Snake Eye

by William C. Dietz

  Dexter handed her a cup. “You’re welcome. I’ll give you a duffle bag so you can take the rest of the clothes with you. Here’s half the money I promised you—and there’s soup on the stove. It will be ready in about five minutes. Now, given how urgent the situation is, may I ask you some questions?”

  Ling took her first sip of tea. It warmed the pit of her stomach. No one had been polite to her in a long time. It felt good. “Yes,” she replied. “You ask.”

  The ex-SEAL had been taught how to interrogate prisoners and put that knowledge to work with a series of gentle but carefully framed questions. It wasn’t long before he had a chronology for the hours and days immediately after the shooting. Someone like Inez, or Rossi for that matter, might have been interested in the particulars of who Chow spent time with, and the nature of such relationships, but Dexter was listening for something else. What he wanted was some clue as to where Rossi was being held. And eventually, just as Ling finished her second cup of soup, he heard one. “Chow took you aboard a barge?” the ex-naval officer inquired. “Whatever for?”

  “He not tell me,” Ling answered simply. “But it have fireworks. For New Year.”

  Dexter felt a rising sense of excitement. Fireworks! Of course! Everyone knew that Samuel Chow sponsored the annual New Year’s Eve fireworks display over Lake Union. He looked at his watch. It was 7:32 p.m. and already dark. The barge would already be in position as people from all over the city streamed into the Gas Works park. Would the authorities think to check it? No, that didn’t seem likely. Which made it the perfect place to hide. “Okay,” the ex-SEAL said. “Tell me about the barge. Every detail that you can remember.”

  So Ling told him. And while Dexter was interested in everything the young woman said, he took particular note of the fact that what the illegal described as a “house” occupied one end of the barge. Ten minutes later the businessman had everything he was likely to get. “Alright,” Dexter said. “Eat the rest of the soup if you want it and I’ll go get the second half of your money.”

  The ex-naval officer returned to his safe, removed both of the handguns he kept there, along with all of what he thought of as his emergency fund. He slipped a couple of hundred dollars into his pocket. Leaving weapons behind, Dexter returned to the kitchen. “Here,” he said, as he handed Ling a thick stack of currency. “There’s a couple thousand dollars. Enough to get you out of Seattle. It’s a big country. Make a life for yourself.”

  Ling frowned. “Five hundred. We agree. Why more?”

  Dexter looked away. The memory of how Chow had removed the illegal’s clothing and raped her was still fresh in his mind. “I don’t have time to explain—but I owe you more than five-hundred dollars. More than two thousand, but that’s all I have on hand.”

  Ling didn’t understand, but the man was obviously sincere, and she needed the money. “I take it,” the illegal said decisively. “For my sister.”

  The businessman wasn’t aware of a sister, but nodded politely and glanced at his watch. “Look, I’m sorry to run, but that’s what I have to do. I’d invite you to stay, but that would be a mistake. I’m going to be in big trouble by nine o’clock this evening and the police will come here. I won’t tell them about you, but they will figure it out, so get on the next Greyhound bus. You don’t need any I.D. for that—and it’s cheap.”

  Ling had happened across the bus depot during her wanderings and considered making a trip to California, but lacked the necessary fare. Now, with plenty of money, she could buy a ticket. “Thank you. I go.”

  Five minutes later, duffle bag in hand, the illegal was gone. Dexter returned to his closet, opened one of the built-in drawers, and found what he was looking for. There were two boxes of ammo for the Heckler & Koch P7 that he had purchased for himself after being discharged from the service, and one box of .45 ACP for his father’s Colt Ml911.

  So, with two extra magazines for the P7, and one for the .45, the ex-SEAL figured he would be able to put out a pretty good rate of fire. A shotgun like Rossi’s would have been nice, but he didn’t own one, and something like that would show.

  It took fifteen minutes to charge all the clips, load both weapons, and change into black clothing. Then, just as he was about to leave, Dexter put in a call to Agent Inez. However the ICE agent was at a New Year’s Eve party. The cell phone was in her purse and Inez was about twenty feet away when it rang. Dexter waited for voicemail, left a message outlining what he believed to be the situation, and felt a sense of relief as he put the receiver down. It was stupid, the ex-lieutenant knew that, but he didn’t want any help.

  Having locked the apartment Dexter rode one of the elevators down to his truck. It felt like a thousand butterflies were flying in formation in the pit of his stomach and his nerves were on edge, but there was a welcome sense of anticipation too. It stemmed from a need to do what he had been trained for—to find the enemy, and if necessary, kill him.

  With only thirty-seven minutes left until midnight and the beginning of the new year, Joe Chow eyed the scene around him. Having blown away the clouds, and exhausted itself in the process, the southwesterly wind left the surface of Lake Union looking like black glass. The fireworks barge was surrounded by a flotilla of pleasure craft. Their running lights sparkled like red, green, and white jewels. Further out, all along the lake’s gently curving shores, thousands of people were preparing to watch the display from rooftops, balconies, and parks, with half a million more getting ready to watch the extravaganza on television. All the while the snakehead and his men hid in plain sight! The thought pleased Little Chow and caused him to smile. The voice came from behind him. “Hey, boss. I think we have a problem.”

  Chow turned to face Paco. “Yeah? What’s up?”

  “Skinner opened the cabin to give the law bitch some food. She looks pretty bad.”

  Chow swore. Rossi was his ace in the hole, his last bargaining chip if the authorities managed to track him down, but only if she was alive. So what did dumbass Kwong and shit-for-brains Tom-Tom go and do? They damned near beat the agent to death! It was an act so stupid, it nearly left him speechless. “Okay,” Chow responded. “Let’s take a look.”

  Paco led the way, and as the two men started down the central walkway, Tian Lei and his pyrotechs could be seen tending to what the fireworks master sometimes referred to as his “children,” all under the watchful eye of an officious but not especially bright fire inspector. He assumed that since most of the men on the barge were Asian, all of them reported to Lei. So far no one had seen fit to put him straight.

  Plywood boxes had been installed on either side of the elevated walkway. Each box contained multiple racks, and each rack contained a cluster of mortars, all of which were grouped by caliber and packed in sand. The shells had been loaded into polyethylene mortars by that time and covered with tinfoil, which was held in place with duct tape. The purpose of the tinfoil was to protect the unexploded shells from the flaming debris that would rain down on the barge once the mortars began to fire.

  And, making the entire endeavor that much more complex, was the fact that each shell or bomb was wired to a laptop computer located in the booth that Lei and his men had constructed in the bow. Once launched, the computer program would control the entire show. The fire inspector, who was down on his knees next to one of the plywood boxes, didn’t even look up as the snakeheads passed by.

  Skinner, Tom-Tom, and Kwong were waiting next to the cabin when the snakehead arrived. The last two looked worried—not for Rossi or Missy, but for themselves. Chow was pissed. They knew that and feared his wrath. “Okay, let’s have a look at her,” the snakehead said irritably. “And keep an eye on Mr. Fireman. Head the bozo off if he starts to come this way.”

  Metal rattled as Kwong unlocked the door, and a beam of light stabbed the darkness as Tom-Tom began to probe the cabin’s interior. The blob of white light caressed the wooden walls before wobbling onto the bunks where two pale faces could be seen. Rossi blinked as the light sp
eared her eyes and wondered how many men were standing behind it. Not that it mattered much, because although she could move, the pain from the broken rib would prevent her from taking on one snakehead, much less two or three. That didn’t mean the FBI agent couldn’t shoot the bastards though, which was why she had resisted her daughter’s attempts to clean up her bloodied face and sat huddled beside her. Maybe, if she could convince the snakeheads that she was harmless, she would be able to lure one of them in close. Then, if she could get hold of his weapon, a whole lot of people were going to die. It was a long shot, Rossi knew that, but a long shot was better than no shot. A man spoke and the agent recognized the voice as belonging to Chow. “Damn, woman. You look like forty miles of bad road.”

  Consistent with the part she was playing, the FBI agent ran her tongue over dry lips. “Water…. Thirsty….”

  Chow took the flashlight away from Tom-Tom and moved in closer. Rossi’s left eye was little more than a reddened slit. Her left cheek was a dark shade of blue and badly swollen. At some point, her upper lip had been cut and dried blood was caked on her chin. The little girl looked frightened. Tears made tracks down her dirty face. Two pieces of wood, both pried loose from the lower bunk, had been used to fashion a splint for her arm. The supports had been tied in place with pantyhose. Missy cradled the injured arm the way a mother would cradle a baby.

  “C-c-cold,” Rossi said pitifully, and it was true. The two of them had been hugging each other for hours using their combined body heat to stay warm.

  “Give them your coats,” Chow ordered, looking from Kwong to Tom-Tom.

  “But it’s cold!” Tom-Tom complained. “We’ll freeze.”

  “You should have thought of that earlier,” the snakehead replied angrily. “Now take off your fucking coats or I’ll blow your god-damned heads off!”

  Right then, for one split second, Tom-Tom considered pulling his weapon and shooting Chow in the face. But Paco already had a hand on his semi-auto, as did Skinner, and Tom-Tom knew Kwong was too scared to back his play. “Okay,” he said, reluctantly, and surrendered his coat.

  Kwong did likewise and Chow threw both garments up onto the top bunk. Then, just as the snakehead was about to order Kwong to fetch a bottle of water, the entire barge shivered. The first shells had been launched and a series of overlapping Chrysanthemums lit up the sky. A new year had begun.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dexter heard a series of whumps, followed by a reedy cheer, as three successive explosions lit the sky. These were followed by the crackle of firecrackers as local citizens got into the act, and a gigantic brocade bomb went off high above. But, rather than the exuberance the people on the surrounding docks clearly felt, the businessman was frustrated. After crossing the Aurora bridge, and making his way to the north shore of Lake Union, Dexter quickly discovered that some streets had been blocked off by the police. In addition to that, hordes of incoming spectators had already claimed what on-street parking there was, forcing latecomers such as himself to leave lower Wallingford, and park their vehicles elsewhere.

  The process of finding a place to park then hiking back took more than an hour. That was bad enough, but what proved to be the most frustrating was Dexter’s subsequent inability to cross the half-mile stretch of black water that separated him from the barge. The original plan had been to hire a boat, or, failing that, to “borrow” one, but neither approach had proved feasible. It seemed that the type of people who had boats were not interested in renting them out to strangers on a night when they wanted to venture out themselves. And, what with so many people about, it was hard to steal one.

  So, as the fireworks display began, the ex-naval officer had little choice but to turn pirate. Having spotted a likely looking couple, he followed them up to the gate that fronted one of the marinas and offered to help with their coolers. Both had been drinking—and they assumed the neatly dressed man had a boat of his own. A serious error indeed.

  Once out on a pier, with rows of sleek cabin cruisers to either side, Dexter helped the couple load their supplies onto a twenty-foot cuddy cabin cruiser. Then, just as the unsuspecting mariners were about to thank the nice man, he produced an ugly looking pistol and demanded the ignition key. The couple were forced to step back onto the dock as the 5.OL MerCruiser noisily came to life. Water boiled around the Bayliner’s stern as the businessman backed the boat out of its slip. “I’m sorry!” he shouted, as he cranked the wheel to starboard. “It’s an emergency!”

  The downcast couple weren’t able to take much comfort from the statement and were already fumbling for a cell phone as the cabin cruiser nosed out into the lake’s dark waters. The ex-SEAL knew they would call 911—but what the hell? Having already taken it upon himself to interfere with a federal investigation, why not add armed robbery to the list? Because they’ll send you away for a long time, the more logical part of his mind replied, especially if you board that barge and discover Rossi isn’t there.

  But it was too late to be sensible. What was done was done. The ex-naval officer had a deck under his feet and gloried in the way the cold air pressed against his face. As the Bayliner continued to pick up speed Dexter heard a series of loud crumps. A glorious red poinsettia blossomed over his head and the ex-SEAL was reminded of nights when illumination rounds burst high in the sky and incandescent flares drifted slowly to the ground.

  But there was no more time for reflection as the boat neared the barge. A restricted zone had been established around it, but the Harbor Patrol was busy dealing with a ski boat full of drunk teenagers when the Bayliner entered the area. Dexter cut power by seventy-five percent. The runabout slowed dramatically and pitched forward and back as its own wake caught up with it. It rumbled throatily as it slid along next to the barge’s slab-sided hull. Being only lightly loaded, the boxy cargo vessel sat high in the water, and that made it necessary to find a ladder in order to get aboard. The businessman saw metal gleam up ahead, knew he was moving too fast, and shifted the engine into reverse. The cabin cruiser slowed, then came to a full stop, as it nosed its way in between an aluminum boat with the words “Fire Department” emblazoned on its side and a rubber raft.

  Dexter killed the engine, winced as the bow nudged the barge, and went forward. Then, having made the bow line fast to the ladder, the ex-SEAL climbed upwards. It was the right leg, or what he thought of as his “good” leg, that provided most of the power, a habit Dexter was trying to break.

  The show was well underway by that time, which meant that the air stank of sulfur and the atmosphere was filled with the sounds of mock battle. Each time a mortar fired there was a loud boom!. That was followed by a high-pitched reverberation and an explosion up in the sky. Except that it wasn’t just one mortar going off, but dozens, which created a multilayered boom-scream-boom sound. When combined with the persistent rattle of fireworks, it was like a bad night in Baghdad.

  As Dexter continued to climb he could see a faint ring of smoke and a trail of sparks as each round climbed up into the night sky. Then, as the most recent shells exploded, a magnificent golden dahlia appeared. That was followed by a red palm and a silver peony. But beautiful though the display was the businessman knew he had to ignore the fireworks and focus on his mission. Assuming he was correct, and the snakeheads were using the barge as a hideout, they weren’t likely to welcome uninvited guests. So the ex-SEAL was hyper-alert as he swung a leg in over the rail.

  The control booth was about fifteen feet away. None of the goggled men huddled around the laptop computer resembled Chow or the bodyguards that Dexter had seen at the apartment house. In fact, judging from the uniform one of them had on, he worked for the Seattle Fire Department, a fact that served to dampen the ex-naval officer’s spirits since it seemed to suggest that none of the snakeheads were present. A technician spotted Dexter and came over to speak with him. “I’m looking for Joe Chow!” the ex-naval officer shouted, as the man in the overalls removed his protective earmuffs. “I have a message for him.”

/>   It seemed like a silly thing to say in a way, but having been unable to come up with anything better, it would have to do. Much to the businessman’s surprise the pyrotech nodded and pointed towards the stern. “He back there!”

  Dexter said, “Thanks!” and felt a rising sense of excitement as he turned away. His guess had been correct—and knowing that made him feel good. The next part wouldn’t be so easy, he knew, but he was determined to keep moving. Could the techs communicate with Chow via walkie-talkie? He couldn’t be sure so speed was of the essence. Fountains of fire rose on both sides of him as Dexter stepped onto the central walkway and headed for the stern. They roared and hissed as they shot thirty feet up into the air. The ex-SEAL coughed as a thick layer of smoke spread out to half-conceal the deck. If he had been able to, the ex-naval officer would have sought cover rather than allow himself to be channeled into what might be an ambush. But the continuous mortar fire made that impossible. Thankfully, from Dexter’s perspective at least, visibility had dropped to near zero. So, in spite of the fact that Chow might be aware that someone was on the way, the snakehead had no way of knowing who the visitor was.

  Meanwhile, not thirty feet ahead, Chow stood on the plywood platform that fronted the stern-cabin and stared into the swirling smoke. One of the pyrotechs had contacted him via handheld radio, but the man spoke Cantonese rather than Mandarin, and the noise generated by the fireworks made it difficult to hear. Still, assuming that he understood correctly, someone was on the way to see him. A single visitor didn’t sound very threatening, so the snakehead wasn’t especially alarmed when the figure of a man materialized out of the fire and smoke. Then, as the apparition drew close enough to recognize, Chow could hardly believe his eyes. Incredibly, the man in front of him was none other than his ex-landlord!