Snake Eye

by William C. Dietz

  Rossi was a traditionalist where lasagna was concerned, and in spite of the fact that she didn’t consider herself to be much of a cook, she enjoyed preparing it, partly because the process was satisfying, partly because lasagna tasted good, but mostly because it reminded the FBI agent of her mother, a woman who really knew how to cook and had done so every day of her adult life.

  The recipe called for pork sausage mixed with ground beef, chopped onion, garlic, diced tomatoes, tomato sauce, dried Italian seasoning, black pepper, dried lasagna noodles, an egg, and lots of ricotta, Parmesan, and mozzarella cheese. It had been in the oven for thirty minutes by then and was bubbling nicely as she took the casserole dish out and placed it on top of the stove. “We need to let that cool,” Rossi announced. “So, let’s have another glass of wine. And then, assuming that you are properly inebriated, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Uh, oh,” the businessman replied gloomily, as he poured some wine into her glass. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “We’ll see,” Rossi said, as she sat down at the small dining room table. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll thank your lucky stars.”

  “I doubt it,” Dexter replied as he joined her. “But, go ahead. If there’s a problem let’s deal with it.”

  “Okay,” the FBI agent agreed. “Here’s the situation. You are a witness—or a potential witness. That means I should never have gone out to dinner with you.”

  Dexter felt his spirits plummet. “So, you’re dumping me?”

  “No,” Rossi said gently. “How could I? We barely know each other. But if we want to see each other again it will have to wait.”

  Dexter took a sip of wine. “How long?”

  “That’s hard to say,” the FBI agent responded. “At least two or three months. Maybe as long as a year.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  “Yes,” Rossi admitted soberly. “It is.”

  “And there’s no way around it?”

  “No. My supervisor as much as told me that he felt if I haven’t already stepped over the line then I’m darned close.”

  Dexter was silent for a moment as he looked into her eyes. “You invited me over because of the leg didn’t you? So I wouldn’t go crazy and blow my brains out.”

  “I certainly didn’t want you to think that your leg was a factor in my decision,” Rossi admitted. “But there was another reason as well. And a rather selfish one. I thought it would be nice to see you again.”

  The ex-SEAL searched her face. “Really?”

  Rossi smiled. “Really.”

  “Well, for whatever it’s worth, I’ll be waiting when the case comes to an end. Do me a favor though….”

  Rossi’s eyebrows rose. “Yes?” Wrap it up soon.

  Rossi laughed and dinner was served shortly thereafter. Dexter was easy to talk to and the time flew by. Finally, once the dishes had been cleared away, the couple returned to the couch. The ex-SEAL had a fire going by then, and having kissed Rossi once before, did so again.

  Rossi intended for it to end there, see Dexter to the door, and call it a night. But one pleasant thing led to another, and about the time the agent should have been removing her make-up she was being carried into her bedroom instead. It was wrong, but enjoyable, and she gave into it. What illumination there was spilled into the bedroom from the hall. Dexter laid Rossi on the queen-sized bed, helped remove the last of her clothing, and took pleasure in the way her hair fell across the pillow. He took a moment to admire the stark whiteness of her breasts, the soft curve of her stomach, and the long taper of her legs—not as an object viewed through a lens, but as a real person, waiting for him to touch her.

  The reality of that should have made him hard, would have made him hard, except for one thing. In order to make love to Rossi the ex-SEAL would have to remove his artificial leg before he could remove his pants. Then, once he got the pants off, his stump would be exposed. The reality of that, and the possibility of how the woman in front of him might react, froze Dexter in place.

  Rossi noticed the moment of hesitation and reached up to pull him down. “This is the leg that I’m interested in,” the FBI agent whispered, and got a firm grip on the member she had in mind. The reaction was nearly instantaneous, and once Dexter removed the prosthesis, the rest was easy. They spent some time getting to know each other, but the moment came when Rossi couldn’t wait any longer, and pulled Dexter in. The climax came quickly after that, swept the lovers away, and left both of them exhausted. Eventually, after everything that could be said had been said, they drifted off to sleep.

  Having set a fire in Mrs. Pello’s basement and positioned the van in the alley behind the FBI agents house, Lopa and Eason were ready to complete the Rossi sanction, a murder that would recapture the headlines and prove that the ELA could strike any target that it chose.

  Lopa had agreed to enter through the front door while Eason took care of the back. The terrorist heard the old wood creak as he mounted the front stairs. Once on the porch he paused. There was no noise other than the whir of the neighbor’s heat pump, the drone of a distant plane, and the sound of his own breathing.

  A quick check confirmed that the fire that would eventually consume Mrs. Pello’s home, the woman herself, and at least some of the forensic evidence was still contained. But it wouldn’t be for long, which meant that they needed to break into the house and kill the people inside before a passerby called 911.

  Then, assuming that things went well, Lopa planned to pop Eason on the way out. Of course there was the distinct possibility that the assassin had similar plans—which was why Lopa wore body armor under his street clothes. Satisfied that the conditions were right, Lopa pressed the key on the Motorola walkie talkie and whispered into the mike. “I’m ready.”

  “Same here,” Eason replied his position on the back porch. “Try the door first…You’d be surprised how many people forget to lock them.”

  Christina Rossi didn’t strike Lopa as the type of person who would forget to lock her front door, but it wouldn’t hurt to try, so he placed his hand on the knob.

  Maybe it was the strange house, or maybe Rossi had just rolled over, but whatever the reason, Dexter awoke from a deep sleep. Not half awake, like when he needed to pee, but fully awake as if he’d had consumed two cups of coffee. He simply lay there at first, luxuriating in Rossi’s closeness and the steady rhythm of her breathing. Then he heard a noise. A sound that didn’t belong. Dexter fumbled for his leg, found it laying on the floor next to the bed, and pulled the limb into place. There was a positive click as the fitting mated with the Ferrier coupler.

  With the artificial limb in place Dexter stood and limped into the hall. He wanted to tiptoe, but that was impossible, so he did what he could. Once in the living room he paused to listen. A streetlight projected blue-green rectangles across the front room, the refrigerator chose that particular moment to turn itself on, and a siren could be heard in the distance. Old houses make noises, Dexter knew that, and had already turned back towards the bedroom when the front door knob rattled. Certain that something was amiss the ex-SEAL went to wake Rossi. The FBI agent felt the bed give under Dexter’s weight and heard him whisper her name. She groaned. “What time is it?”

  “About 3:30 A.M.,” Dexter whispered. “Were you expecting anyone?”

  “No,” the agent said, sitting up in bed. “Why?”

  “Because there’s someone on the front porch. He just tried the door.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Yes, I m sure.

  Rossi swore, opened the drawer in her nightstand, and grabbed the Clock.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have another one of those, would you?” Dexter inquired, suddenly feeling even more naked.

  Rossi started to say, “No,” having no desire to have an amateur firing at shadows, but then remembered Dexter’s military background. The ex-SEAL probably knew more about firearms than she did. “There’s a shotgun in the closet—but don’t fire u
nless I say you can.”

  “Is it loaded?”

  “Of course it’s loaded!” the agent whispered emphatically. “What good is an unloaded gun?” And with that she was gone, a shadow attired in a T-shirt and panties headed for the front of the house.

  Dexter opened the closet, which due to its small size, was absolutely crammed with Rossi’s clothes. He felt around the right side of the door, came up empty, and was still probing around when he heard the sound of shattering glass followed by the words, “FBI! Hold it right there!”

  That was the moment when Dexter’s fingers encountered cold steel. He heard a second crash from the rear of the house and knew there were at least two intruders. He pulled the Mossberg pump-action 12-gauge out into the open.

  Rossi fired as the first man came through the broken window, saw the muzzle flash as he triggered a semi-automatic weapon, and dove for the floor.

  Dexter heard the exchange of gunfire, thumbed the shotguns safety into the “off” position, and approached the bedroom door in time to see the second intruder exit the kitchen. A few more steps and he or she would be positioned to back-shoot Rossi. The ex-SEAL shouted, “Hold it right there!” He saw a gleam of metal as the hooded figure swung his way and pulled the trigger. The Mossberg jumped as the double-ought buck tore into its target. The man uttered a loud grunt, hit the wall behind him, and slid to the floor.

  There was a loud double clack as Dexter chambered another shell. Meanwhile the businessman heard the steady, “Blam! Blam! Blam!” as someone fired a .9mm handgun. “Christina? Are you okay?” Dexter turned towards the living room.

  That was the moment when Eason managed to fight off the impending darkness long enough to fire another burst from the MAC-10. Dexter felt plaster spray the side of his face, cursed himself for being stupid, and turned back. The shotgun boomed, Eason’s face disappeared, and more blood splattered the wall and floor.

  Rossi heard her opponent grunt as a 10mm round hit him above the sternum. She saw him stagger and bring his weapon back up. Body armor! It seemed like everyone had it. The FBI agent tried to make a head shot, missed, and rolled as her opponent’s 9mm slugs dug splinters in her hardwood floor. Firing low, Rossi emptied the Glock at her attacker’s legs and prayed for a hit. The nearest back-up magazine was in her briefcase and might as well have been on the moon for all the good it would do her.

  Lopa swore as a slug slammed into his thigh. He fired a bullet into the ceiling which the agent had worked so hard to paint and toppled over backwards.

  Rossi scrambled on all fours, pounced on the man’s chest, and grabbed for the gun. The would-be assassin not only refused to let go, but made use of his superior strength to tilt the barrel towards her chest. The FBI agent could smell his sweat as the weapon inched her way. Was this how she was going to die? Wrestling with some lunatic in her own living room?

  Then a pair of legs appeared in Rossi’s peripheral vision. Dexter shoved the shotgun barrel into the intruder’s gaping mouth and said, “Let go of the weapon.”

  That was when the eco-terrorist attempted to say “Fuck you!” discovered that it was extremely difficult to talk with a shotgun barrel in his mouth, and twisted the 9mm pistol back towards himself. There was a loud boom as the weapon went off. The 9mm slug smashed through the terrorist’s brain and painted Rossi with warm gore.

  The FBI agent pushed the body away and staggered to her feet. “There could be more of them. Give the shotgun to me and call nine-one-one.”

  Sirens could be heard and flames had erupted from Mrs. Pello’s house “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Dexter said dryly, as a roof full of flashing lights appeared out front. “I think the neighbors took care of that for us.”

  “Get my briefcase,” Rossi ordered. “I’ll handle the police.”

  Dexter left and was on his way back when a uniformed cop appeared in the doorway. He had his service pistol out and it was aimed at Rossi. “Police! Drop the weapon!”

  “Gladly,” Rossi replied, lowering the shotgun to the floor with exaggerated care. “My name is Rossi. Special Agent Rossi, FBI.”

  Dexter sensed movement behind him, heard a woman say “Freeze!” and knew that the first cop’s partner had entered the house through the shattered back door. “Drop the briefcase. Put your hands on the top of your head and kneel,” she said grimly. “Do it now!” The businessman obeyed, remembered the leg, and was astonished to realize that he had been completely unaware of it during the firefight, something that provided scant comfort as he knelt with his hands cuffed behind him.

  After fifteen minutes the police were able to verify Rossi’s identity. That, plus the fact that the intruders had been found inside the residence, caused the police to remove Dexter’s cuffs.

  All the lights were on and the house was full of cops when Theel showed up. The SSA was dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt, and an “FBI” raid jacket. He took a long, slow look around then shook his head. “Damn, Rossi. You are one lucky woman. Come on, I’ll take you downtown. Once the reports are filed you’re coming home with me. Marlene wouldn’t let me back in the house if you went to a hotel.”

  Rossi gave his hand a squeeze. “Thanks, John. Give me a moment will you? I need to say goodbye to someone.”

  Theel watched the agent make her way over to where Dexter was standing. Like Rossi, the businessman had more clothes on by then. He watched her approach. They smiled at each other. She took his hand. “Are you okay?”

  The ex-SEAL nodded wordlessly.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Dexter smiled. “The police want a statement. After that I plan to go home and hit the sack.”

  Rossi smiled a crooked smile. “I’m sorry, Dex, I really am. You remember what we talked about? Well, this will make it even worse. The press will have a field day, my boss will chew me out, and his boss will chew him out.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek and Dexter used a thumb to blot it out. “I’m sorry about all the trouble this will cause you, but I’m not sorry about last night, and I’ll be waiting when the smoke clears. Call me when and if you can.”

  Rossi nodded. “Thanks. You saved my life.”

  Dexter smiled mischievously. “I didn’t ask for permission to fire the shotgun.”

  “No,” Rossi agreed solemnly, “you didn’t. We’ll discuss that breach of etiquette later.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.” “So am I.”

  And with that Rossi was gone. The alley and the white van that blocked it were both part of the crime scene, which left Theel with no choice but to escort his agent out into the full glare of the television lights. The FBI agents were subjected to a barrage of questions as they hurried down the steps, made their way between the fire engines, and entered Theel’s sedan. Rossi opened her briefcase, located her cell phone, and thumbed the speed dial. Thankfully it was Vanessa who answered instead of Ed. She sounded sleepy. “I’m sorry to call so late,” Rossi began, “but there’s something you need to know.”

  It was mid-afternoon by the time Dexter rolled out of bed, took a shower, and made his way downstairs. The plan was to check his mail, see if there were any bills that had to be paid, and return to his apartment. A trip to Starbucks would have been nice, but having flipped through the cable news channels, the businessman knew he would be ambushed. His phone rang constantly, his voicemail had maxed out, and half-a-dozen reporters were camped in front of his building.

  Most of the focus was on Rossi, but once the press discovered that what one of the earliest reports had referred to as “Agent Rossi’s male house guest” was actually an ex-SEAL, and had killed one of the intruders, the feeding frenzy intensified.

  The businessman could see the TV trucks through the front windows as he left the elevator, made his way across the spotless lobby, and unlocked the door to his office. The phone rang in steady bursts, but the ex-naval officer ignored it, and was busy sorting through his mail when Pasco arrived. The timing could have been a matter of coincidence, bu
t Dexter wondered if the maintenance man had been waiting for him—and if so why? He nodded as the other man entered. “Good afternoon, Chief. Sorry about all the ruckus. Is everything okay?”

  Pasco dropped into one of the guest chairs and produced what could only be described as a shit-eating grin. “Yes, sir,” the maintenance man responded. “Everything is fine. One of the reporters tried to sneak in along with the UPS truck, but I caught the bastard and escorted him out.”

  “Good work,” Dexter said warily. There was something different about Pasco, something very different, but what? And why hadn’t the maintenance man made mention of the shoot-out? It was as if he didn’t care. The businessman placed his forearms on the desk. “So, Chief, what can I do for you?”

  “Well,” Pasco said, as he savored the moment. “I would like a raise. A substantial raise. An increase of a thousand per month should do it.”

  Dexter frowned. “In light of the fact that you haven’t even been on the job for six months yet, I suggest that we defer this conversation to a later time.”

  Even now, with everything going his way, Pasco found it difficult to confront authority. His eyes slid away from Dexter’s and it took act of will to bring them back into contact. “I’m sorry, sir, but that ain’t going to cut it. Either you give me the raise, or I march out through the front door and tell those reporters about your secret room.”

  The blow was so unexpected and fell with such swiftness, that Dexter was left speechless. By means unknown, Pasco had discovered the room! Something that would have been bad before, but could be disastrous now, since the press would connect it with Rossi. Not only that, reporters would want to know if she had been aware of the secret viewing room, or worse yet, used it with him. He could tell them the truth—but would they believe it? Especially given all the controversy that already surrounded the agent.