Snake Eye

by William C. Dietz

  Rossi frowned. “Help you? In what way?”

  “I’m not Samuel Chow,” the elderly man explained urgently. “I work as his body double. He left me here to delay you.”

  “I’d know that face anywhere,” Moller insisted. “He’s lying.”

  “No!” the body double replied. “Look at my wrists!” A blanket had been wrapped around the old man’s shoulders. It was folded shawl-style and held in place with a single bejeweled clip. But his hands were visible, as were his wrists, and Rossi saw that the man in front of her had been secured to the chair with plastic ties.

  “Watch out!” Inez cautioned. “There’s something under that blanket!”

  The old man uttered what could only be described as a pathetic whimper as the blanket rippled and a Black-Headed python stuck its head up next to the body double’s. It sampled the air with its tongue and hissed menacingly.

  Rossi fired the P7 twice. The python’s head flew off, which left its long, sinuous body to thrash around under the blanket. The body double started to scream, but the sound was cut off as the coils around his torso spasmed, and the air was expelled from his lungs. Fortunately, what remained of the snake released the old man after that, leaving him to gasp for air as Moller disconnected the chair’s power supply. “There,” she said. “That should hold him.”

  Rossi turned to look for the majordomo, only to find that the man had disappeared. “Chow’s up on the roof by now,” she announced. “There must be a freight elevator! Let’s find it.”

  The body double was rocking from side-to-side, still trying to extricate himself from the remains of the snake, as the agents went looking for the service elevator. Moller located the shaft back behind the kitchen. But pushing on the “Up” button didn’t produce the desired response—so Rossi tried the door marked “Exit.” It was locked so the FBI motioned for Inez to join her. “Open sesame.”

  There was another loud boom as the 12-gauge went off and the locking mechanism was destroyed. “Your wish is my command,” the ICE agent said, as she slipped a replacement shell up into the receiver.

  “You’re very kind,” Rossi replied politely as she eased the door open, confirmed that the way was clear, and started up the concrete stairs. The roar of the helicopter’s engine could be heard by then, which suggested that while the aircraft was still on top of the building, it wouldn’t be for long. It was a relatively short climb up to the door that opened onto the roof. It had been propped open and that seemed to be a bit too convenient, so Rossi belly-crawled up to the raised sill.

  Maybe it was all the cigarettes he had smoked in the past, or a general lack of exercise, but whatever the reason, Weed was bushed. He and Kango had been hard pressed to lift Chow and his motorized wheelchair up into the helicopter. But now, just as the snakehead was about to board the chopper, he saw movement by the door. He drew his semi-auto, brought it up, and fired.

  The 9mm slug passed through the open door, spanged off the rear wall, and whined away. Moller climbed the next two steps, raised her Glock, and fired over Rossi’s head. Weed looked surprised. He staggered and went down.

  Rossi came to her feet, stepped out onto the roof, and found herself completely exposed as the chopper took to the air. Kango stood with both feet on the port skid as the aircraft began to rise. His machine pistol burped fire as the agents spilled out onto the roof. Rossi stood her ground as bullets pinged the ductwork around her. She was frightened, very frightened, as both pistols made the long journey up to the proper position. And it was then, while waiting to find out if she would live or die, that the FBI agent caught a momentary glimpse of Samuel Chow through the open door. He was seated behind his bodyguard, looking straight at her, and there was no denying the hatred on his face. Had he seen the barge explode on TV? Yes, probably, which meant he knew that his son was dead.

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, both barrels were lined up on her target and Rossi opened fire. Two slugs hit Kango in the chest. He released the machine pistol in an effort to plug the bullet holes with his fingers, lost his balance as the chopper turned, and the gangster pitched face-down onto the roof.

  Meanwhile the helicopter completed its turn and came her way. The skids were only about two feet off the surface of the roof, which meant that the aircraft’s undercarriage was almost certain to hit her. The FBI agent opened fire on the canopy, ran out of ammo a few seconds later, and was preparing to drop when Moller and Inez brought their weapons into play. The sharp, percussive sound of the Glock blended with the shotgun’s deep basso to generate a rolling boom-crack, boom-crack, boom-crack that echoed between the surrounding buildings.

  Perhaps the pilot took a hit, or something important had been damaged, but whatever the reason the helicopter pulled up. And not just up, but so far up that the agents got a momentary view of the chopper’s belly before it completed a full loop and disappeared into the canyon that separated Chow’s building from the high-rise on the other side of First Avenue. That was followed by a horrible crash, an audible whump as the wreckage caught fire, and the approaching bleat of sirens.

  Rossi, Inez, and Moller all ran to the east side of the roof to peer over the side. It was like looking into the bowels of hell. The helicopter was a ball of twisted metal at the center of a raging fire. Haifa dozen SPD patrol cars were on the scene by then, as were two fire engines, both of which were busy pumping foam onto the wreckage. There wouldn’t be any survivors, couldn’t be any survivors, and Rossi wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Chow deserved to die—but what about the pilot? Had he or she been aware of who their passenger was? Or taken the job in good faith? If so, she was sorry. There had been lots of innocent victims, thousands of them, some of whom were still working to pay off their bao. But like a child who knows she shouldn’t giggle during the church service, but can’t help herself, Rossi began to laugh.

  Inez frowned. “What’s so funny?”

  “The helicopter!” Rossi replied, barely able to get the words out in between bouts of laughter. “It landed right on top of my ex-husband’s brand new BMW!”

  Inez looked mystified for a moment. Then she smiled, giggled, and started to laugh. The reaction was part humor, part relief, and part hysteria. And that’s where they were, both laughing uproariously, when the SPD SWAT team arrived on the roof. All were male and looked suitably grim. Moller grinned and held her credentials up for them to see. “Hi guys. Don’t worry about my friends. It’s a girl thing.”

  The twelve hours that followed made all of the other scrapes that Rossi had been through look like child’s play. Hawk tried to protect her, as did both Theel and Haxton. But, given the FBI agent’s recent past, her much-publicized abduction, the escape from the barge, and the dramatic shoot-out at Chow’s apartment building, there was no escaping the aftermath. Even as the media glorified the agent a battalion of pencil pushers from the FBI, ICE, and even the FAA put Rossi’s every action under the microscope in an attempt to figure out whether she should be congratulated or sacrificed to the bureaucratic gods.

  But finally, once the smoke cleared, it was Demont who delivered the preliminary finding to the press. “All indications are that Agent Rossi’s actions were in keeping with the bureau’s policies and procedures, but a final decision regarding her status will be made once the investigation has been completed. In the meantime Agents Rossi, Inez, Moller, and Hagger have all been placed on administrative leave.”

  And for once in her career the agent wanted some time off. Except that she couldn’t go home, not with the media types swarming all over her house, so the agent decided to go someplace else instead, somewhere outside of the city, where she could think about everything that had taken place, and try to come to terms with it.

  The trip to Coupeville on Whidbey Island took the better part of two hours. It was mid-afternoon by the time she arrived. Rather than risk not having a place to stay Rossi checked into a bed and breakfast. If the pleasant-looking matron who ran the establishment recognized the woman wit
h the badly bruised face, she gave no hint of it, something for which Rossi was grateful.

  Having secured a place to stay, the agent drove down to Ebey’s landing, partly because it was an easy way to access the beach before the sun went down, but mostly because it represented one of the intersections between her life and Dexter’s. As luck would have it, an old pick-up camper combo was sitting in the parking lot when she arrived. And even though Rossi had never met Hank Stanton, the retired trucker recognized the FBI agent, and came over to introduce himself.

  It wasn’t long thereafter that Stanton went to retrieve the bottle of whiskey from his camper. Then, sitting side-by-side on a weather worn log, the only two people who cared about Jack Dexter drank a series of toasts to him. And, as if summoned by their thoughts, it wasn’t long before an especially strong wave surged up onto the beach. Finally, having come within inches of their feet, the water became one with the sand.