightmore, I have a Dr. Pratt here to see you. Yes, sir, I’ll send him right in.”

The receptionist looked back up at Bulatt. “If you’ll go inside that door, and walk down the hallway,” she said, pointing to the doorway on her left, “Mr. Rightmore will meet you there.”

At the end of the hallway, as promised, Bulatt was met by a non-descript man in his mid-fifties — wearing casual deck shoes, khakis, and a buttoned-down collared shirt — who could have been, believably, anything and anyone from a grown-up electronics nerd to a covert operative nearing mandatory retirement.

“Dr. Pratt,” the man said, offering a firm but welcoming hand-shake, and then gesturing for Bulatt to follow him inside a large room that looked like a rarely-cleaned electronics research lab. “I’m Bill Rightmore. Welcome to my playground. I understand you’re interested in some of our tracking devices. How can I help you?”

“Well, I was hoping you could tell me if these flashers were made by your company; and, if so, anything at all about the people who might have purchased them,” Bulatt said as he unzipped the black nylon satchel, pulled out one of the flashers from Tanga Island, and one of the collars that had been cut off the two Clouded Leopards found by the Thailand wildlife authorities.

He handed the two items to Rightmore, and then zipped the satchel closed and placed it on a nearby layout table top.

Rightmore set the collar aside on a stainless-steel-topped workbench, placed the flasher under the lens of a dissecting microscope, and began to examine it closely.

“Yes, this is definitely one of our flasher units,” Rightmore confirmed, looking up from the microscope, “a WB-7E, our latest and most expensive model. We’re actually quite proud of these new units. They’re quite small, as you can see; but still capable of sending out a pulsed signal in the IR, UV and visual bands of the spectrum in addition to the standard UHF and VHF frequencies. They’re also self-charging by solar cell; and can be adjusted as to signal output, duration and start/stop time by a remote transmitter. And this — ” he picked up the severed and still-blood-stained collar with attached flasher, “- appears to be an interesting modification of a WB-7E.”

Rightmore examined the collar unit more closely for a few seconds. “Yes, definitely a WB-7E, with a larger solar cell re-charger and battery mounted on the collar.” Then he looked up at Bulatt. “May I ask where you obtained it?”

“One of our maintenance workers found it on a big cat that had been shot in one of our state parks,” Bulatt said. “Apparently, someone had been tracking it for some purpose; but it definitely wasn’t one of our biologists or wardens. That’s why we’re hoping you’d be able to link us to whoever’s using your devices in our area.”

Rightmore seemed to consider the idea for a few seconds.

“We may be able to give you some leads; but — as you probably noticed — we don’t put serial numbers on these particular devices, so tracking them back to a specific individual really isn’t possible. However, this collar modification might give us something to go on. There aren’t many people working in this specific field of research, and most of us know do each other. Would, uh, these people be in some sort of trouble?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Bulatt said. “We were going to turn the devices over to our law enforcement folks, and let them deal with whatever hunting violations might be involved. But, to tell you the truth,” Bulatt dropped his voice slightly, “these trackers are far better than anything we’ve got in our inventory, and we’re kind of hoping we can work out some kind of cooperative arrangement with whoever’s using them in our park. You know, sharing data, that sort of thing. I, uh, assume the WB-7E’s are pretty expensive?”

“A hundred-and-ten each; with a fifteen-percent discount in orders of ten or more,” Rightmore nodded, shrugging apologetically. “We’d certainly like to make them more affordable; but the multi-phase transmitter chips we’re using to regulate the output signal are still very expensive, even when we buy them in thousand-unit lots.”

Bulatt grimaced and then sighed. “I was afraid the situation might be something like that; they’re definitely way out of our budget, as usual.”

Rightmore smiled sympathetically.

“I guess you probably hear that a lot from the state research biologists here in Washington, too,” Bulatt went on. “It’s been a constant battle trying to get the state fish and game agencies in the Northwest to properly fund basic wildlife research these last few years.”

“We do get a lot of queries from the states,” Rightmore said. “And, on occasion, we have been able to come up with much less expensive devices that more-or-less meet their needs.”

“Then you must have to put up with a local friend of mine, Dr. Philip Rainier, on a fairly regular basis.” Bulatt smiled. “Phil’s pretty much a legend in the Northwest animal behavior research community; jury-rigs tracking devices with just about anything he can get his hands on that possesses an electronic pulse.”

“Dr. Rainier has stopped by a few times in the past,” Rightmore acknowledged, “but I don’t believe we’ve seen him recently.”

“Probably just as well. Knowing Phil, he probably took one look at your gear, and then spent the rest of his visit trying to figure out how he could pry your back door without setting off the alarms.”

“Actually, we’ve enjoyed his occasional visits. You could always count on him to come up with some innovative approaches to data collection; but we did have to keep a close eye on him around the stockroom,” Rightmore acknowledged with a seemingly amused shrug.

“Well, for better or worse, he did finally retire; almost a year ago now,” Bulatt said. “I understand he spends most of his time now fishing in Oregon with his two grandkids.”

“Heard a lot about those kids over the years,” Rightmore said. “Good for Phil, couldn’t happen to a more deserving fellow.” Then he looked back down at the flashers and collar. “As for these units, our chief design engineer will be back in the office tomorrow. Perhaps, if you could leave them with me for a couple of days, he may be able to give you a lead on your lion trackers.”

“Actually, I’d like to,” Bulatt said as he walked over to the workbench, picked up the flasher and collar, put them back into the nylon satchel, and zipped it closed, “but I’ve already promised to show them to a group of Northwest park managers at a coordination meeting in Olympia tomorrow. But, if you don’t mind, I would like to bring them back later — maybe in a couple of days — so we can try to get a lead on their owners? I really hate to give up on a potential equipment-sharing opportunity.”

Bulatt caught a brief flash of annoyance in Rightmore’s expression, but it quickly disappeared as the electronics researcher nodded his head agreeably.

“That would be fine, of course. We’re always happy to try to help potential customers, even if their resources are a bit limited.”

Bulatt shrugged. “Actually, it’s been my experience that people with limited resources can always find ways to solve problems, as long as they’re willing to work together.” Bulatt picked up the satchel and extended his hand. “Mr. Rightmore, I really do appreciate your help in this matter.”

“Not at all,” Rightmore said as he led Bulatt back down the hallway to the reception area. “And please, the next time you hear from Dr. Rainier, please give him my regards.”

“Yes,” Bulatt said, “I’ll certainly do that.”

“Gecko-Two to Gecko-One.”

“Gecko-One, go.”

“You called it right on the money, boss,” Quince Lanyard spoke into his throat mike as he adjusted the range and focus of his spotting scope to bring the dark blue van back into focus. “The place is crawling with bleedin’ coppers; you’d think they were holding a convention.”

“Any idea who we’re dealing with?”

“Not at this distance. With weather conditions the way they are, we’re doing good to pick out the bloody vehicles; but they’re definitely using spotter teams. We’re set up in a warehouse parking lot across the road, maybe a hundred meters out. The rain’s a bit of a bitch, so we’re not getting much in the way of usable photos; but I wouldn’t want to chance trying to get in any closer just yet. We’re counting at least three teams on the watch, and it looks like they’re working staggered eight hour rotations. If that’s the case, we can bloody well forget about re-supplying the larder.”

“That’s all right, we can make do with what we’ve got for a while,” Wallis replied. “I don’t see how they’re going to be of much use on this next job anyway.”

“Actually, that’s one of the reasons I checked in. Our lad, Jack-o, may have come up with a clever solution to our problem.”

“Really?”

Lanyard could hear the amusement in Wallis’ voice.

“Thing is, I think his plan is fucking brilliant, unlikely as that might seem,” Lanyard went on, giving Gavin a broad wink. “And since there’s not much of interest going on around here, I thought — ”

“Give it another hour, in case the weather clears, and then bring it in,” Wallis agreed. “We need to talk.”

It was raining even harder when Bulatt stepped outside the Hood Electronics entrance and started walking toward his rented van, wondering how he was going to play this latest bit of interesting information.

Thirty seconds later, as he was walking past the dark blue van, he had his answer.

One of the SWAT types suddenly stood up between two nearby cars, walked casually over into the driving lane and placed himself in Bulatt’s path, both hands folded casually in front of his belt.

Bulatt stopped, cocked his head curiously, glanced back to confirm that the second member of the team had taken up position six feet behind him, and then turned his attention back to his first confronter.

“Can I help you?” Bulatt asked.

“We’d like to see what you’ve got in the bag.”

“Really? Why would that be any of your business?” Bulatt asked reasonably.

“We don’t have to give you a reason,” the first man said matter-of-factly.

“Are you planning on showing me a badge, or maybe a set of credentials, along with a signed search warrant?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Well, in that case, whatever I’ve got in this bag is definitely none of your business,” Bulatt said with a slight smile and shrug. “So, if you’ll excuse me — ”

Bulatt heard the man behind him coming in fast, glanced back, saw the sap arcing toward his head, reflexively turned as he tossed the satchel aside, and deflected the potentially lethal blow with a sweeping right forearm block. Then — because he sensed the front man moving in just as fast — he brought his right leg up, twisted his hips sideways, drove his right boot sharply down into the side of his rear assailant’s knee with a ki-yi yell that completely masked the crunching sound of bone against bone.

Continuing his hip-twisting, counter-clockwise spin-move, Bulatt slammed his right forearm solidly into his rear assailant’s face; the brain-scrambling strike crushing the man’s nose and knocked him unconscious at the same instant, thereby cutting off his agonized scream in mid-shriek.

Then, as his rear-assailant was still crumbling to the ground, Bulatt reversed his spin move, used a sweeping left forearm block to deflect his front assailant’s slashing fist strike and knock him sideways; caught the man’s wrist with both hands; pulled him forward off balance; and then drove a hip-snapping round-kick square into his solar plexus. The impact drove most of the air out of the muscular man’s lungs, and dropped him to his knees in shock.

“Hold on,” Quince Lanyard said, suddenly shifting the focal point of his spotting scope over a few feet, zooming in, and then refocusing, “I think we’ve got something interesting going on out there after all.”

“What is it,” Jake Gavin asked from the back of the camper, his head snapping up alert.

“Not sure just yet, mate; but I think the copper’s are starting to have a go at each other.”

“Bloody hell,” Gavin exclaimed as he scrambled up into the main camper bed, “let me see.”

Reacting with reflexes honed from twenty-some years of martial arts and law enforcement training, Bulatt immediately stepped away from his two downed assailants — one now face down unconscious on the wet asphalt, and the other trying to regain his feet, red-faced and gasping for air — into a classic defensive stance.

“You fucking… bastard — ” his front assailant managed to gasp out with what little air he’d managed to suck into his nearly-paralyzed lungs.

“You really want to stay down,” Bulatt warned. “Don’t push it.”

The struggling man looked like he was going to try to say something else. But then, with what appeared to be a super-human effort, he forced himself erect, lunged at Bulatt with his hands extended for what he probably intended to be a lethal throat strike; and then absorbed the full boot-sole impact of a leaping front kick that snapped his head back with a burst of blood from his split lips.

Bulatt could have stepped back, allowing his front assailant to crumble to the ground next to his unmoving partner, and then resorted to far-less-violent control techniques to subdue and handcuff his assailants. Both men were badly hurt, and not really capable of causing any further grief at the moment.

He considered the idea as he watched the big man stagger backwards, trying to maintain his balance on wobbling legs; and probably would have halted his counter-attack, had the man’s initial hand-strike not been attempted in such a savage and potentially lethal manner.

And then, too, it occurred to Bulatt that the big fellow just might be useful in the serious discussion that was going to take place in the next few minutes.

So, instead of showing mercy to a defeated opponent, he lunged forward into the man’s muscular chest with his shoulder, whirled to his left, driving his left elbow into the man’s ribs and sternum with another screaming ki-yi — shattering and separating left-side rib bones from cartilage; whirled back around sharply with his right elbow, causing precisely the same damage to the big man’s right rib cage and sternum; and then stepped back and away into the same defensive stance as the stricken man collapsed to the wet pavement in a unconscious heap.

“Holy mother of God,” Jake Gavin whispered, his right eye glued to the spotting scope.

“What’s the matter?” Quince Lanyard demanded.

“He took them out, those big SWAT roosters, both of them, one-two, like they were a couple of snot-nosed kids.”

“What? Let me see that scope,” Lanyard demanded, grabbing for the spotting scope.

“I’m telling you, mate,” Gavin said as Lanyard fumbled to re-set the scope on the camper mattress, “I think that bloke could take our man Wallis on, straight up, hand-to-hand, and maybe even walk away with the silver cup.”

“No fucking way,” Lanyard whispered, and then blinked in disbelief as he tried to focus the scope’s rain-blurred field on view on the two sprawled bodies in front of the dark blue van.

“Maybe not; but you and I definitely want to be there to watch if the boss and that lad ever do square up.”

Bulatt was moving quickly now, working on the assumption that his freedom of movement could start closing down at any moment.

A search of the dark blue van’s rear storage compartment revealed a number of useful items, including a roll of nylon strapping tape, a six-foot length of heavy chain that was probably used to tow cars, a pair of heavy-duty padlocks, and several soft drink cans in a plastic ice chest filled with crushed ice and water.

Bulatt used the strapping tape to tightly secure the hands of his rear assailant behind his back; taped his ankles together; dragged the limp body into the back of the van; turned him over and around so that he was lying face down with his head near the van’s rear double doors; checked to make sure he was breathing steadily; secured one end of the chain snugly — but not too tight — around the man’s thick neck with one of the locks; and connected the other end of the chain to the welded portion of the van’s rear bumper mount with the second lock.

After gently closing the van doors against the chain, Bulatt used the strapping tape again to secure his front assailant’s hands behind his back, creating a strapping-tape hobble that would limit the extended movement any one foot to eighteen inches.

Then he went back to his van to collect some of his gear, inserted a pair of electronic noise-suppressors in his ears, locked the satchel in the camera case, returned to the dark blue van, grabbed the now-semiconscious and softly-moaning man by his jacket collar, propped him up against the side of the van, set the soft drink cans aside, and then tossed the ice-water contents of the plastic chest into his face.

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 amp; 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.”

Smith stepped inside, immediately followed by a pair of uniformed Redmond police officers who entered with drawn pistols held down and away in both hands.

The uniformed sergeant instantly took in the sight of a glowering Rightmore sitting on the floor in the far corner of the room; the still-purple-faced and intermittently moaning gunman lying glassy-eyed — but breathing steadily — on the floor; the two semi-auto pistols on the table; the Sig and a federal agent’s badge case lying next to Bulatt’s right hand; and then stepped over to the side wall where he could watch the entire room.

The uniformed lieutenant smiled and holstered his pistol.

“Everything okay here, Ged?” the lieutenant asked, thereby providing Smith and Rightmore with just about everything they needed to know about their current situation.

“Everything’s fine here, Al,” Bulatt said, as he stood up from the table and extended a welcoming hand, “just a little misunderstanding about jurisdiction; typical Federal fu-bar. I think we’re about to get it all straightened up.”

“Glad to hear it.” The lieutenant nodded, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he glanced down at the now-only-slightly trembling figure on the floor. “Accidental discharge?”

“Something like that,” Bulatt agreed.

“You do realize we have rules about discharging firearms within the city limit?”

“Absolutely,” Bulatt nodded, “and well you should; but I think if you dig deep enough, you’ll discover this place is actually federal property, in a vague sort of way.”

“Really?” The lieutenant looked over at the grey-haired man, who answered with a non-committal shrug. “Interesting.” The lieutenant continued to look around the shop for a few seconds before returning his attention to the groaning man on the floor. “What about this fellow; is he okay?”

“More or less,” Bulatt said, “but I don’t think he’d object to some medical attention right about now.”

The lieutenant nodded at the sergeant, who reached up to his shoulder with his free hand, activated and then spoke softly into his shoulder-mounted radio mike.

Moments later, a pair of EMTs entered the electronics lab with a stretcher and quickly transported the groaning man out of the room.

“And about that blue van you called in about,” the lieutenant said after the EMTs had departed, “it seems the driver was in a hurry to get a couple other guys some medical attention, so we’re giving them a full escort to the hospital. Want us to take any statements while we’re there?”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Bulatt looked quizzically over at Smith who shook his head.

“In that case, I guess we’ll just leave you fellows to your federal ‘un-fu-baring’ business,” the lieutenant said, motioning to his sergeant who backed out of the door with his gun at his side with one hand, still keeping an eye on the room.

“Glad you could stop by, Al,” Bulatt said, smiling. “Dinner’s on me, next time I’m in town.”

“Definitely going to take you up on that,” the lieutenant replied as he took one last look around the room, visibly taking the time to memorize the grey-haired man’s face, and then departed.

“Mind if I sit down?” Smith asked after the swinging doors grew still.

“Be my guest,” Bulatt said, motioning him to a nearby chair.

“Was it really necessary to work those guys over like that?” he asked as he settled into the chair and stared at Bulatt curiously.

Bulatt reached into his jacket pocket and tossed the sap out onto the table. “You tell me.”

Smith looked at the lethal sap, winced visibly, and then nodded his head. “Okay, I understand; some of these snake-eater types do tend to get a little carried away, every now and then,” he acknowledged.

“Probably the steroids; always an unfortunate side-effect,” Bulatt commented as he glanced over at the remaining man on the floor. “So how’s our Mr. Rightmore doing down there? You figure he’s still thinking about that gun in the drawer?”

Smith looked over at the glowering supposed-electronics-expert.

“Yeah, probably,” he said. “Come on up, Bill; I think he’s got us stalemated for the moment.” Smith extended a hand and helped Rightmore into an adjoining chair where he sat and continued to glare sullenly at Bulatt.

“Just for the record,” Bulatt said to Rightmore, “There never has been a biologist named Rainier who worked for Washington State Fish I know that because I called and checked this morning. There is, however, a Phil Rainier who happens to be the resident agent in charge of our Bellingham office; but he doesn’t have any kids, much less grandkids, and I seriously doubt that he would recognize a modern tracking device if he tripped over one. Never was much of a technical type. You, of course, would have known most — or all — of that if you’d been working as closely with wildlife law enforcement around here, as you said you were; or if you’d bothered to flesh out your cover with some local cross-references.”

Smith glared at Rightmore, who now looked more chagrined than furious.

“Okay, gentlemen,” Bulatt said, “short and sweet: why do you care about a couple of your tracking devices that may or may not be linked to a violation of federal and international wildlife laws?”

“Short and sweet, we don’t care… about the wildlife violations,” Smith said calmly. “I tried to explain that to Major Preithat.”

“Good, glad to hear it.” Bulatt nodded. “But if I were to tell you those devices are definitely linked to the death of Major Preithat’s five Thai Rangers; the near-fatal assault on the Thai Interpol Colonel in charge of those Rangers — one of whom was his son; the downing of a Thai Army helicopter; and an assault on a Federal wildlife agent, not counting the deaths of a few assorted crooks and civilians who got caught in the cross-fire, what would you say to all of that?”

“Fuck,” Smith said with an exasperated sigh.

“Yeah, I’m sure all of that complicates your situation a bit,” Bulatt agreed. “So, let’s get to the basic questions: one, who are you guys?; two, who are you?; three, who are these people — the ones who did all the shooting in Thailand?; and four, why are you looking for them?”

“Like I told you in Phuket, I can’t answer any of those questions,” Smith said matter-of-factly.

“I do recall you saying that,” Bulatt acknowledged. “But, at the same time, I have to assume that you don’t want my investigation or my interactions with the local police to reveal the fact that Hood Electronics is, in fact, an Agency asset that provides you guys with state-of-the-art electronic devices — as well as some interesting intelligence info on outside users of those devices — instead of just being ‘vaguely federal property.’”

Rightmore’s eyes widened in horror. He started to say something; but Smith waved him off.

“If any part of what you just said was even remotely true, then no, we wouldn’t want that to happen.”

“And I don’t have any particular desire to cause you guys any more grief than I already have; but I’m not going to back off on my investigation either, so we’re going to need to find a compromise acceptable to all sides,” Bulatt went on as he slid one of his business cards across the table. “Here’s a contact number on the back for the cell phone of the agent in charge of our special ops branch, who happens to be my immediate supervisor. Why don‘t you call your people and have them contact him, see what they can work out?”

“Mind if I step over to the far side of the room to make the call?” Smith asked after briefly glancing at the Blackberry screen.

“No, not at all; just as long as you’re willing to leave that back-up gun here on the table.”

“Oh yeah; forgot about that one.”

Bulatt smiled.

Smith stood up, unclipped a cell phone from his belt with his right hand, and then — in a slow and deliberate manner — reached down with his left to carefully removed the hide-out pistol from his boot and place it on the lab table. Then, at Bulatt’s nod, he walked over to the far side of the room and began working the cell phone.

As he did so, Bulatt busied himself by removing the magazine from the grip — and the round from the chamber — of the hide-out pistol, emptying the magazine, and dropping all of the loose rounds into his jacket pocket.

Thirty seconds later, Smith walked over and sat back down in the chair. “You should be getting a call from your SAC any moment now,” he said.

Another twenty seconds later, Bulatt’s Blackberry began to vibrate.

Bulatt glanced at the screen, then brought the rectangular device up to his ear and said: “Bulatt.”

He listened for approximately two minutes, nodded, said “I understand,” disconnected the call, re-holstered the Blackberry and his pistol on his belt, slide the hide-out pistol and empty magazine back across the table toward Smith, and then sat down in a nearby chair.

“Mind if I call you John?” he asked the grey-haired man who was busy returning his empty back-up weapon to its boot holster. “It seems to go well with Smith.”

Smith looked up and shrugged agreeably. “Sure, why not.”

“Okay, John, I’m Ged.” Bulatt said. “And now that we’ve got all the niceties out of the way, what exactly can you tell me about three former snake-eaters and some Russian smugglers they may or may not be working with?”

“I can’t tell you much about your three primaries,” Smith said after sending Rightmore out for some fresh coffee and telling him to take his time, “other than the fact that all three of them were in the Australian Special Air Service Regiment for a few formative years — where they performed their assigned tasks with what we might describe as a great deal of competence, intensity and enthusiasm — before they decided to free-lance their skills.”

“With you folks?” Bulatt asked.

Smith shrugged as if to say he wasn’t taking the question seriously. “They worked a few assignments in Afghanistan — long range recon and as a four-man hunter-killer team — came close to nailing bin-Laden with a long-shot at least once, possibly twice, before they lost one of their team to a lucky Taliban ricochet; and then, in some manner that we still don’t fully understand, they tripped across Gregor the drug smuggler.”

“Are you talking about Gregor the infamous Chinese Medicinal smuggler?” Bulatt asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise.

“Among his many side operations,” Smith acknowledged. “Gregor was a highly-regarded specialist in the movement of merchandise across unfriendly borders with minimal losses, and at a reasonable cost.”

“Was?”

“His operation suffered a collective fatal accident,” Smith explained. “Every one of his associates died in a sudden and extremely violent aircraft explosion. And Gregor himself; well, let’s just say he died more slowly and painfully.”

“How do you know this, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“We had an asset on the plane,” Smith said matter-of-factly.

“Ah.” Bulatt was thoughtful for a moment. “You knew about Gregor, and probably used him to move things from ‘A’ to ‘B’ on occasion; so you couldn’t have been all that concerned about his other extracurricular activities.”

“Individuals or agencies who hired Gregor for a job would quite naturally assume he always had other irons in the fire,” Smith said obliquely.

Bulatt suddenly blinked in understanding.

“So your asset was actually looking for them — the three Australians, not Gregor and his men?”

Smith nodded silently.

“Stupid question, I’m sure, but I’ll ask it anyway. Why?”

“I assume you’re familiar with the means by which an internal affairs division keeps an eye on full-time permanent government employees?”

Bulatt nodded slowly. “I understand the basic process.”

“Then I’m sure you can also understand why — and how — a similar but substantively different division might be set up to deal with the hired help; which is to say, the extremely dangerous hired help?”

“Sounds like a tough way to make a living,” Bulatt commented.

“It can be… but there are two things you need to understand about these men, Agent Bulatt… excuse me, Ged,” Smith said. “The first being that we consider them to be terribly dangerous, because they are quite good at killing whoever or whatever gets in their way; which they will do without the slightest hesitation or emotional concern. Secondly, that in any civilized context, their leader would be categorized as a brilliant, ruthless and amazingly stable sociopath who also happens to care much more about his men than he does himself. That makes him — if possible and from our perspective — even more dangerous.”

Bulatt thought about the patrolling Rangers — led by Colonel Kulawnit’s son — who’d had the misfortune to run across these three professional killers, and shook his head sadly.

“And finally,” Smith finished, meeting Bulatt’s gaze squarely with his dark eyes, “you need to understand that you and your Interpol associates are in our way; and that’s not going to be acceptable.”

Bulatt thought about that for a few moments.

“I don’t doubt what you said is true: that these men are perfectly capable of hurting or killing a goodly number my Interpol friends and associates if we try to confront them; and that it makes perfect sense to have them hunted down by some of their peers,” he finally said. “I’m assuming, of course, that you have capable people available for such an assignment.”

Smith shrugged noncommittally.

“And I’ll admit I am tempted to just step aside and let your internal affairs team, or whatever you call it, move in and take over our job of bring them to justice. I’d do it in a heartbeat if I had any way of knowing for sure that justice — in terms of a very dear friend of mine — had been served. But the reality is, if I did step aside, I’d never know if you dealt with these malicious assholes in some appropriate manner; or simply brought them back into the fold, so to speak… would I?”

Smith’s silence provided Bulatt with his expected answer.

“More to the point,” Bulatt went on, “I’m not even convinced you’ve brought your ‘A’ team to the game; because your two clowns out in the parking lot lost their cool and blew your surveillance on this place — not to mention my cover — like a couple of rank amateurs.”

“Actually, those guys were walk-ons, auditioning for a full-time role, which they certainly aren’t going to get,” Smith acknowledged. “But what makes you think they blew anything at all, other than the way they dealt with you?”

“I’m guessing you weren’t using a new green truck rigged with an over-the-cab camper unit, parked across the street at an odd angle, and looking just a little out-of-place among the rest of the cars and trucks in the warehouse parking lot; mostly because your people seem to like the ‘new van’ look, and a camper-rig’s pretty much old school in terms of surveillance,” Bulatt said. “On the other hand, that upper bunk would make a real nice staging point for a team of extremely dangerous sociopaths who don’t mind taking medium-range shots at people who get in their way; such as nosey internal affairs teams.

“But I could be wrong,” Bulatt added as he watched Smith lunge up out of his chair, pull the cell phone out of his jacket pocket, and walk a few feet away before making a hurried call. “It could still be over there — green, parked at an odd angle — but I doubt it.”

Thirty seconds later, Smith cursed, snapped his cell phone shut, walked back to the chair, sat down and stared contemplatively at Bulatt.

“Gone?”

Smith nodded silently, still staring.

“You owe me something,” Bulatt said after a long moment. “Will you at least tell me their names?

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Even if I did, their real names wouldn’t give you anything to go on. You’d just be wasting your time. They stopped using them a long time ago.”

“What about their military or paramilitary records?”

“Don’t even think about going that route,” Smith advised. “Those files are out of reach, if they even still exist in the first place; too many cross-links to events that never happened.”

“What about our latent print hit? Can you tell me anything at all about that?” Bulatt pressed. “I’m guessing the fingerprint search engine our lab folks stumbled into had to have been yours. Who else would be looking for those guys with that kind of technology?”

Smith hesitated, and then said: “Look, you now know there are three individuals involved in all of this: the team leader, a second man who is basically a very talented hunter-killer and long-range shot, and a third who possesses certain technical skills useful to a hunter-killer team.”

“But who occasionally forgets to wear gloves when he’s changing the batteries in their remotes?” Bulatt guessed.

Smith nodded his head slowly. “We appreciated the latent submission. It was comforting to know these guys can actually screw up every now and then.”

“But, in any case, based on that latent print, you’re absolutely certain these men you described are our subjects? No chance we might be talking about a misidentified latent?”

Smith hesitated again, and then nodded. “We’re certain.”

“Can you give me anything else to go on?” Bulatt asked. “Anything else at all?”

“I can give you a piece of tangential information,” Smith said after a moment. “Before he was killed, our asset reported that Gregor was doing something with a group of Russians who immigrated to the U.S. several years ago; he didn’t know who, what or why.”

“Surely Gregor kept some kind of records.”

“We presume so; but, after his plane disappeared, we tracked him back to a hide-away office. That’s where we found his body and a couple of empty file cabinets.”

“What about the office itself?”

“It was professionally torched,” Smith said. “Anything in the way of useful information that might have still been there went up in smoke and ash.”

“And the plane?”

Smith hesitated again. “Let’s just say the debris situation is being looked into,” he finally said. “But don’t get your hopes up; it’s not likely we’re ever going to find anything useful. The plane was at twenty-five thousand feet when it blew, and it was one hell of an explosion.”

“So now, presumably, all you’ve got to go on is a green camper-rigged truck,” Bulatt said as he stood up, “and me, of course; which probably means you’re going to make an effort to monitor my movements — try to use me as bait if you can.”

Smith stared silently at Bulatt, not bothering to answer.

“Normally, I probably wouldn’t care; as long as your people kept their distance and stayed low profile, like they’re supposed to be able to do,” Bulatt said. “But based on what I’ve seen of your ground surveillance techniques so far, and what you’ve told me about these characters, all your surveillance is going to do is blow my cover again, and possibly get me or one of my partners killed; and I’m not going to stand for that.”

“Oh?” Smith’s right eyebrow rose skeptically.

“So,” Bulatt went on, ignoring the sarcasm, “we can continue to play grab-ass with each other, see if my game-playing trumps yours; or we can go on about our own business, and try not to trip over each other again. I’d prefer the latter, but I don’t mind the former; whatever gets the job done. Fair deal?”

Smith shrugged in what might have been an agreement.

“Okay, I’m done here,” Bulatt said. “Anything you want to ask me before I go?”

“Actually, there is one more thing,” Smith said with some hesitation.

“What’s that?”

“The twins.”

Bulatt smiled. “You’d like our lab staff to have them to stop doing whatever it is they’re doing?”

“That’s right.”

“Are they really that good?” Bulatt asked, finding it difficult to believe that a pair of fourteen-year-olds could be having any significant impact on the secretive entity that ‘John Smith’ and his associates presumably worked for.

“’Good’ is a relative term; I think the appropriate descriptors are ‘inventive,’ ‘persistent’ and ‘unpredictable,’” Smith replied with a discernable edge to his voice. “At least that’s what I’m told by our tech chief, who would dearly like to throttle their little necks personally. He seems to think their baby spider egg sac disguised as a happy face was a dirty trick.”

“Baby spider… egg sac?”

“Apparently technical terms,” Smith said. “At least I hope the hell they are. I don’t know what spiders have to do with computers, and I don’t particularly want to know. But, in any case, I’ve been asked to tell you that our techies have stopped digging at your lab’s firewalls; and they would appreciate it if the kids would do the same.”

“They got through, didn’t they?”

Smith’s glaring look was all the answer he needed.

“But you do know that their mother will be seriously pissed if one of your people actually tries to cause them grief,” Bulatt reminded, trying very hard not to smile. “And I have a feeling she could be a lot more dangerous to your ongoing operations — not to mention your personal set of balls — than any of us bunnies-and-guppies agent-types.”

“We’re all aware that Linda seems to have developed some maternal instincts following childbirth, although God alone knows why,” Smith acknowledged. “The appropriate warnings have been issued at the directorate level. The kids will be left alone, provided that you stop them — ” Smith glanced at his watch “- soon.”

“You could always give them an audition,” Bulatt suggested as he got up out of the chair, and walked over to the swinging doors. “Bring them onto the team; you know, keep your friends close and your enemies closer, that sort of thing.”

“And actually let those little bastards inside our building?” Smith blinked, his expression implying that Bulatt had finally said something completely absurd. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”