Chimera

by Ken Goddard

  There was a pause. “No, I’m fine here, but I would appreciate it if you’d send some officers by to check on the fellow in the van; make sure he’s ok. Yes, as soon as you can; but no, a code-run won’t be necessary. Yes, thank you.”

  Bulatt shut off the Blackberry, set it on the table, and then stared amiably at the two newcomers.

  “That was the local police dispatcher,” he explained. “There should be uniformed patrol officers arriving in the parking lot, oh, I’d say within three-to-four minutes, tops. I understand they’re pretty good about officer-needs-assistance calls around here, even when it involves the feds.”

  “You son-of-a-bitch,” first arriving newcomer whispered. Both of the casually-dressed men looked thoroughly pissed, and ready to go for the holstered weapons under their unzipped jackets at any second.

  “Yes, I agree; a truly nasty trick to play on a fellow fed, assuming that’s what you fellows really are,” Bulatt said. “But your two thugs out in the parking lot deserved what they got; and you will too if you don’t decide to start talking in the next couple of minutes.”

  “I’ll take Tommy with me, and drive him and Joe out of here with their van,” the second newcomer said to the first as he bend down and dead-lifted his bound and semi-conscious comrade to his feet. “You cover; this asshole’s not going to shoot.”

  “Not unless one of you does something really stupid, like go for a gun,” Bulatt agreed. “And I’m not even going to shoot if both of you decide to turn around and walk back out that door,” he added. “But I don’t think you’re going to want to do that without these.” He held up a pair of padlock keys.

  “Why would I need keys?” the second newcomer demanded. “I’ll just cut the fucking chain off.”

  “Possibly because it’s going to take you at least a half-hour to hack-saw your way through that chain, or the locks, assuming you manage to find a decent hacksaw with some extra blades,” Bulatt suggested, “and I’m guessing at least that long to find bolt-cutter big enough to do the job.”

  “You ever hear of a fucking blow torch?”

  “That ought to do the trick,” Bulatt agreed; “but don’t forget, if you do decide to use a torch, the heat transfer’s probably going to cook your buddy’s larynx before you complete the cut; even if you start at the hitch end of the chain. You’ll know it’s time to stop when he starts screaming, so you might keep a bucket of cold water handy.”

  The second newcomer blinked, and then stared at Bulatt uncertainly.

  “None of which really matters, or is even relevant,” Bulatt went on, “because you guys don’t have a half hour. I copied down the license plate of that very distinctive blue van; which means I can have a serious, multi-jurisdictional APB out on the street in five minutes or less if you both try to run. End result: I interrogate you guys down at the local police station sometime later today, under more formal conditions; but I don’t think you want that.”

  The second newcomer started to say something, and then hesitated.

  “What one of you really wants to do, and I really don’t care who,” Bulatt went on calmly, “is to go outside, unlock Joe from that bumper hitch, and get him — and, of course, Tommy, here — into one of your other vans and onto the freeway, as quickly as possible, and certainly before the cops get here, while the other one stays here and talks to me. And, just as a reminder, you are running out of time to make that decision.”

  “What keeps us from just taking Tommy and Joe out of here and telling you to go fuck yourself?” the first newcomer asked suspiciously.

  Bulatt shrugged. “Aside from the fact that I still have the upper hand, and might decide to shoot your ass at any moment,” he pointed out, gently waving the Sig, “I’d say the rapidly approaching cops; and, of course, Mr. Rightmore here, who isn’t leaving under any circumstances. He and I still need to talk.”

  “Mind if I call my supervisor?”

  “Be my guest.” Bulatt shrugged.

  The first newcomer carefully pulled the unzipped flap of his jacket open, clearly revealing a semi-automatic pistol secured in a well-worn shoulder holster; then slowly unclipped a cell phone from his belt, opened it up, thumbed a couple of buttons and brought the phone up to his ear and mouth.

  “Tomcat-two,” he said after a moment, “I’m in the lab. Turns out subject White is federal wildlife agent.” A pause. “No, actually, at the moment, we’re under his control.” He briefly summarized the situation, and then listened for a few seconds. “No, he’s not being cooperative at all.” He listened a few more seconds before saying: “yes, sir, will do.” He then set the still-open cell phone down on the table, and then turned to his partner.

  “Take Tommy out of here and link up with the boss. I’ll stay here,” the first newcomer directed, gesturing his head at Bulatt who agreeably tossed the keys to the second newcomer. They both watched the wiry but clearly muscular man hurriedly drag ‘Tommy’ out the door.

  “Okay, sport,” the first newcomer snarled as he suddenly whirled back toward Bulatt, “You and I are — ”

  The first newcomer’s hand — now wrapped around the grip of the shoulder-holstered pistol — was still coming clear of the jacket when three concussive explosions rocked the lab. Three hollow-pointed rounds struck the attacking newcomer center-of-chest, the impacts sending him staggering backwards and crumbling to the ground in agony.

  After waving his now-smoking pistol suggestively to keep the shocked and now speechless Rightmore in place, Bulatt walked over to the sprawled gunman, reached down and scooped up the dropped pistol, put it on the bench, and then used his right boot to turn the gasping and trembling man over onto his back.

  The man tried to ignore the painful damage to his chest, and get back up to his feet; but his eyes bulged in agony at the first attempt. After an even-less-effective second attempt, he remained on his back and glared helplessly at Bulatt — who briefly examined man’s reddened face for signs of shock, then bent down, picked up the dropped cell phone, and brought it up to his ear and mouth.

  “Hi,” he said calmly, “this is Special Agent Bulatt, AKA subject White; and no, I’m still not being cooperative.”

  “What just happened in there?” a familiar voice demanded.

  “Ah, Agent Smith, I believe. How odd that our paths should cross again. But to answer your question, your man here went for his gun, so I shot him.”

  “You… shot one of my men?!” ‘Agent Smith’ rasped in disbelief.

  “Three rounds, center of mass, three-inch group, in self-defense,” Bulatt replied matter-of-factly. “Good thing you guys bought the expensive vests instead of the cheap shit. He was flopping on the floor for a while, and turning an interesting shade of purple, trying to catch his breath; but he looks pretty stable now. Probably cracked his sternum in a couple of places; but I stayed away from his heart, so the bruises ought to heal in a few weeks. Pity he and the other fellows didn’t have the foresight to insert ear-plugs before I arrived, but I’m sure their ears will stop ringing after a while.”

  “All right, Agent Bulatt, here’s the deal. You have precisely two minutes to walk out of there with your hands up or I’m sending in — ” Smith started to say when Bulatt interrupted.

  “Two minutes ought to be just about the time my Redmond Police buddies start showing up and taking everyone into custody who isn’t willing to identify himself as a federal law enforcement officer,” Bulatt pointed out. “And, so far, I’m the only one who has.”

  There was another pause.

  “Your time is rapidly approaching one minute and counting,” Bulatt reminded, “and, yes, I will take a polygraph if things ever get to the formal review board stage; which I’m sure they won’t.”

  “I — we need to talk, face to face,” Smith finally said.

  “Fine with me,” Bulatt said agreeably. “Come on in; and don’t forget to bring along someone to haul this character out of here. He’s starting to smell; I think he shit his pants.”

  “
I’ll bring two — ” the voice started to say, but Bulatt interrupted again

  “No, I said you’ll bring one, and no weapons. We’ve got plenty here already, and I really don’t want to have to write any more ‘shots fired’ memos; they tend to upset our Washington Office.”

  Approximately five minutes later, the all-too-familiar ‘Agent Smith’ — now dressed in jeans, boots and a flannel shirt, but with no concealing jacket or visible weapons — cautiously opened the swinging doors of the electronic lab.

  “Just us federales,” Bulatt said from his sitting position on the lab table. “Come on in and take a seat.”

  Smith stepped inside, immediately followed by a pair of uniformed Redmond police officers who entered with drawn pistols held down and away in both hands.

  The uniformed sergeant instantly took in the sight of a glowering Rightmore sitting on the floor in the far corner of the room; the still-purple-faced and intermittently moaning gunman lying glassy-eyed — but breathing steadily — on the floor; the two semi-auto pistols on the table; the Sig and a federal agent’s badge case lying next to Bulatt’s right hand; and then stepped over to the side wall where he could watch the entire room.

  The uniformed lieutenant smiled and holstered his pistol.

  “Everything okay here, Ged?” the lieutenant asked, thereby providing Smith and Rightmore with just about everything they needed to know about their current situation.

  “Everything’s fine here, Al,” Bulatt said, as he stood up from the table and extended a welcoming hand, “just a little misunderstanding about jurisdiction; typical Federal fu-bar. I think we’re about to get it all straightened up.”

  “Glad to hear it.” The lieutenant nodded, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he glanced down at the now-only-slightly trembling figure on the floor. “Accidental discharge?”

  “Something like that,” Bulatt agreed.

  “You do realize we have rules about discharging firearms within the city limit?”

  “Absolutely,” Bulatt nodded, “and well you should; but I think if you dig deep enough, you’ll discover this place is actually federal property, in a vague sort of way.”

  “Really?” The lieutenant looked over at the grey-haired man, who answered with a non-committal shrug. “Interesting.” The lieutenant continued to look around the shop for a few seconds before returning his attention to the groaning man on the floor. “What about this fellow; is he okay?”

  “More or less,” Bulatt said, “but I don’t think he’d object to some medical attention right about now.”

  The lieutenant nodded at the sergeant, who reached up to his shoulder with his free hand, activated and then spoke softly into his shoulder-mounted radio mike.

  Moments later, a pair of EMTs entered the electronics lab with a stretcher and quickly transported the groaning man out of the room.

  “And about that blue van you called in about,” the lieutenant said after the EMTs had departed, “it seems the driver was in a hurry to get a couple other guys some medical attention, so we’re giving them a full escort to the hospital. Want us to take any statements while we’re there?”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Bulatt looked quizzically over at Smith who shook his head.

  “In that case, I guess we’ll just leave you fellows to your federal ‘un-fu-baring’ business,” the lieutenant said, motioning to his sergeant who backed out of the door with his gun at his side with one hand, still keeping an eye on the room.

  “Glad you could stop by, Al,” Bulatt said, smiling. “Dinner’s on me, next time I’m in town.”

  “Definitely going to take you up on that,” the lieutenant replied as he took one last look around the room, visibly taking the time to memorize the grey-haired man’s face, and then departed.

  “Mind if I sit down?” Smith asked after the swinging doors grew still.

  “Be my guest,” Bulatt said, motioning him to a nearby chair.

  “Was it really necessary to work those guys over like that?” he asked as he settled into the chair and stared at Bulatt curiously.

  Bulatt reached into his jacket pocket and tossed the sap out onto the table. “You tell me.”

  Smith looked at the lethal sap, winced visibly, and then nodded his head. “Okay, I understand; some of these snake-eater types do tend to get a little carried away, every now and then,” he acknowledged.

  “Probably the steroids; always an unfortunate side-effect,” Bulatt commented as he glanced over at the remaining man on the floor. “So how’s our Mr. Rightmore doing down there? You figure he’s still thinking about that gun in the drawer?”

  Smith looked over at the glowering supposed-electronics-expert.

  “Yeah, probably,” he said. “Come on up, Bill; I think he’s got us stalemated for the moment.” Smith extended a hand and helped Rightmore into an adjoining chair where he sat and continued to glare sullenly at Bulatt.

  “Just for the record,” Bulatt said to Rightmore, “There never has been a biologist named Rainier who worked for Washington State Fish I know that because I called and checked this morning. There is, however, a Phil Rainier who happens to be the resident agent in charge of our Bellingham office; but he doesn’t have any kids, much less grandkids, and I seriously doubt that he would recognize a modern tracking device if he tripped over one. Never was much of a technical type. You, of course, would have known most — or all — of that if you’d been working as closely with wildlife law enforcement around here, as you said you were; or if you’d bothered to flesh out your cover with some local cross-references.”

  Smith glared at Rightmore, who now looked more chagrined than furious.

  “Okay, gentlemen,” Bulatt said, “short and sweet: why do you care about a couple of your tracking devices that may or may not be linked to a violation of federal and international wildlife laws?”

  “Short and sweet, we don’t care… about the wildlife violations,” Smith said calmly. “I tried to explain that to Major Preithat.”

  “Good, glad to hear it.” Bulatt nodded. “But if I were to tell you those devices are definitely linked to the death of Major Preithat’s five Thai Rangers; the near-fatal assault on the Thai Interpol Colonel in charge of those Rangers — one of whom was his son; the downing of a Thai Army helicopter; and an assault on a Federal wildlife agent, not counting the deaths of a few assorted crooks and civilians who got caught in the cross-fire, what would you say to all of that?”

  “Fuck,” Smith said with an exasperated sigh.

  “Yeah, I’m sure all of that complicates your situation a bit,” Bulatt agreed. “So, let’s get to the basic questions: one, who are you guys?; two, who are you?; three, who are these people — the ones who did all the shooting in Thailand?; and four, why are you looking for them?”

  “Like I told you in Phuket, I can’t answer any of those questions,” Smith said matter-of-factly.

  “I do recall you saying that,” Bulatt acknowledged. “But, at the same time, I have to assume that you don’t want my investigation or my interactions with the local police to reveal the fact that Hood Electronics is, in fact, an Agency asset that provides you guys with state-of-the-art electronic devices — as well as some interesting intelligence info on outside users of those devices — instead of just being ‘vaguely federal property.’”

  Rightmore’s eyes widened in horror. He started to say something; but Smith waved him off.

  “If any part of what you just said was even remotely true, then no, we wouldn’t want that to happen.”

  “And I don’t have any particular desire to cause you guys any more grief than I already have; but I’m not going to back off on my investigation either, so we’re going to need to find a compromise acceptable to all sides,” Bulatt went on as he slid one of his business cards across the table. “Here’s a contact number on the back for the cell phone of the agent in charge of our special ops branch, who happens to be my immediate supervisor. Why don‘t you call your people and hav
e them contact him, see what they can work out?”

  “Mind if I step over to the far side of the room to make the call?” Smith asked after briefly glancing at the Blackberry screen.

  “No, not at all; just as long as you’re willing to leave that back-up gun here on the table.”

  “Oh yeah; forgot about that one.”

  Bulatt smiled.

  Smith stood up, unclipped a cell phone from his belt with his right hand, and then — in a slow and deliberate manner — reached down with his left to carefully removed the hide-out pistol from his boot and place it on the lab table. Then, at Bulatt’s nod, he walked over to the far side of the room and began working the cell phone.

  As he did so, Bulatt busied himself by removing the magazine from the grip — and the round from the chamber — of the hide-out pistol, emptying the magazine, and dropping all of the loose rounds into his jacket pocket.

  Thirty seconds later, Smith walked over and sat back down in the chair. “You should be getting a call from your SAC any moment now,” he said.

  Another twenty seconds later, Bulatt’s Blackberry began to vibrate.

  Bulatt glanced at the screen, then brought the rectangular device up to his ear and said: “Bulatt.”

  He listened for approximately two minutes, nodded, said “I understand,” disconnected the call, re-holstered the Blackberry and his pistol on his belt, slide the hide-out pistol and empty magazine back across the table toward Smith, and then sat down in a nearby chair.

  “Mind if I call you John?” he asked the grey-haired man who was busy returning his empty back-up weapon to its boot holster. “It seems to go well with Smith.”

  Smith looked up and shrugged agreeably. “Sure, why not.”

  “Okay, John, I’m Ged.” Bulatt said. “And now that we’ve got all the niceties out of the way, what exactly can you tell me about three former snake-eaters and some Russian smugglers they may or may not be working with?”