Snake Bite

by Jim Heskett

“What’s that?”

  “I said I had a plan. This is it.”

  Her eyes widen. “You put a tracker on one of them.”

  “While that guy was busy attacking me, I slipped this into his back pocket.”

  “Inside his shoe would’ve been better. He changes those pants, and we lose him.”

  “It is what it is. I didn’t exactly have optimal conditions to plant the device.”

  “No?” she asks, a wry smile on her face.

  “Nope. He wasn’t into holding still while he was trying to break my nose.”

  “Fair enough,” she says, crossing her arms. “Have a signal?”

  Layne opens the surveillance software, and a map of the area fills in, at first pixelated, then gradually sharpening. A moment later, a large green circle, pulsing and unclear, appears.

  “Got it. It’s at a five-mile radius right now. Give it about twenty seconds to narrow down to a mile or so.”

  The circle grows smaller as the tracking software hones in on the target. And, it’s moving. “Got him. We’ll have a street in another thirty seconds.”

  “Unless he’s found it and stuck it in the collar of a stray dog.”

  “Sure,” Layne says, “he could have. But, right now, I don’t think they’re thinking about that. I’m sure they’re on their way back to their hole, to figure out how the feds got onto them so fast.”

  Jules slumps onto the bed, reclining, using her elbows to support her. Layne notes how her shirt pulls tight across the curve of her chest. He tries not to stare. But, he suspects Jules wants him to stare.

  “You were good back there,” she says.

  “Not good enough.”

  “Aww, there’s the Boy Scout I know and love. Always so hard on yourself. When are you going to learn that failure is an option?”

  “I guess when you learn that stealing liquor from a flight attendant’s beverage cart isn’t okay.”

  She cackles. “That reminds me.” She opens the nightstand and draws out one of the little bottles. With a quick toss of her head, she downs the whole thing. When it’s done, she lobs it into the trashcan and lets out a raspy breath, as if she’s breathing fire.

  “Failure is not an option,” Layne says. “At least, not for me. We have a job to do here, and I’m not going to stop until we have that report back in our possession. Your laid-back approach works for you. I get it. It’s not how I do things.”

  Juliana sighs as she breaks the seal on another bottle. “Jeez, would you smoke a cigarette already? Lack of nicotine has turned you into a real bear.”

  Layne takes a deep breath and pushes it out. The achey sizzle in his chest has been there for several minutes now. “Okay, that’s fair. Maybe I am grumpy.”

  “Let’s go get a pack. I could use a cigarette, too.”

  “No thanks. I’m quitting for real this time.”

  “I admire your conviction. I’m great at quitting things. It’s so easy. I’ve quit drinking a million times.” She looks over to the laptop. “How’s our boy doing?”

  The tracking circle shrinks smaller and smaller. It’s not too far from here. At least, within the town limits, as far as Layne can tell. The dot has shrunk to about a quarter mile radius.

  Juliana squints at the laptop screen. “Wait a second. What street is that?”

  There’s no time. Headlights flash outside their room. They’re here.

  Layne grabs the laptop with one hand, then he drags Juliana off the bed and onto the floor with the other. He leaps on top of her, pushing her down between the two double beds.

  A hail of automatic weapons fire blows out their window. Bullets ping off the inside walls, breaking the mirror, sending the television crashing to the carpet. Drywall tears and bits fly across the room.

  “The gear,” she says, yelling over the sound of the gunfire. “We can’t let them get it.”

  She’s right. Their gear identifies them as government operatives, and they’re not supposed to be here. If the suitcases end up in a police locker, it’ll be hell keeping it quiet. But, their stuff is all over the room. No way Layne can jump up and collect everything.

  First, focus on surviving. The gear doesn’t matter if they die right here.

  Layne pulls his Glock from his back pocket and raises a hand over the bed. He empties the magazine toward the front of the room, and the incoming bullets cease for a second. Using the break, he pops up and grabs one of the suitcases. He doesn’t know which one.

  “Bathroom window,” he says, and then he scoots out of the way so she can sit up. This bed is their only cover, and it’s not much of one. Mattress, box springs, metal frame. Not going to stop too many bullets.

  Layne pops in a fresh mag for the Glock and hands it to Jules. The shooting outside has resumed, and a bullet punctures the box springs and whiffs within an inch of Layne’s head. He felt the whoosh of air on his right eyebrow.

  He pivots toward the bathroom and tosses the suitcase in that direction. Better not to be holding a container of explosive materials when people are shooting at you.

  Jules wants to go for a suitcase sitting next to the front door, but Layne puts a strong hand on her arm. He shakes his head. Too exposed.

  “Now,” he says, and they both pop up at once. Jules spits a few strategic shots out the hole where the window used to be. Rain has started to fall, and Layne can see shapes outside, but no exact locations. The headlights blaring mean visibility is too low.

  Both of them backpedal a couple steps toward the bathroom, still shooting. Then they turn and run the last ten feet to reach the tiny adjoining room. Layne snags another pistol, this one sitting on the bathroom counter. Then, he dips to grab the suitcase.

  In the bathroom, he tosses the suitcase at the window, breaking it. It lands outside the ground-floor window with a thud. Jules is right behind him, still shooting toward the front of the room. Layne uses his pistol to knock out the last couple shards of glass stalactites hanging at the top of the window.

  He grabs Juliana by the arm and points her toward the window. She launches through it, like an acrobat tumbler. Layne follows a second later. As he flies through space, he catches sight of a single man standing in the back parking lot of the motel, wearing a black rain slicker. Layne lands, and the man raises his pistol.

  The man fires a couple of shots, and one hits Juliana in the leg. She yelps and slips into the mud, and then Layne aims his gun. Three bullets into the man’s chest.

  Layne grabs Jules and pulls her to her feet. She snatches the suitcase. It takes her a couple tries as the rain has made everything slick.

  They sprint across the back parking lot, toward a grassy field beyond it. Layne shoves the pistol in his pocket and takes out his phone to snap a picture of the dying man in the lot. Not the Latino man. Some other guy. With the rain coming hard now, he has no idea if the camera captured anything useful.

  Seconds later, they reach the edge of the parking lot and escape into the black night beyond. Their cover is blown, their hiding spot compromised, and they had to leave more than half of their gear behind. But, at least, they’re still alive.

  17

  Layne watched Brendall and the half-dozen men engage in an ambiguous transaction in front of the RV from his spot on the sandy hill. Layne kept flicking his eyes over toward the nearby rattlesnake every few seconds, but the viper seemed content to stay in its spot.

  Brendall’s engagement with them took a few minutes of back-and-forth conversation, and then Officer Brendall returned to his car. The group of six armed men then all walked in the other direction, west, toward a series of hills. Layne didn’t see what was in the suitcase, and he was too far away to hear their discussion.

  He debated his next course for a moment as Brendall drove out of the parking lot and back to the highway. Stay on the cop? Probably not necessary. Anyway, Layne knew where Brendall lived and where he would be spending his days and nights. Brendall had served his purpose by delivering Layne to this new group.

&
nbsp; They were much more interesting. If they were a gang, then this was the connection Layne had been seeking since coming to town.

  Layne checked the FN Five-SeveN pistol in the back of his waistband and set off down the hill. He kept an eye on the Snake Bite Canyon Tours RV, but there didn’t seem to be anyone left inside it. The six men who had wandered off were still heading west, into the rolling hills. Carrying that suitcase.

  Layne hugged the corner of the RV for a moment until after his targets had descended the other side of a hill, then he tried the front door of the RV. It was locked. He could have broken or picked the lock, but he knew he wouldn’t need to. Layne had spotted an easier route atop the vehicle on his approach.

  He rounded the rectangular vehicle and climbed the ladder attached to the back. There, he found his way inside. A sunroof about halfway down. The cover was propped up on two metal arms, sitting at a forty-five-degree angle. Layne crept across to it and pulled a small multi-tool from his back pocket. He removed the screws from either arm and then folded the sunroof’s top back, exposing a hole directly into the interior of the RV.

  Layne poked his head down into it, listening. While the RV had seemed empty, he needed to be sure. After a few seconds of no sound coming back, he lowered himself into the vehicle and let his legs drop to the fake tile floor.

  He turned and checked the inside. It was set up like an office, with a desk and a cash register on one end. A couple of couches lined the walls, and the bedroom at the other end appeared to contain no bed, only file cabinets and another desk. There were posters attached to the walls with tape. Mostly pictures of sunsets over canyons. Marketing materials.

  Layne crossed the interior and opened a few drawers and cabinets in the kitchen. Not much aside from standard pots and pans, and little of that. In the pantry, there were packets of ramen noodles and microwavable soup cups. Much like a college dorm room. It didn’t seem as if anyone lived here full time.

  He proceeded to the back bedroom, and there were no clothes in the closet, only stacks of file folders. Layne paged through a few files. Receipts from canyon tours, waivers about accidents while on the tours. All of it looked to be above-board and concerning legit business items.

  “Who are you people?” Layne said as he put the file folders back. No way to know what they wanted with that suitcase.

  A noise outside made Layne freeze in place. He waited with his eyes on the front door, but nothing came. Foot over foot, he padded to the window for a look. Carefully, he pulled down one corner of the blinds and spotted three dogs out in the front, rooting around the lidded garbage cans. The dogs were mangy and thin and looked at least part-coyote. The biggest of the creatures bumped his nose against the trashcan a few times, but the bungee cord keeping the lid in place did not come loose.

  After a few more seconds, the dogs wandered off. Layne figured it was time for him to do the same. He didn’t want to let his six targets get too far ahead of him. Searching the RV had yielded nothing interesting, and he didn’t think his chances would improve if he stayed here.

  Outside, he scaled the RV to remove all traces of his invasion. After he had inserted the screws into the sunroof, he climbed back down and moved to pursue. Since he knew so little about the situation, he had to play it safe.

  Layne stayed low as he climbed the same hill and paused at the top when he spotted them. The six men were now climbing down the open mouth of a canyon. Was that Snake Bite Canyon? There weren’t any signs indicating the names of anything around here. The terrain was hilly, sandy, littered with spiky bushes and spikier cacti. This area looked less like a tourist destination and more like open space or someone’s extended backyard. But, there were tracks along the hills wide enough for cars.

  The entrance to the canyon was a crack in the earth, and Layne watched the five dark men and one Caucasian disappear down into it.

  Plus, one man with long braids had the suitcase with him. Curious.

  Maybe the safest option would be to go back to the RV and wait for them, but no telling if they would return to this same area. He could try to observe them from the ground level, but Layne could see the canyon had multiple paths at the bottom, like branches of a tree. Many of the individual slots closed at the top, effectively turning them into caves. It was entirely too easy to lose them unless he was right behind.

  Layne wanted to know what was in the suitcase. Why would they all hike down into a canyon with it?

  “Okay,” he said to the arid desert around him. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  He shifted forward, down the hill, into the canyon entrance. There were no steps or a ladder or a rope to descend. Just a steep angle of that mushy sand. The walls rose on either side to form a space about twenty feet wide, leading down. Random bits of vegetation held patches of the sand in place, but mostly, it looked loose and unstable. When he started his descent, his foot sank six inches, sending a small avalanche of sand down on either side.

  His targets were already out of sight. Layne could see down below where the sandy descent turned to rock, and there were immediate slot canyon branches left and right. He imagined it would be easier to listen down there, without the ground-level breeze obscuring their voices.

  And, he had to be mindful of his own echoes. A lot had to go right in this situation.

  Layne stood tall and then leaned back a little to compensate for the angle. Then, he proceeded down. Each time his leg landed, he tried to dig his heel in, to keep his tall frame from leaning forward. Now, he understood why there were so many boxes of the multi-page waivers back in the RV. Each step held a little danger.

  But, within two minutes, he found himself at the bottom of the canyon, safe on even land once again. The ground turned into harder sand, with the packed consistency of dirt. To his left and right, twisting and narrow paths opened. Dead ahead was a rock wall, brownish orange, reaching two hundred feet up to the ground level. The walls of the canyon on all sides were ribbed, shaped by thousands or millions of years of water or wind. Or something like that. Layne wasn’t an expert on canyons. Growing up in Colorado, mountains were more in his wheelhouse.

  Since his targets weren’t within visual range, he had to focus his other senses. He shut his eyes and listened. Almost deadly silent down here, only a little residual breeze whooshing through the narrow angles of the canyon.

  After a few seconds of listening to his breath and the wind, Layne thought he heard an echo coming from his right. The shuffling of feet bouncing off the canyon walls, maybe. Hard to tell.

  He turned in that direction. With his pistol out, he crept forward, using every turn as a pause to wait and listen to make sure he didn’t walk right into a crew of armed men.

  The canyon grew and shrank, sometimes as wide as fifty feet. Sometimes, so narrow he had to angle his body and suck in his chest to squeeze through the tight passages. He figured as long as he could see the sky above, he would be okay. There were several spots where the branches led to smaller side paths. He came upon one area where a ladder leaned against the wall, leading up to a side cave or slot canyon that started twenty feet above the canyon floor. Layne stared at it but decided not to bother climbing. As far as he could tell, his targets were still in front of him. Too easy to get lost down here.

  As the canyon grew and shrank at every turn, he listened for those voices. Sometimes, he would lose them for minutes at a time. Then, he would hear a faraway laugh or the sound of a rock trickling down a canyon wall. In another few minutes, he came to a hard stop and a choice. Left or right. The right was more tight squeezes leading off somewhere he couldn’t see whereas the left led to an incline.

  He’d been trying to use footprints in the dirt as a way to guide him, but this section had become too rocky. No footprints here.

  Layne chose the incline. His inner compass told him the left was leading away from the RV, which made sense. Why would they go into the canyon if there were venturing somewhere near it? Also, he had no way to know if any of these tight squee
zes would lead him to the point of no return. Doubling back meant failure.

  So, Layne hiked up the incline to find a tighter space after ascending about thirty feet. The canyon narrowed, and he could reach out and touch each opposing wall.

  In another hundred feet, he came to a wall on three sides and a hole in the ground where the branch terminated. This particular canyon path stopped with something like a chimney’s top at the end of the road. He knelt at the edge of the hole, and while it was darker down there, he could still see a shaft of light just beyond the area at the bottom. So, not a cave. After the drop, he could continue.

  But, there wasn’t much in the way of hand and footholds down this hole. Maybe fifteen feet down. He would have to lower himself a few feet and then drop down the rest of the way. The hole widened about halfway down, so climbing all the way wasn’t an option.

  Layne inserted the pistol in the back of his waistband and sat on the edge. Lips pursed, he made a decision. There didn’t seem to be a better option.

  Hands out, he lowered himself, straining his chest muscles. When his feet were dangling in the cooler air below, he released his grip and sank a few more feet.

  His feet landed hard in the dirt, and the light shaft blasted him in the eyes. His ankles pulsed with the shock of the hard landing. But, he didn’t want to roll forward, not knowing what would be in front of him.

  He lifted a hand to block the light and then let his eyes adjust. On the ground in front of him were at least a dozen rattlesnakes, sunning themselves on rocks. Many of them stirred, uncoiling. They lifted their heads, taking stock of the new intruder.

  18

  Cornelius Mayweather shifted in the seat of his Lexus and adjusted the binoculars. The fat cop got back into his car and drove away while the six men with the suitcase walked west. The six men were from a local crime organization known as Pahana.

  Corn was very familiar with them. And the fact that the cop had led Layne right to them was a troubling one.