“Oh, for the love of…go ahead!” Chantalle said, ne savoir a quel saint se vouer, which means “not knowing which saint to pray to,” which is the French equivalent of “being at the end of one’s rope,” which is where Chantalle was at the moment. As she waited for Bob to ask his question, Chantalle rested her tired arm at her side.
“How do you think you’d react if I did this?” Bob pushed all three of the bugquariums onto their sides, shattering the glass and freeing the 600 or so starving assassins.
Chantalle’s mistake was in keeping her eyes on Bob and Klaus. And normally that would have been the right thing for a person in her position to do, as diversions are usually no more than just that. But, if you happen to smell like a cockroach and 600 Assassin Bugs are scurrying your way, as was the case here, it’s a big mistake.
As Chantalle alternated her aim between Bob and Klaus, the Jagged Ambush Bugs, Wheel Bugs, and Bloodsucking Cone-noses were touching antennae in rapid communication. They were getting their bearings and preparing to assault their huge prey.
“Did you really expect I would lose my concentration and let you escape?” Chantalle asked. “Homme moyen sensual!” Bob turned to Klaus.
“Did she say I was very sensual?”
“Not exactly,” he replied. “She said—”
And then, quite suddenly, the insects attacked in what appeared to be an organized assault.
The Wheel Bugs—stout grayish-black brutes and powerful jumpers—sprang onto Chantalle’s face. Taking special interest in the soft tissues of her eyes, they used their cutting beaks to puncture the sclera and choroid layers. They quickly injected their noxious saliva and began sucking out the vitreous humor, rendering Chantalle blind almost instantly.
As the Wheel Bugs chewed through her corneas, the Bloodsucking Conenoses, with their sharp, hypodermic beaks found the soft flesh of her neck and her fat, pulsing jugular and began the richest blood meal of their short lives.
The Jagged Ambush Bugs—forelegs swollen with muscle—latched onto the only other accessible flesh on Chantalle’s body. The painful stabs of their piercing mouthparts preceded the flood of digestive enzymes which liquefied the surface muscles and nerve endings under the skin of her hands and forearms and prevented her from squeezing the trigger.
Unaware that Chantalle was already immobilized, Bob and Klaus took refuge behind the furniture in the living room in case she started shooting. Blind and paralyzed, all Chantalle could do was scream, allowing several dozen Wheel Bugs into her mouth.
By this point the insects had found their way under her clothes. Six hundred mouthparts had punctured her skin and other membranes and were sucking the life, not to mention the bodily fluids, from the French beauty. The deluge of enzymes and proteins from the hundreds of bugs stiffened her body. She stood rigid in the front hall.
Then, almost mercifully, as Chantalle began to wither in front of Bob’s and Klaus’ eyes, a half-jacketed Teflon-tipped AP projectile hurtled through the picture window at 2,900 feet per second.
Everyone but Chantalle heard the splintering of glass and the dull thud a bullet makes when it enters a French woman’s head from the side. What was left of Chantalle’s beaux yeux bugged out of her once beautiful, but now tortured, face—resulting in an impromptu Marty Feldman impression.
The force from the shot rippled down through her body, knocking the gun from her shriveling hand. She wobbled slightly, but remained upright, dead on her feet like a bug-covered statue.
Chapter Seventy-eight
Pratt stood at the refrigerator gnawing on a cold pork chop when he heard the shot. “Goddammit!” he muttered.
As he wobbled back toward the living room he yelled, “Didja hear that, Doris?! Can you friggin’ believe it? Sounds they they’re shooting a gun or something over there!”
In the living room he peeled the curtains back and glared out the window. “I’m tellin’ ya, I’m gonna call the cops. And you know what else?” He paused to finish off his ninth beer of the night, then he waved the pork chop as he bellowed. “If the cops won’t do anything, I swear I’m goin’ over there and stuff all those goddamn bugs up his ass! Are you listening to me, Doris? I’m talkin’ to you! I’ve had it! I’m not messin’ around anymore!”
Chapter Seventy-nine
Bob popped his head up and looked at the bizarre mess in the front hall. His mind was racing. How had he gotten into such a deranged situation? Who had put the bullet in Chantalle’s head? And how the hell was he going to get all his Assassin Bugs back in the bugquariums?
“Get down!” Klaus yelled, snapping Bob back from his contemplative mood. Klaus crawled to where Bob was and gestured toward Chantalle. “That was brilliant…somewhat gruesome, but brilliant.”
“You think she’s dead?” Bob asked.
Klaus snorted. “As the French would say, Chantalle casser votre pipe.”
“Klaus, enough with the French already.”
“It means she ‘broke her pipe.’ It is the French equivalent to your phrase ‘to kick the bucket.’”
Crouching by Bob’s side, Klaus too wondered who had fired the shot. Clearly it was someone with a high-powered rifle, but at what distance? Was the shooter going to try to take them out from three hundred yards, or would he (or she, as the case might be) be so bold as to come into the house after already announcing his or her presence? He gestured toward the gun at Chantalle’s feet. “We’ve got to get the gun before—”
Suddenly the door blew open, hitting Chantalle and knocking her stiff corpse onto the floor with a thud, crushing some of the assassins and frightening others back into their bugquariums.
A horrible moment passed as Bob and Klaus—unarmed and defenseless—readied to die.
Then, abruptly and quite dramatically, Mike Wolfe bounded into the foyer, all blood and thunder. He slammed the door, spinning around with weapon at the ready. Bob and Klaus watched from the floor, mesmerized, as Wolfe carried on with strike-force histrionics, crouching, spinning to cover his back, and rising and ducking like some sort of a machine-gun-toting bird.
“It’s alright, you can come out now,” Wolfe said as if he were the Good Witch of the West.
Bob stood up, delighted to see his friend from the CIA. Klaus followed suit.
“Thank God you’re alive,” Wolfe said heroically.
“I never thought I’d say it,” Bob said, “but I’m actually glad to see you.”
“Klaus,” Wolfe said, greeting his longtime colleague. “How the hell are you? It’s been a while.”
“Yes, since that night in Benghazi, I believe.” Klaus smiled. “So tell me, did she go back to your hotel?”
“You bet your ass she did!” Wolfe said proudly. “It was one helluva night too, my friend.” He shook his head. “Boy, seems like that was a lifetime ago.” Wolfe chuckled at his enhanced memories. “Tell you the truth, I don’t think I’d be up to that kind of a night nowadays. Getting too old I guess.”
“Yes, I know the feeling,” Klaus said. “Lately I have been thinking about retirement myself.”
“Funny you should mention retirement, Klaus. That’s more or less what brought me here.”
Klaus didn’t like the look in Wolfe’s eye so he started for the front hall to get his gun.
Wolfe turned his FN-FAL .308, a slick Belgian-made assault rifle, on Klaus and suggested he stay put for the time being.
“You know, Bob,” Wolfe said, standing again, “you had me going with all the double-talk about the pest-control business. Then I did some digging, followed my instincts, you know, my gut, and I figured out you really are just an exterminator.”
“That’s what I was saying all along,” Bob said.
“Right, I’ll give you that,” Wolfe admitted, his rifle still at the ready. “So now I get over here half expecting to find you taking a dirt nap, b
ut instead I see you’ve iced some of the world’s best talent. I must say, I’m quite impressed, a little confused still, but impressed nonetheless.” Wolfe smiled and winked at Bob. “I suppose you might say we’re seeing the other side of Bob Dillon, huh?”
“Listen, Mike,” Bob said. “I can explain all of this.”
“Doesn’t matter, Bob. Really doesn’t,” Wolfe said. “What does matter is ten million dollars. Right, Klaus?”
“What do you mean?” Bob asked. “Can’t you guys protect us somehow? New names and identities and all that witness protection stuff?”
“Not something you’ll have to worry about,” Wolfe said as he coolly leveled his sniper rifle at Bob. “I’m here to take care of you and all your problems.”
“Uh, Mike, listen, I wish you wouldn’t point that thing at me,” Bob said nervously. “What are we going to do?”
“Well, Bob, ten million bucks is a shit load more than I’d get from my lousy federal pension, so I can damn sure tell you what I’m going to do…retire to a quaint coastal village in a country without an extradition treaty, a house on the beach, a little rum, and live happily ever after.”
“But what about me?” Bob asked. “What about my family?”
“Would you get a clue?” Klaus snapped. “You’ll be dead.”
“Give the man a cigar,” Wolfe said.
“What?” Bob finally figured it out. “Oh, man, and I trusted you. I thought you were on my side.”
“Oops,” Wolfe said with another wink. He looked at the Cowboy slumped in the BarcaLounger, then at the bodies in the front hall: Reginald, swollen and discolored, like a large pink sausage about to burst from its casing. And Chantalle, her fluids drained, corky and brittle.
“So what the hell happened here?” Wolfe bent over for a closer look at Chantalle, causing the Jagged Ambush Bugs to dig their claws deeper into the skin of her arms. Their large orange eyes rotated chameleon-like and fixed Wolfe with an unsettling, murderous stare.
“That’s a helluva bug,” Wolfe said. What’s it called?”
“It’s a Jagged Ambush Bug,” Bob said.
“You know, I’ve always liked insects,” Wolfe said, “spiders especially.”
“Spiders aren’t insects,” Bob said flatly, “they’re arachnids.”
“Really, what’s the difference? I mean, I better ask now since you won’t be able to answer after I kill you, right?”
An idea began taking form in Bob’s head. “Arachnids have eight legs and two main body parts; insects have six legs and three body parts. Plus, most insects have wings and antennae.”
“Damn. Never too old to learn, I guess,” Wolfe said.
“Here, you want to see a good example of the tri-segmented body?” Bob eased toward the front hall.
“Sure, why not?” Wolfe said. He kept the rifle on Bob and a wary eye on Klaus.
Bob picked up the jar and held it up for Wolfe to see. “Whoa, those are some beauts! What are they?”
“African Leaf Beetles.” Bob pointed at the segments as he spoke. “There’s the head, the thorax, and the abdomen, and see the legs? If it has six, it’s an insect. Wanna hold one? But I gotta warn you, they bite a little sometimes.”
“Ooooo, I’m scared,” Wolfe said, rising to the challenge. “Listen, Bob, I’ve been with the CIA for 40 goddamn years and seen some pretty creepy stuff. You think I’m scared of a fucking bug bite?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that.” Bob unscrewed the top and tipped the jar toward Wolfe’s waiting hand.
The African Leaf Beetles tumbled into Wolfe’s palm and began “smelling” it with their feathery antennae. “Sort of tickles,” Wolfe said as he inspected the bugs. Then, “Ouch! You’re not kidding they bite. Ouch! Ouch! Son of a bitch!” Wolfe slung the biting beetles off his hand. “Goddamn, that hurts.”
“Sorry,” Bob lied.
The human nervous system is divided into two parts, the central and the peripheral. The peripheral consists of cranial, spinal, and autonomic nerves. When a neurotoxin, such as the one secreted by African Leaf Beetles, interferes with the autonomic nervous system, the glands, lungs, and, most importantly, the heart can stop functioning.
And that’s what happened to Mike Wolfe, very suddenly. Wham! His heart seized up like an engine without any oil. His body jolted from the shock and he dropped the Belgian assault rifle like a hot waffle. When it hit the floor it discharged. BAM!
Chapter Eighty
Pratt was slouched on his sofa, untroubled in his beer-induced stupor, watching a rerun of Married…With Children. He was thinking how much he wanted to grab the breasts of the various actresses when he heard the shot.
“Judas Priest!” He stood as quickly as he could, but the blood rushed out of his head and he crumpled to the floor in a pile. “Goddammit,” he muttered.
He struggled back to his feet and scurried over to the window.
“That’s it! I don’t know what the hell’s going on over there, but I’m callin’ the friggin’ cops this time! I don’t need this kinda shit all night long, bunch of drunk goddamn pest-control sonsuhbitches.”
He picked up the phone and dialed 912. Then he hung up and tried again, this time managing 911.
Chapter Eighty-one
His garlic peeled, his pipe broken, and his bucket kicked, Mike Wolfe lay dead on the floor between Chantalle and Reginald. Bob looked at Klaus. “You about ready to go?”
“Yes, it’s time,” Klaus said. “Grab your things.”
Bob watched as Klaus lowered himself onto the sofa, morose and exhausted, dark circles sagged under his tired eyes. He seemed defeated. A look of hopelessness washed over him.
“You alright?”
Klaus didn’t answer. Instead, he reached over and grabbed his canvas bag from the Cowboy’s lap. He unzipped it, reached in, and pulled out something that Bob guessed was a plastic explosive with a timer and detonator attached.
As Bob watched, his confusion turned to shock as Klaus armed the device and started the timer. It began counting down from 10:00…9:59…9:58…
“What the hell are you doing?” Bob asked urgently.
“It doesn’t matter,” Klaus said.
A chilling thought occurred to Bob. “I’ll be goddamned,” he said. “You bastard. You saved me for yourself! You waited until all the others were out of the way so they couldn’t claim the money, and now you’re going to cash me in.”
“You are a bad judge of character, my friend,” Klaus said in a disappointed tone. “Relax, I want you to go.”
“You got a lot of nerve to say you are my friend,” Bob said. But he looked at Klaus again and saw he was telling the truth.
Bob didn’t understand what was going on. He looked at his friend’s sad face. This wasn’t the same man Bob met at the bar in SoHo that night, the man who gunned down Riviera’s henchmen in the street, the man who had saved his life more than once. The assurance and poise were gone. He seemed utterly resigned.
“I don’t get it,” Bob said. “Aren’t you coming with us?”
“I am too tired,” Klaus said. “I cannot go on like this any longer. It has become more than I can bear,” he said. “Every time I start my car, or turn a corner, or open a door…I know I may die a sudden and violent death.” He took a deep breath. “After a while it gets to you.”
8:01…8:00…7:59…The device ticked.
“Besides, I have nothing more to live for,” Klaus said. “I did the last thing I wanted to do, which was to save you and your family.”
“But…” Bob tried to interrupt.
“No buts,” Klaus said. “Listen, my friend, if you cherish your family as you should, you will leave now.”
“Klaus, do me a favor,” Bob said calmly. “Just turn the bomb off and let’s talk about this.”
“What the hell do you mean, it can’t be turned off?” Bob asked.
“It would not be a very effective bomb if you could just turn it off, now would it?” Klaus said. “Once it is set, it is set. Any tampering will cause it to go off. Now,” Klaus said as he pointed to the door, “unless you want to die, I suggest you get out of here. Time is running out.”
“No,” Bob said. “I’m not leaving without you.”
5:10…5:09…5:08…it ticked.
“Bob, you have a family,” Klaus said. “That is the most important thing and it is something I can never have.”
“We’ll share,” Bob said. “Now come on, snap out of it.”
Klaus shook his head. “Bob, I made one big mistake in my life. I thought I could change the world by eliminating evil. But for all my efforts, the world is no better than before I did my work. And that is the only reason I did what I did, I simply wanted the world to be a better place. I have wasted my life and now I want to end it.”
“Hey, look, you gave it a shot,” Bob said, trying to encourage Klaus. “That’s more than a lot of people can say.”
“But because of who I became, I could never have a family of my own,” Klaus said.
“It’s never too late, Klaus. I know dating is awkward at your age, but--”
“No. I cannot have a family because they could be used against me.”
Bob could sense Klaus’ resignation, like an athlete at the end of a career who finally realizes he can no longer compete. But he also detected a longing in Klaus, a spark that wasn’t yet ready to be doused. Klaus’ heart wasn’t really in all this talk of suicide; he was looking for a reason to live.
Bob glanced at the timer-3:10…3:09…3:08…He surveyed the room, bodies littered the floor. Again something percolated in his subconscious. He eyed Klaus, the bomb, the family photo on the mantel, and at that moment it came to him.
Bob had an idea. A great idea. An idea that could solve all the problems at hand. This idea was better than all-natural pest control. So Bob turned and ran.
Pest Control Page 28
