Snake Bite

by Jim Heskett

  Layne raises the shotgun higher so he can aim down the sights. He has the barrel pointed low, toward Tommy’s legs. Layne doesn’t want to kill this man. They need to take him to a neutral location and question him.

  “Drop the package, Tommy. I’m not going to tell you again.”

  The man angles his body and meets Layne’s eyes. His dark brown eyes twinkle under the lights of this room. Green wallpaper and an orange couch offset his skin.

  “I’m sorry,” Tommy says, and his expression suggests he means it.

  In a flash, he releases the report and reveals a large revolver in his hand. He points it and squeezes the trigger before Layne can react. He moved like lightning.

  But, the bullet sails past Layne’s right ear. A whir of motion and his eyes snap shut, but only for a split second. He doesn’t feel injured. He doesn’t sense the bullet hit him.

  Layne pulls the trigger. He doesn’t want to, but he has to. The shotgun blast sails across the room and smacks the guy in the chest, knocking him back. He stumbles into the couch and has a seat, his arms spread out wide. The pistol slumps harmlessly on the couch next to him. He heaves a few last breaths as blood leaks out of the many holes in his shirt.

  Tommy’s eyes go blank. His head tilts down, and he’s dead.

  And, on the floor, scattered into dozens of pages, the NSA report.

  36

  Serena skulked toward the house, with Layne right behind her. It was a pale blue brick and stone structure, two stories, four or five bedrooms. There was a sniper on the roof wearing a rust-colored blanket, to blend in with the roof shingles.

  Layne pointed at the sniper as they approached. They stayed out of his sight line by approaching the side of the house. Taking out the sniper would be the safest way to infiltrate, but she and Layne didn’t have anything silent to use. Climbing up onto the roof would take too much time and leave them too exposed. No, better to avoid him and deal with him on the way out. Once the gunfire inside started, he probably wouldn’t stay in place, anyway.

  "I'll take the back," Serena said.

  Layne nodded his understanding back to her. "I'll go for Ronald or Garret or whatever his name is.”

  "I've got Harry. If we lose comms, what’s the protocol?“

  Layne pointed at the front door. “Work your way to the front, and we’ll meet there.”

  “Copy. Good luck in there. If we meet in a hallway accidentally, try not to shoot me.”

  “I think I can manage that,” Layne said, and then they split up.

  She stayed low as she approached the rear of the house. A wooden fence obscured any activity in the backyard. Going over might expose her to the sniper, so she searched for a way to monitor him from this angle. She found a small knothole in the wood and knelt, closing one eye to spy in the backyard. There was activity through the windows, but nothing in the backyard itself.

  Ten seconds later, the sniper shifted position, the long nose of his rifle pointed away from her.

  Serena hopped the fence and found herself in a xeriscaped yard of rock and stone. A large swimming pool made up the majority of the backyard. Murky green water. She sprinted across the yard and then took cover behind a shed, blocking her from the view of the sniper.

  There were a few options to enter the house. Closest was a backdoor which appeared to lead into the kitchen. Not the best option. Out of the few windows on this side of the house, one was a smaller window at eye-level. To her, that signaled bathroom, which was probably the best way to go. The least likely to encounter any immediate surprises.

  Serena approached that bathroom entrance. She removed a demagnetizer from her pocket and traced it around the corners of the window until it beeped. Yes, this window had an alarm. She held the device in place with a small strip of duct tape and then opened the window. It jerked a little on the way up as if it had not been opened in a long time.

  Holding her breath, she waited for the alarm. Nothing came. The demagnetizer appeared to have done its job, but she waited a few seconds anyway, eyes alert. Still nothing. A closed door sat dormant on the other side of the small room.

  She slid inside the window and found she had assumed correctly. An unoccupied bathroom. There were voices in the hallway, right outside the door. Maybe sentries, maybe people moving. She couldn’t hear footsteps.

  Serena raised her pistols, one in each hand. A few cleansing breaths lowered her heart rate. She blinked a few times and then wiggled each leg to warm up her muscles.

  Serena kicked open the door.

  When she jumped out to the hall, a sizzling pain in her right hand took her completely by surprise. She hadn’t even had time to look around for hostiles. The bullet entered her palm through the back of her hand, just below her ring finger. Equally startling was the blast of the gun which had come from only a few feet to her right.

  Her hand went slack immediately, and she dropped the gun. Blood dribbling down her fingers. In this hallway, she tried to turn toward the direction of the shot and lift her other pistol, but a hand seized her left arm.

  Now, she could take stock of the situation. Two gunmen, one on either side of her. When the one on the right grabbed her other arm, she tried to surprise them by pulling her arms together, to make them knock into each other, or at least, jerk them off their feet. But they were too quick for that.

  Both of them bore down, legs spread, pulling her and holding her in place like a game of tug-of-war. If she’d had time to reflect, she would have realized they must have heard her opening the window. They’d stood out here, waiting for her.

  Again, she tried to move. She kicked out her legs in an attempt to drag them to the ground, but that didn’t work, either. Both of them were too strong. They held her in place, pulled taut so she couldn’t wriggle free.

  "I got one," shouted the guy on the right. "Someone tell Mr. Gaynor."

  37

  Garret Robinson, the man who had been pretending to be Ronald Gaynor for years, stared down at the corpse of his assistant Ashleigh. Her lifeless form, so beautiful, so quiet, so still. Almost as if sleeping. His hands ached from the intense pressure required to collapse her windpipe and end her life. He didn’t even remember doing it. She’d come in, they’d argued, and then a blank spot in his memory obscured the rest. He had a vague notion of putting his hands around her throat, so it seemed clear he’d done this.

  "No, no, no."

  This was real. It was happening. Everything was coming together and falling apart, at the same time.

  So much had happened, Garret could hardly process it all. His boss had claimed to be nearby. That was bad news. Maybe even worse news than Ashleigh's death. He had not done any of the things he should have done. None of the things he’d been paid to do.

  By now, he should have found the report and disappeared, with his boss knowing none of it. Taking the funding and the resources and using them for a decent purpose, not to sell the pages to some Russian interest for a few million dollars. This was so much bigger than money. All these deaths, all this heartache, it had to have a reason. And that reason was justice. Justice for Avery Weeks, who had been killed by the government that employed him, for the crime of knowing too much. For the crime of being given a responsibility to manage Daphne Kurek and her chaotic team.

  Everyone on the team deserved to die. Daphne, Layne, all of them. A wasteful loophole that needed to be closed. But, their deaths were supposed to be incidental. This was all about the report.

  The report he didn't even have.

  “What a disaster,” he said to the empty room. Alone, he could drop the accent. He didn’t have to hide his identity anymore. Maybe he never needed to do so in the first place.

  Garret had to leave. There was no other option. He had to cut his losses and abandon this operation before his boss could arrive. There would be another day, another way to find the NSA report and get justice for Avery. There had to be a way to salvage this, but he couldn’t do it now.

  The sound of feet shuffli
ng came from the hallway outside his office, and he devolved into panic mode. He dashed across the room and hid behind the open door. The beating of his heart worried him, that it might betray his location. And, he didn’t even know why he was hiding.

  Garret peeked out of the edge of the door as he watched Harry Boukadakis wander into the room. He was carrying a piece of a wooden board. Probably, that was how he had escaped from his room, unless Ashleigh had left it unlocked again, as a parting gift.

  Harry looked down at her body, limp and purple on the floor. His mouth dropped open.

  A feeling of shame pulled at Garret. The expression on Harry’s face; the disgust and disbelief. It paralyzed Garret and made him fully realize he had done that. He had killed Ashleigh.

  Why had he done such a terrible thing?

  Then, he came to his senses. He had to stop Harry. The chubby hacker couldn’t be allowed to leave. He had seen Garret’s face. Even if he still thought his captor’s name was Ronald Gaynor, he could still do a lot of damage.

  Garret was ready to emerge from behind the door and drag Harry to the ground, but then Harry picked up the pistol on the desk.

  Damn it. Why had he left it there?

  Garret looked down at the detonator in his hand. That’s why. He’d set the pistol down to get the detonator from his desk, and now Harry had the only weapon in the room.

  Garret pulled back behind the door, holding his breath and trying to think of his next move. An urge told him to press the button right now. Take them all out. Get it over with.

  But, he couldn’t. He couldn’t do it.

  When the footsteps shuffled out of the room, Garret emerged. The room again empty, just Garret and the remains of Ashleigh on the floor.

  “Think,” he whispered.

  Then, he realized it didn’t matter if Harry had the gun. Garret could use the detonator’s timer. Enough time to get away. After that, nothing these people did would matter. When the house came down, every person and every bit of evidence would go with it. Then, it didn’t matter what his boss did or who among his staff could implicate him. All he had to do was slink away before the timer expired.

  Garret lifted the window in his office and slid through it. His feet touched down on gravel. Outside, the commotion from the house lessened, and a light breeze graced his ears. The silence almost neutralized the noise in his head. But, not quite.

  He still had a chance to escape this all and start over. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was possible.

  He thumbed the button to start the countdown on the detonator, and then he tossed it onto the ground. It didn’t matter if anyone found it. Nothing could stop the countdown now.

  After patting his pockets, he realized he didn't have his keys. The car was parked in the front. The keys were somewhere in the house, maybe near the front door. Too far away to risk exposure for that long.

  Panic again gripped him. And then, a little ways past the fence, he saw his salvation.

  38

  Layne stowed his pistol in his waistband as he latched on to the storm drain. Effects of the sedatives from the dart had gone from drowsiness to a headache, and his brain pulsed with each movement higher up the side of the house. The grippy texture made it easy to ascend, and in no time, he was at the second floor.

  He pulled a Red Rock Inn hand towel from his back pocket and wrapped it around his fist, and then readied himself to break the window. It was single-paned, so if he popped his motion just right, he might be able to punch through.

  Through the window, the room looked empty. He hesitated a split second before he put his hand through it, but he had to assume Serena had disarmed any alarms by now. And, it probably wouldn’t matter. This house was poised to break out into chaos at any second.

  His fist jabbed through. The glass crinkled and broke and no alarm sounded as a result, so Layne cleaned up the shards and made a space wide enough to fit. First, he turned his ear toward the open space to make sure he couldn’t hear any pistol slides or revolver hammers cocking. There were blind spots on either side of the window.

  He poked his feet inside and then eased his lower body through. He let go of the window frame when his feet touched soft carpet on the inside. A simple bedroom with a queen bed and dresser. Dark wood ringed walls painted forest green. But, no one immediately in the area.

  As soon as he had his bearings, something changed. A figure popped into the doorway at the other side of the room. An armed person. Tall guy, a pistol in his hand. His eyes met Layne’s, and the man seemed surprised to see him. The pistol was pointed up, at the ceiling.

  Layne drew his gun and shot the man in the chest before his target could raise his own. A dark man, one of the Pahana he had seen at Snake Bite Canyon. If he hadn’t been certain he was in the right place before, now he knew for sure.

  Commotion everywhere. Voices and gunshots below, or maybe, on this floor. Too hard for Layne to tell. He drew the backup sidearm from his ankle holster and crossed the room with both guns raised. He kept one eye on the man on the carpet, bleeding out. The Pahana tried to stem the bleeding, but it wouldn’t do much good. His pistol had landed on the carpet a few feet away, and as long as he didn’t move toward it, Layne would let him alone.

  "Where is Garret? Ronald? Where is your boss?"

  The man on the floor opened his mouth to speak but only sputtered and coughed. Layne waited a moment for him to answer, but the guy was too far gone.

  Layne left him there and crept into the hall. He leaned out an inch to take a look, and a bullet whiffed by his shoulder and obliterated a chunk of the doorframe. Layne pulled back, then he pointed his gun into the hall and spit a few shots. As he squeezed the trigger, he felt wetness on his shoulder. He craned his neck to check out the damage. The bullet had grazed his arm, just above his bicep. It didn’t look or feel serious.

  He heard a yelp when the shooting stopped, so he edged out to see a man standing at the top of the staircase to the first floor, holding onto his arm as it bled. Staring down at his injury. Layne shot him twice in the stomach, and the man fell back down the stairs.

  Layne slid in a fresh magazine as he crept down the hall. He would have felt more confident about this operation if they’d known how many hostiles they’d find inside, but the whole thing had been too rushed. As long as he didn’t shoot Harry or Serena, he would keep firing at anyone who moved.

  Another assailant came running up the stairs, and Layne put a bullet in his forehead before the man even knew what was happening. He slumped forward onto the carpet. The shotgun in his arms came loose from his grasp and thudded beside him.

  Layne eased toward the staircase and collected the shotgun. Pump action. He checked the guy’s pockets and found a few shells. Layne loaded the shotgun while he pointed an ear down the stairs. Noise wafted up, but Layne had a hard time discerning individual voices. His head pounded, making it difficult to concentrate.

  Foot over foot, shotgun raised, Layne descended the steps to a blind turn in the stairs. Heart racing, head still fuzzy, he squinted to ward off the blurriness at the edges of his vision. With a silent three count, he readied himself to move.

  Layne jumped around the bend in the stairs and found it empty. Odd, since he thought he’d heard voices close by. It was hard to judge how much the drugs in his system were affecting his senses. The throbbing ache in his head made him want to shut his eyes.

  A hallway led out from the bottom of this set of stairs. Blind turns down the stairs made him have to take it slow since he couldn’t see and all the rumblings in the house blended with his headache to form one big blaring sound in his head.

  He shuffled down the stairs and could still hear voices from somewhere, but no one in the immediate vicinity. An open hall in front of him, dark wood and framed paintings on the walls. Whoever had decorated this place seemed to favor portraits. No one Layne recognized.

  He pushed forward along the hall and found an open door on his right. Using the shotgun as his lead, he pivoted into the
room. It appeared to be a small office. A blonde woman was dead on the floor. Her neck purple, windpipe crushed. Given the expression on her face, her death had been a total surprise to her.

  At the back of the room, the window to the side of the house sat open. A light breeze rustling the curtains on either side, floating like ghosts. From somewhere outside that window, Layne heard a car starting up.

  But no Garret. Where was he?

  39

  Serena had to think fast. With armed assailants on each flank, in this slim hallway, she had nowhere to run. The bullet wound in her hand ached. She didn't think she would bleed out anytime soon, but it did need attention.

  Her two captors on either side seemed content to hold her in place, to wait for backup. Neither of them spoke or gave any ground. She had tried to brute force her way out of the situation, and it hadn’t done any good. No leverage to beat their holds.

  She had mere seconds to take action.

  Footsteps came around from the corner of the hallway. Before she could do anything, a muzzle flash lit up the hall. She didn’t see the shooter, but whoever it was hadn’t shot her.

  The man holding her right arm let go so he could clutch the bullet wound in his chest. He staggered, mouth gaping.

  With her right arm now free, Serena made a fist and cocked the other guy in his jaw. The hand injury made her want to scream in pain as her fist connected with his face. Droplets of her own blood flew through the air and landed on her cheek as her fist sailed.

  But it worked. His grip lessened. She jerked her left arm free and then swatted the man's pistol out of his hand. Then, she threw her elbow into his nose and lifted her pistol with the other hand. She put one bullet in his chest, sending him to the floor. The other man had taken a step away, no longer trying to restrain her. He would be dead within seconds.