Snake Eye

by William C. Dietz

  The next couple of hours went by quickly, and it seemed like only minutes had passed before it was time for Rossi put her packages into the trunk of her car. She kissed Dexter on the lips. Nothing had been said, no commitments had been made, but the kiss was full of promise. And as the FBI agent made her way home she knew Dexter would be waiting when the SNAKE EYE team was disbanded.

  But that was then—and this was now. And, rather than looking forward to going home, Rossi had come to dread it. The forensic team was done, which meant she could return, but to what? The thought of having to deal with bullet holes, blood-drenched walls, and violent memories was depressing to say the least.

  The agent pulled into her rickety garage twenty minutes later, saw that some of her lights had been left on, and removed her packages from the trunk. The mish-mash of clothing that had seen her through the last few days would be brought in later.

  The first sign that something was amiss came when Rossi noticed that all the recyclables that had piled up on her back porch had mysteriously disappeared. Then, as Rossi went to unlock the brand new backdoor, the smell of fresh paint assailed her nostrils. Not only that, but the faint strains of Christmas music could be heard, as if someone had left the stereo on. That was so unexpected that the FBI agent placed her packages on the floor and removed the Glock from her purse.

  With the weapon pointed at the ceiling, the FBI agent kicked off her shoes and tiptoed through the house. Two of the living room lights were on, and that was when Rossi realized that the bullet holes had miraculously disappeared under a fresh coat of paint. Not only that, but her front window had been replaced, and her Christmas decorations had been restored. Except better than before. But who would have done such a thing?

  The agent lowered her weapon, spotted the envelope propped up on the mantle, and walked over to inspect it. Someone had written “Christina” across the front, and when Rossi tore it open, there was a card inside. It said, “Welcome Home,” in childish cursive, and had been signed by both Vanessa and Missy.

  Rossi took the card over to the couch and sat down. Then, with both the gun and the card laying on her lap, she cried. That was when Snowball emerged from the bedroom, performed a long deliberate stretch, and padded across the room. Her human was home—and all was right with the world.

  It was cold outside the camper, damned cold, and Hank Stanton’s bladder was full. That meant the retired trucker had to choose between trying to hold it till morning, which was unlikely given the fact that daybreak was still a good eight hours away, peeing in his trusty 7-Up bottle, which was already half-full, or facing up to the fact that the time had come to haul his sorry old ass out into the cold. “Okay,” Stanton said out loud. “It looks like it’s time for EVA (extra-vehicular activity.)”

  Petey, who was curled up on his bed next to the door, looked up at the sound of his master’s voice and barked approvingly. The fact that the human was pulling his boots on meant they were going outside, which from a doggie perspective was always a good thing to do.

  Like the sleeper Stanton had spent so many years in back during his long-haul trucking days—the camper’s cheerful interior was neat as a pin. The amenities included a bookshelf filled with second-hand science fiction novels, a battery-powered radio, pictures of his family, a two-burner stove and stainless steel sink, the table he used for just about everything, some storage compartments, and his bunk up over the cab. Everything had a place, and everything was in its place, partly because of the fact that Stanton was a very disciplined man, but also because the seventy-six-year old ex-trucker had simplified his life. It might have been different had Carol survived her leukemia, but she hadn’t, and once she was gone it seemed natural to sell the house, let his daughter take what she wanted, and sell the rest. Getting rid of a lifetime’s worth of junk had been a liberating experience and one he didn’t regret.

  So, outside of dropping in on his daughter once a month to catch up on what she was doing, Stanton was a nomad. Three nights in the camper, followed by one night in a cheap motel, was his routine. And Ebey’s Landing on Whidbey Island was only one of his haunts. There were at least two dozen more, some of which lay in sunnier climes and were on the calendar for late January.

  There was a sudden rush of cold marine air as Stanton opened the door—followed by a joyful bark as Petey exploded out into the darkness. The waves made an insistent swish, swish, swish sound as they ran up onto the beach and a southbound freighter uttered a mournful moan as it churned its way through the off-shore fog.

  The first step was a lulu, but the ex-trucker was used to that, and took his time. He used one hand to hold the 7-Up bottle and the other to steady himself. Once both feet were on the ground Stanton became aware of the light breeze that was coming in from the west, and gave thanks for his polar fleece-lined Gortex parka. It was practically bulletproof and his pride and joy.

  Spacious pockets held his keys, a small flashlight, and a half-used roll of toilet paper. And a good thing, too, because the unisex restroom at Ebey’s Landing was locked to discourage overnighters like himself and therefore of no use to the ex-trucker. Of course such inconveniences were to be expected, especially if one chose to ignore the “No overnight camping” signs, and stay anyway. Stanton had been ticketed on a couple of occasions, but not often, and the retiree enjoyed playing hide and seek with the police.

  But, outlaw though he was, the retiree didn’t think it was acceptable to do his business near the parking area, which was why he followed the flashlight’s glow north along the gravelly beach. Petey, his nose to the ground, cut back and forth through the oblong-shaped pattern of light as the ex-trucker made his way towards a tangle of sun-whitened driftwood. There had been mountains of the stuff back when he was a boy but it was a rare log that found its way onto a beach anymore. As for the smaller stuff, most of that was burned in campfires or hauled off to sit in front of someone’s tract home. A travesty in so far as Stanton was concerned.

  The old man had just stepped behind the pile of driftwood and was in the process of emptying the 7-Up bottle down a crevice when a pair of headlights appeared up on the bluff. The beams disappeared momentarily as the vehicle they belonged to made its way down Ebey Road towards the beach, but were quickly followed by a second pair of lights, and then a third as what appeared to be a small convoy descended on Ebey’s Landing.

  In spite of the fact that his daughter never stopped worrying about his safety, the ex-trucker always felt secure in the camper, especially since he had modified the back wall of the pick-up’s cab so he could crawl into the front and drive away without going outside. But now, separated from his vehicle, Stanton felt a sudden stab of fear. It was December for God’s sake, and colder than the bulldog perched on the front end of a Mack truck, so why would anyone other than a wacko like himself go to the beach in the dead of winter?

  There was no obvious answer, not one the old man was comfortable with, so rather than return to the camper and thereby reveal his presence, Stanton whistled for Petey. Once the terrier appeared out of the darkness the old man took hold of the dog’s collar and fumbled for his belt. Once freed from its loops the leather strap made a serviceable leash. The ex-trucker had just secured one end to the terrier when a pair of extremely bright headlights swept across the parking area. The boxy vehicle pulled up about ten yards away from Stanton’s camper and came to a stop. The ex-trucker, who had extinguished the flashlight by then, wrapped his fingers around Petey’s muzzle. “Quiet boy,” the old man whispered, and watched to see what would happen.

  Joe Chow was seated in the front passenger seat as Paco brought the Hummer to a stop. The pick-up with the piggyback camper was both a surprise and an annoyance. “Look at that old piece of shit,” the snakehead said disparagingly. “Just what we don’t need…. Some guy humping his best friend’s wife. Give the bastard fifty bucks and tell him to find another place to drill her.”

  “And if he refuses?” Paco asked, as he ran the zipper up his coat.


  “Then offer him a hundred,” Chow answered. “We’re only a fifteen-minute drive from the old man’s house. He’ll go ballistic if we pop some bozo right in his own backyard. Not to mention the fact that the holding tank is right offshore.”

  Paco nodded, opened the door, and made his way over to the camper. What Little Chow said made sense—but what if the guy who owned the camper was armed? With that possibility in mind Paco removed the 9mm from the waistband of his pants and held the flashlight well away from his body before he thumbed the device on. The other vehicles had pulled into the lot by then and the knowledge that there was plenty of back-up helped ease the snakehead’s mind as he approached the camper. While it was old, and the paint was faded, Paco noticed that the vehicle had been well cared for. “Hello there!” the gang member shouted. “Is anyone home?”

  But there was no answer other than the continual rush of the wind. A quick check confirmed that the truck’s cab was empty and the doors were locked. Then, having made his way to the rear of the vehicle, Paco knocked on the door. There was no response. He brought the pistol up, turned the latch, and felt the door swing open. The beam from his flashlight swung across the tidy interior and stabbed into the darker corners.

  Paco pushed the door closed, put the pistol back where it belonged, and felt a sense of relief as he made his way back to the Hummer. There was a whirring sound as Chow lowered the passenger side window. “So? What’s up?”

  “There’s nobody home,” Paco replied. “Probably a dead battery or something.”

  “Okay,” Little Chow replied, “Let’s get on with it. Our friends should be topside by now. Tell them to come on in.”

  Paco’s fingers were starting to get numb as he fumbled the two-way out of a pocket and brought the radio up to his lips. The response was nearly instantaneous as a cold diver heard the code phrase and made the appropriate reply.

  Then, as Stanton continued to watch from concealment, the distant roar of an outboard motor was heard. Minutes passed as the sound grew louder, until a fully loaded Zodiac appeared in the glare of the combined headlights and nosed its way in through the surf. Then the motor came up and the old man watched in amazement as two dry-suit clad divers jumped into the water and held the inflatable in place so that six individuals could scramble out of the boat and splash their way up onto the rocky beach.

  The first thing that came to mind was some sort of drug-smuggling operation, but while the newly arrived people were busy removing their rubber suits, there was no sign of any contraband. Bundles of clothes were provided to the shivering men who hurried to put them on. Meanwhile two of what the ex-driver assumed to be their comrades struggled to turn the Zodiac around and push it back out. One of them positioned himself in the stern. The outboard came back to life, the second man rolled into the boat, and water churned as the Zodiac got underway. The operation was complete.

  Stanton pressed a button on his Timex, saw the time appear, and was surprised to learn that the entire sequence had taken no more than fifteen minutes. But to what end? There was no way to know as the newly landed individuals were herded into various vehicles, engines roared, and the convoy departed. Their headlights disappeared over the top of the bluff a few minutes later, but Stanton waited long enough to be sure they weren’t coming back before allowing himself to relax.

  The ex-trucker had just freed Petey from the makeshift leash when he remembered what he had come for. His pecker shriveled when confronted with the cold air, but it felt good to empty his bladder, especially with a long night ahead. As for what he had already come to think of as the beach party—the old man saw no reason to report it. Not unless he wanted to report himself as well and answer a whole lot of stupid questions. “Okay, Petey,” Stanton said. “Let’s go home. The last one to arrive is an old geezer.” The terrier barked excitedly, dashed away, and left the human to bring up the rear.

  Thanks to the fact that she was with Haxton and Theel, Rossi arrived a full ten minutes early. Unlike the FBI, which had a building of its own, ICE was housed in a regular office tower, which explained the lack of security in the spacious lobby. A painting that consisted of red, green, and gold swooshes on a black background hung above the empty reception desk. After a brief wait, a half-empty elevator carried the FBI agents up to the twenty-third floor, where they got off and made their way down a short hall. The door said “Immigration and Customs Enforcement” on it and opened into a tiny reception area. A locked door blocked access to the offices beyond and a glass partition protected the receptionist. She checked IDs, asked the agents to sign in, and made a quick phone call. Hawkins appeared a few moments later and led the visitors to a conference room that overlooked downtown Seattle.

  Agent Inez gave Rossi a cheerful wave. Detective Tolley pumped her hand and Lieutenant Olman offered a mock salute. Refreshments were available, so there was a pause while the newcomers removed their coats and poured coffee into Styrofoam cups. Then, with her notebook open in front of her, Rossi had an opportunity to scan the maps, photos, and schematics that covered two of the four walls. The forensic work related to the Cascade shootout site was just about complete—but the overall investigation continued.

  “Okay,” Hawkins said, “I know all of you are busy so let’s get to it. My computer skills are pretty limited—so don’t look for any fancy stuff during this presentation.”

  Inez dimmed the lights, Hawkins tapped a series of keys, and a Power Point presentation blossomed on the flat-panel display. “I know you’ve read the reports,” the ASAC continued, “but I’d like to walk you through a quick chronology of what took place. The reason for this will become apparent later.”

  Rossi and the others eyed a map as Hawkins spoke. “When Little Chow left his apartment, and followed Highway 520 across Lake Washington, Agents Moller and Hagger figured he was on his way to Bellevue Square to unload more of his daddy’s money. But once he broke north on 405, then east on Highway 2, they knew he had something else in mind. They called for instructions, I told them to stay with the bastard, and they did.”

  The ICE agent paused at that point to look around the room. His eyes were bright and his voice was serious. “I wish I had an alternative explanation for what took place next, but the simple fact is that the turds caught us flat-footed, and for some rather simple reasons. Never, in the whole time that we had him under surveillance, had Joe Chow shown an interest in the mountains. The result was that Moller and Hagger were driving the wrong vehicle, wearing the wrong clothing, and were seriously outgunned as they headed up into the Cascades.”

  Although Haxton couldn’t help but admire the no-excuses manner in which her peer had accepted full responsibility for sending two agents into a bad situation, the FBI official wondered if such a mea culpa was truly necessary. After all, she reasoned, there had been no hint of such a trip in the material picked up off the listening devices, so how could anyone predict such behavior? Still, if Hawkins had a need for self-flagellation, then so be it.

  “Meanwhile,” Hawkins continued, “A plane loaded with drugs and illegals had slipped across the border and was making its way south. We now know that the aircraft, plus its cargo, was the property of the Chinese triads. Or, to be more accurate, an especially ambitious group called the Wo Sing Wo, which is headquartered in Hong Kong but has a branch in Vancouver, British Columbia. Their traditional lines of business include drug smuggling, protection rackets, and karaoke bars. But now, if our analysis is correct, it looks as though they hope to move illegals into this country as well.”

  “In direct competition with the Chow family,” Theel observed.

  “Precisely,” Hawkins agreed. “And that, as it turns out, is why Little Chow went up into the mountains. The plan was to wait for the plane to land on the frozen lake and ambush the triads as they brought their illegals and drugs down to the parking lot below.”

  “While our people were busy digging their car out of the snow,” Theel put in.

  The ASAC started to reply—but the
FBI agent raised a hand. “Don’t get me wrong, Hawk. It wasn’t their fault. Or yours for that matter. But it rankles nonetheless.”

  “Yes,” the ICE agent agreed solemnly. “It does. Fortunately none of the casualties were what you would call ‘good citizens.’ And, with one exception, all of them were triads.”

  Rossi looked up from her notes. ‘“With one exception?’ Is there something new?”

  Hawkins nodded. “Yeah…Moller and Hagger had a count on the Chow contingent, or believed they did, but had no way to be sure of it. So even though we thought we might be one body short, there was no way to verify that. But late yesterday we got a break. Some guy and his son went up a logging road looking for a Christmas tree and happened across a shallow grave. The body had been uncovered by animals. The King County sheriffs department processed the scene, and it looks like the body belongs to one of Chow’s foot soldiers, an ex-Army noncom who took a round right between the eyes. The news people haven’t made the connection to the ambush yet, which is fine with me.” Rossi nodded and made a note.

  “One other item,” the ICE agent added. “Even though Moller and Hagger followed Chow to the scene, or thought they did, a good defense attorney could cast doubt on that—especially given the fact that they weren’t present when the ambush took place. But I’m happy to announce that the bastard left some cigarette butts on the scene. Three contained DNA identical to samples collected from various items collected in Seattle.”

  “That’s terrific,” Lieutenant Olman put in enthusiastically. “So, let’s arrest him!”