Prey

Chapter Thirty-Nine

When the Washoe County sheriff, Sergeant Clinton Hardwell, took one look at the cut, bruised, and swollen faces of the three men who had hobbled off the Southwest Airlines plane, he immediately asked to see some identification.

"Sorry about that," Hardwell apologized as he returned the badge cases to the agents, "but, honest to God, you guys don't look like any federal raid team I've ever seen before."

"New Washington Office concept," Lightstone said as he and the plainclothed sergeant started walking slowly toward the baggage claim area, giving Paxton and Stoner a chance to keep up on their crutches. "Anybody sees us coming, they're not going to be expecting us to kick in the door."

"Yeah, I guess not," the homicide sergeant nodded as he glanced down at Dwight Stoner's horribly swollen knee and then at Larry Paxton's tightly bandaged leg.

After passing the first set of slot machines, the agents took a right turn to the baggage claim area. Their bags were waiting for them, stacked in a neat row next to the stainless- steel carousel and a uniformed sheriff's deputy.

"Uh, listen, you think you guys might be able to stick around a while and give us a hand, in case we run into any trouble?" Lightstone asked as he and Hardwell picked up the bags. They walked through a sliding glass door out into the blazing heat of Reno, Nevada.

"Buddy, let me tell you something," the deeply tanned homicide sergeant said as three of his detectives helped Stoner and Paxton into the back of two of the unmarked detective units. "Pete Balloch vouched for you, and he and I go back a long way, so I really don't care who you guys are, or who you're going after. But I can tell you one thing for sure-" he pointedly looked around at all three agents "-I wouldn't miss this operation for the world."

Just as the Washoe County homicide sergeant had described, the Japanese-style house that Special Agent Mike Takahara had recently purchased in Spanish Springs Valley-a rural development about fifteen miles north of downtown Reno-looked pretty much like all of the other widely scattered ranch-style homes in the quiet and peaceful hillside area.

From their concealed position about a hundred yards down the road, Henry Lightstone listened to the hissing sound of empty tape for another five seconds and then put the cellular phone down on the seat as Hardwell continued to scan the windows with his powerful binoculars.

"Nothing?" the homicide sergeant asked as he lowered the binoculars and looked over at Lightstone.

"No." Lightstone shook his head.

"You sure you got the right number?"

"Yeah, absolutely sure."

"Maybe he forgot to check his machine?" Hardwell shrugged.

"Not Snoopy," Lightstone said as he stared out across the sand-and-sagebrush landscape at the closed garage door. "Guy's a communications freak. Damn near religious about that sort of thing."

"Maybe he's found himself a girlfriend," the homicide sergeant suggested. "They could be down in the basement, where it's cooler."

"Yeah, that's always a possibility," Lightstone conceded, "but it doesn't sound like him. You sure your guys saw a red Four-Runner in that garage?"

"Pretty sure that's what they said," Hardwell nodded. "I'll find out. Need to check in with those guys anyway."

"Yeah, where the hell are they?" Lightstone asked, looking around as he realized that he hadn't seen any other vehicles with the distinctive police radio antennas in the area.

"Up in the hills, where they've got a better view," Hardwell said, glancing toward the upper slope. "The way Pete described these characters, I figured we ought to maintain some distance until you guys got here."

"Yeah, probably a good idea," Lightstone said absentmindedly.

Reaching over to the dash-mounted console, Hardwell unhooked the coiled cord mike and brought it up to his mouth. "Delta Seventeen and Delta Twenty-two, request confirmation you spotted a red Four-Runner in the subject's garage."

"If it's like our place," Hardwell said as he put the mike down on the seat next to his leg, "it's hard to hear the phone in the basement."

"I don't know," Lightstone said uneasily. "Last place this guy had, he put a phone in the john and one at both ends of his workbench so he wouldn't have to get up."

"Oh."

Two of Hardwell's detectives cautiously approached the house from the blind garage side, shotguns out and ready, while Larry Paxton and Dwight Stoner slowly worked their way down the road on their crutches.

"Couple of characters like that, I'm surprised we haven't heard from every housewife in the neighborhood," Hardwell commented dryly. He started to say something else, but then realized that he hadn't received any response from his surveillance team.

"Delta Seventeen and Delta Twenty-two, check in," Hardwell repeated into the mike in an irritated voice.

Silence.

Lightstone and Hardwell looked at each other briefly, and then Hardwell brought the microphone up to his mouth again.

"Delta Fifteen."

"Fifteen, go."

"Did you spot Kenny or Jim on your way in?"

"Negative."

"Shit," the Washoe County homicide sergeant cursed.

"You give them authorization to follow if anybody left the house?" Lightstone asked, watching Larry Paxton readjust the miniaturized radio speaker in his ear as the two injured agents began to move at a faster pace toward the house.

"Standard procedure is that one guy follows while the other stays in place and calls for backup," Hardwell replied in a distracted voice. "Dispatch, this is Delta Three. Any call-ins from Delta Seventeen or Twenty-two during the past hour?"

"Negative, Delta Three," the dispatcher's raspy voice came out over the car speaker. "No radio contact."

"Delta Fifteen," Hardwell ordered, "break off, get up the hill and check on those two."

"Ten-four, on my way," the detective acknowledged.

"Delta Twenty and Twenty-one, move in on that garage window, tell me what you see," Hardwell directed his other two investigators. Then he and Lightstone watched as one of the shotgun-armed detectives knelt down to provide a cover while the second casually dressed investigator ran forward in a low crouch to the garage, flattened himself upright against the cream-colored stucco, and quickly peered in through the side window.

"It's empty," the detective's voice echoed clearly over the radio static.

Hardwell swore again as he looked over at Lightstone.

"Let's get in there," Lightstone said, releasing his seat belt and drawing the 10mm Smith amp; Wesson automatic from his shoulder holster.

"All units, move in now!" Hardwell said and then dropped the mike on the seat and accelerated the unmarked detective unit toward the distant driveway as Larry Paxton dropped his crutches and limped toward the far side of the house and Dwight Stoner hobbled furiously up the brick walkway toward the front door.

Henry Lightstone was out of Hardwell's detective unit and running up the brick walkway when Stoner lifted a huge decorative rock out of Mike Takahara's carefully landscaped garden and heaved it through the wood-and-glass door. Lightstone lunged forward past Stoner with the 10mm Smith amp; Wesson automatic clenched tightly in both hands.

"Oh, my God!" one of the detectives coming in behind Lightstone and Stoner with a shotgun whispered when he saw the blood.

Even to Henry Lightstone, who had worked over three hundred homicide cases during his police career, the sight of the blood splatterings that seemed to cover every square foot of the off-white walls jarred at his soul. But he kept on moving through the living room, searching the doorways, because the body that lay facedown in the middle of an irregular pattern of congealed blood on the white carpet did not belong to Mike Takahara.

Not unless the Japanese-American agent had started to dye his hair blond, lose weight, and take hormone shots, Lightstone told himself, noting the insignia on the uniform of the sprawled female figure as he continued to search for movement.

"Mike, where are you?" Lightstone yelled, even though he knew that anyone within fifty yards who hadn't heard the rock going through the front door was either deaf or dead.

They found the second body in the kitchen. The coal- black hair gave Lightstone a momentary scare until he realized that the victim was still a good fifty pounds lighter and three or four inches shorter than Takahara.

Hardwell came in with a. 357 Magnum in one hand and a packset radio in the other. He glanced down at the body of the Oriental, who had lost massive amounts of blood from deep and gaping slashes in his arms, face, and chest.

"That him?"

"No." Lightstone shook his head.

"Then what the hell-" Hardwell started to say when the radio in his hand began to squawk.

"Clint, I found Jim and Kenny," the choked voice said. "They're up here on Twin Springs Road. Both of them dead. Small-caliber shots to the side of the head."

Homicide Sergeant Clinton Hardwell was still cursing when they heard the crashing sound of wood breaking.

"Where-" Hardwell demanded, his eyes widened with rage, but Lightstone was already out of the kitchen and heading toward the basement stairs. He got there just as Dwight Stoner lunged at the door with a savage roar. His full-body forearm shot tore the door completely off its hinges as the half-crippled agent staggered forward. But the impact of a vicious side-thrust heel kick just below his left ear sent him tumbling to the floor.

When Henry Lightstone came through the splintered doorway right behind Stoner, he saw the reverse kick coming and blocked it with his left forearm. He started to bring the butt of the 10mm Smith amp; Wesson around in a deadly variation of a palm-heel strike that would have shattered Mike Takahara's jaw if Lightstone hadn't recognized the blood-smeared and swollen face that looked down at him.

Lightstone quickly reholstered his pistol and stepped forward to support the agent's dangling body while Larry Paxton used a sharp-edged pocketknife to cut away the medical gauze and tape that tied the Japanese-American agent's hands and wrists to the three-inch cast-iron pipe overhead.

Once loose, Mike Takahara dropped down in front of Stoner, who was just starting to come up on one knee.

"Dumb-ass jock… told you… supposed to wear a helmet when you kick a door," Takahara said between deep, gasping breaths.

Stoner glared at his ex-partner. "Before I go ahead and stomp the shit out of you," the huge agent rasped, "you mind telling me why you had to do that?"

"Over there, to your right," Mike Takahara said weakly. The ex-Oakland Raider tackle turned his head back the other way and stared at the dangling and horribly mutilated body of ICER team-member Felix Steinhauser.

"I don't understand. You sure these guys weren't working for Alex?" Lightstone asked as the four agents sat in Mike Takahara's blood- splattered living room. The homicide investigation team was working around them, trying to reenact the sequence of events that had led to the death of two of their detectives, before the state investigators got here and took over the scene.

"Hey, all I know is that when I opened the door to get a package from this Federal Express delivery girl, the guy over there in the kitchen kicked me in the groin and then hit me with something hard," Takahara said. He nodded toward the body of Shoshin Watanabe and then winced as he gently touched the swollen and bruised right side of his head.

"Don't know what his problem was, but he had a hell of an attitude. Kept mumbling something in Japanese about being pissed off'cause he'd gotten shot and it hurt. When I woke up, I was hanging from the pipe down in the basement and Alex was hanging there next to me."

"So how'd that bastard get loose?"

"The tall blond guy and the little shithead with the attitude were playing with one of my kitchen meat knives and working me over with pressure points, trying to get me to tell him who you were and what that phone message of yours was all about, when the broad in the Federal Express uniform comes running down the stairs yelling something about a couple of cops being outside."

"Washoe County sheriff's deputies," Lightstone explained. "They were supposed to be keeping an eye on your place until we got here."

"Makes sense," Mike Takahara nodded. "Anyway, the German guy takes off and-"

"You said German?" Stoner interrupted.

"I guess," Takahara shrugged. "Had a pretty convincing accent if he wasn't. So after he's gone and we're still down there in the basement, the little Jap guy pulls out this shit-ass kodachi — uh, short sword," the Japanese-American agent explained, "-and uses it to cut Alex down. Then he tells the gal in the uniform, who's got a forty-five SIG-Sauer out now-probably mine-to give Alex the knife."

"They gave that freak a knife, on purpose?" Lightstone asked, disbelieving.

"Yeah. The two of them argued about it for a little bit, but she finally did it," Mike Takahara nodded. "Something about him being in charge when the team leader was gone. Real bad mistake on her part."

"What the hell were they doing?" Lightstone asked, thoroughly perplexed now.

"Beats the shit out of me," Takahara shrugged. "The way they were talking, it sounded like they were planning to make it look like Alex and I got into a fight.

"Anyway, the broad finally tosses this meat knife of mine over to Alex and then puts the SIG on him right away, which was smart. So here's Alex. First he looks down at this knife like he can't believe it either. Then he looks up at the Japanese guy, who's standing there in a ready stance with that fucking sword up over his head, looking like he wants to get even with the whole world for something. Then, all of a sudden, Alex flings the meat knife backhanded right into the throat of the broad with the SIG, picks up about a five-foot piece of two-by-four off the floor, and goes after the little guy with the sword. The little guy backs up the stairs, because I guess he really was shot after all, and that two-by-four was a hell of a lot longer than his sword."

"Hey, wait a minute. How come the woman in the Federal Express uniform ended up dead on the living-room floor instead of in the basement?" Lightstone asked.

"Must have missed her carotids," Takahara shrugged. "All I know is, one minute she's standing there holding her throat with blood all over her hands, and the next she's going up the stairs with the meat knife after her buddy and Alex."

"Jesus!" Paxton whispered.

"She should have shot the bastard right on the spot when she had the chance," Dwight Stoner muttered, shaking his bruised and battered head slowly.

"Probably would have," Takahara nodded, "except that she lost the gun when the knife hit her. It landed behind me and she tried to get at it, but I caught her a good one in the face, so I guess she figured she'd come back down and take care of me after she and her buddy finished off Alex."

"Only they never did."

"Naw." Mike Takahara shook his head. "After about five minutes, I didn't hear any more ruckus upstairs. Then about twenty minutes later, something like that, I hear it all start up again, only it doesn't last very long. Then Alex comes back down the stairs, dragging the blond guy, and spends another ten or fifteen minutes trying to find out who they were. You saw his technique."

"Did he get any answers?" Paxton asked.

"Something about they had to kill all six of us. Those were their orders."

"Whose orders?" Lightstone demanded.

"I don't know," Mike Takahara shrugged. "Alex worked on him some more, and then I guess he must have said something else, because all of a sudden Alex just cut the guy's throat. Then he turned around, stared at me with these freaky red eyes of his, smiled like he knew something funny that I didn't and then disappeared up the stairs. I heard my garage door open and close, so he probably took off in my truck."

For a long moment, nobody said anything. Then Henry Lightstone spoke up. "Somebody's using the Chareaux brothers to get to us. It's the only thing that makes any sense."

"Sure looks that way," Mike Takahara nodded.

"So what the hell did we do to deserve that?" Dwight Stoner asked.

"Pissed somebody off real bad, that's for damn sure," Larry Paxton commented. "Maybe-"

"And speaking of pissing people off," Homicide Sergeant Clinton Hardwell said as he walked up to the huddled group, "apparently that teletype you asked me to send out had the desired effect. Anybody here know an FBI agent named A1 Grynard?"

"ASAC out of Anchorage?" Lightstone asked.

"Sounds right," Hardwell nodded. "Know anything about him?"

"I think he's probably a damn good investigator," Lightstone said after a moment, "but a little too focused for my tastes. What'd he do, call all the way down here from Anchorage?"

"Nope, from San Diego," Hardwell said. "However, in addition to being thoroughly pissed and overly focused, he also seems to be a little confused. Said something about you being a suspect in the murders of four other Fish and Wildlife Service special agents, two of whom were-" Hardwell looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, "-Dwight Stoner and Larry Paxton. I assume he's talking about you two guys?" The homicide sergeant looked over at Stoner and Paxton.

"Most likely," Paxton nodded.

"I see," Hardwell said, hesitating for a moment before going on. "Anyway, Special Agent Grynard is apparently heading this way on the next available flight. However, in the meantime, he would like me to take you into custody until FBI agents from the Reno office can get here and take over the scene."

"Sounds reasonable," Lightstone said equably. "Mind if I ask what you told him?"

"Said that I thought you might have been seen in the area and that we'd start looking around immediately."

"You planning on taking him in?" Dwight Stoner asked with a curiously polite expression on his bruised and battered face.

"I'll do anything I can to help a fellow law-enforcement officer," Clinton Hardwell said as he checked his watch, "just as long as they don't get too pushy and try to horn in on one of my investigations.

"Trouble is," he added with a tired smile, "I'm already way overdue for my coffee break, so I was thinking we might take a little ride down a back road I know before these FBI types get here. Stop by the Reno Sky Ranch Airport, get us a cup of coffee, and maybe introduce you to one of your retired agent-pilots who runs the rental operation down there."

"Rental operation?"

"Planes by the hour, day or week, with or without pilot. Understand you have to have decent credit, though."

"Think he'd take a government credit card?" Larry Paxton asked.

"Wouldn't be a bit surprised," Hardwell shrugged. "Last time I talked with him, he still had a pretty good sense of humor."

"Then maybe we'd better get going," Lightstone said as he pulled his aching body out of the chair.

"Before we do that," Hardwell said, looking as if he hadn't quite made up his mind about something, "mind if I ask you a question?"

"Sure, go ahead."

"The guy who got his nuts sliced off. You figure he's the one who shot Kenny and Jim, right?"

"Looks that way to us," Lightstone nodded.

Clinton Hardwell considered the answer. "Okay," he said finally. "Anything you'd like my detectives to tell them FBI folks when they get here?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, there is," Lightstone said. "Tell them that the Oriental guy on the floor has been positively identified by one of our agents as Special Agent Mike Takahara."