A Killing to DIE For

by P Gaseaux

  Chapter Eleven

  Nobody knew better than Special Agent Tanaka, but when a number of people witness a dramatic event there will be as many different versions of what went down. He still hadn’t any inkling that by close of business they’d all be giving their own formal statements to the hierarchy. Everything was about to disintegrate before his eyes.

  The division of Don Suarez was roasting now, the sun came through periodically. Anna was striding down the road, Tanaka behind her trying to talk and reason with her. Just like your average, everyday domestic.

  Two desperate urchins, a boy and girl no older than ten were tugging at his shirt sleeve. Acting up like they were in the throes of starvation -- most irritating. Anna made a hissing sound and they fled on cue.

  She knew how to control them; did a better job than their parents could. Maybe these beggars were her eyes on the street.

  He kept following and noticed she had snapped the flap on the compact hand bag, her right hand stroking the contents. She was looking toward the opposite end of the cluttered street, scanning the area like a fox, nostrils flared. Tanaka drew level; she stopped dead and sidled up to a parked car.

  The question would be asked and it was something he most certainly considered at the time: Why didn’t he and Jackson take her down -- whoever she was? After all, Anna was the best lead they had so far. Two FBI agents; they could have restrained her; disarmed her…they could’ve called for backup from anywhere. There were armed guards out front, marines at the embassy a few minutes away, and even local cops as a last resort.

  So they all thought. Then none of this would have happened today…war on the streets of the big city. Oh, for the benefits of hindsight.

  She sidestepped a tad, catching his wrist with her left hand. Some kind of hold, she twisted and he doubled over.

  “Get behind me, now!”

  He missed it but she saw it. He’d trailed her along the façade of the Santa Lucia clinic, heading west on the southern side of the road. Against the traffic. A scooter had cruised along at walking pace in the same direction they were going and without warning it crossed over to the wrong side. Two on the machine, full-faced helmets, as it drew level the pillion stood up on the back pegs. That was the sign…she knew how they did it back home. A drive-by hit.

  One single movement and Tanaka was knocked to the ground. She had the big auto out, a double action it was ready to go. Got off two shots, a double tap but the bad guys ducked and she missed. Sent the shooters flying though, they hit the ground, rolled like wrestlers and ran in opposite directions. One was firing as he was bolting away and the other fumbling for his weapon inside a shirt. He was down and she was up -- twin shots, dip the muzzle them another two shots. The stainless finish glinted in the rays of the sun.

  She dragged him bodily toward the wheel of a parked vehicle and he landed hard, shoved tight into the hub, it shielded him. Another volley of shots came and these missed, striking a shop front behind them. They were taking fire from two directions. Pedestrians scattering like billiard balls, shouting and yelling and other motorists had stopped dead or accelerated away.

  “Okay?’ whispered Pakdee. “This way, back this way, move it!”

  They disentangled and bolted toward the hospital lobby which was too far away; they wouldn’t make the distance. More shots and they leapt between a delivery van and an old Nissan Cefiro. One of the shooters was crouched in a building entrance on their side of the street and showering them with volleys of fire, only pausing to change magazines. Again she raised her weapon. She spun around and leapt over Tanaka, her knee slamming into the side of his face. She started firing opposite at the first assailant who had flanked them. They were caught. The area was sprayed with glass and pieces of debris as the battle escalated and they were now being fired upon from two directions. On their side of the street the discarded scooter was still running, its rear wheel spinning aimlessly as it lay on its side, revving and belching exhaust fumes.

  Every time a round struck glass, pieces were jettisoned over the area. Laminated windscreens held firm but side windows from parked vehicles burst into pea-sized pellets that covered them, filling their hair and clothes. Brass cases clattered on the ground. When a slug struck masonry it threw up gravel sized chunks which rebounded along with the ricochet and resonating with a high pitched hum. The triggermen kept firing round after round. She was double-tapping. Finished one magazine, Pakdee flicked the gun and the empty clip jettisoned on the ground. Tanaka pinned to the road, his hand being burned by scalding green fluid pouring from a radiator. He was dizzy, deafened and sweating profusely with no time to speak or think. His right eye was closed after debris had entered and a small amount of blood was in his hair from jettisoned glass. Silence for just a moment, enough to register his heartbeat thudding in his ears, blood pressure up as she bobbed down, breathing over him. She was protecting him with her body.

  In reception Hatfield and Jackson heard the volley. Sounded like a string of Chinese firecrackers, stopping and starting up. They charged out and got to the gate, to the left Hatfield spotted the shooters so he dropped back behind the gate pillar. He then saw Anna and the G-man. They were stuck fast; trapped.

  Hatfield looked over his shoulder. The security guards had dropped down and they had their revolvers drawn, no match. Much more concerned about scuffing their neatly pressed shirts. Jackson was in front of them poking his head about, no idea where it came from.

  “We need backup right now!! Call up, get some help!” yelled Hatfield.

  Jackson bobbed up, saw the old guy then moved to the side of the building. “I’ll go get the limo!” Jackson called back. With that he was gone.

  Hatfield turned and grabbed the handles of a large utility bin; it had wheels, low to the ground and loaded with food scraps. The janitor had cleared out abandoning it, blocking the way. It was solid with heavy sheet-metal sides, it could protect him. He took an almighty gasp and heaved. It moved with all his weight behind, out the gate, barely fitting on the sidewalk…into the line of fire.

  She leapt up and let off another two shots at the one opposite then the sidearm locked open, empty. She bobbed down and stared for a moment before whispering with resignation rather than anything else:

  “Finished…out.”

  An ornament on the end of a heavy silver necklace had dropped out from the front of her blouse. She touched it to her forehead and tucked it back in. Something precious…A pause then silence, save the adjoining cityscape in the distance but this street was deserted. Tanaka cautiously peered along the building line where the first assassin had positioned himself, careful not to take fire. Up the end he saw the trolley moving toward them. It was when he cast his eyes downward he saw the blood flowing in the gutter, only this time a lot of blood.

  “Miss. Miss… answer, damn it! You okay? Are you hurt?”

  “Call me Anna…and yes, I’m okay,” she whispered. “You okay?”

  He turned opposite toward the position of the first gunman, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of danger, careful not to expose himself. Nothing beside a few cuts in his scalp and some glass in his hair; she was unscathed and looked exactly as she had a few hours ago.

  Immaculate, he thought, then why the blood?

  An agonizing pause during which Tanaka became aware of his own heartbeat thudding in his eardrums, he could hardly see and his cheekbone was numb where her knee had connected with his face, hard.

  Pakdee was transfixed on the position opposite the street, her stainless automatic still locked open and held upward -- empty and useless. As Tanaka turned in the direction from where they had come fled he now realized a figure was standing over them. The trolley with old Hatfield behind had stopped.

  “Drop it if you would, please.”

  Clear English but a foreign voice. There was no hint of urgency, just a robotic command.

  “Drop it and please stand,
slowly. Now!”

  A voice with a strong accent. First it was Tanaka and then Pakdee saw the figure, a motorcyclist, in a full racing outfit holding what looked like a machine pistol, covering them from a distance of about five feet away, the extended magazine of the gun well below the handle. Tanaka’s eyes darted up and down the street searching for any sign of danger.

  “Dead,” the voice replied as if in answer. “They’re both gone.”

  The scooter-jockeys who ambushed them now lay lifeless -- that was where the blood came from. A set of perfectly placed two hundred grain ‘subs’ had come out of a silenced rifle somewhere and landed in rapid succession and nobody heard a thing, least of all the shooters who lay dead.

  The old guy watched it all unfold. One hundred shots he figured and four new motorcycles arriving like phantoms; they’d clicked neutral and cut the motors, cruising silently by him. ‘Somewhere’ was at a different vantage point…all Hatfield saw was a split-second glint of sunlight. He squeezed his back into the trolley and focused on where it came from: a telescopic sight lined up perfectly with his eyes. He couldn’t read for nuts but his long-range vision was fine.

  Ever so carefully hands on top of the head and clench them together. Knuckles white and hands tight…lower the head a bit and keep your eyes on the enemy and pray he won’t fire.

  As they stood the first arrival moved closer, ignoring Tanaka completely. A second fully jacketed figure had materialized and the two exchanged some words in a foreign language. Tanaka was jerked from behind. The first arrival opened the visor on his helmet, gloating at Anna like admiring a trophy. The second figure began securing their hands with small-gauge zip-ties, one per wrist and interlocking. Professional and well prepared.

  More foreign words. More cycles, four now. Quickly and efficiently one of the figures was attending to the dead triggermen, removing the helmets and photographing their faces, removing their gloves and fingerprinting their dead hands with some pocket sized device.

  The second one approached, with SWAT gear on. He stared at Anna, holding a piece of paper up, had her picture on it. “Gotcha!” He cried out.

  “Who are you?” mumbled Tanaka.

  The SWAT-suited man lifted his machine pistol and aimed at Tanaka who lurched to one side and his badge clattered on the ground. He was staring down the barrel, literally. They saw the badge; another one picked it up, he tossed it back and started arguing with the one aiming the gun at Tanaka.

  “I’m with the FBI, United States Department of Justice,” said Tanaka. “This woman is with me; she is in our custody.”

  More chattering; somebody was controlling the operation. One of the crew began scattering handfuls of local currency and tiny nickel-bags of narcotics around the lifeless triggerman. Each time he completed this he then drew his machine pistol and fired a burst into each body making them convulse.

  Tanaka lurched and attempted to break free but was caught by the second one who hurled him against the side of the delivery van which had sheltered them. They eyeballed other as the crew waited for the next set of instructions.

  To fire or not to fire, that is the question.

  “Listen,” panted Tanaka, “She’s with me. FBI, you understand?”

  “Keep quiet. This one is ours.”

  “Shoot me and we will hunt you to the end of the earth,” he panted. “Every one of our agencies will be on your miserable ass.”

  “Quiet!”

  As the team leader spoke into his microphone, Tanaka and felt something cold touch the left hand side of his neck. A jolt of electricity through his body and he shuddered once and collapsed to the pavement. It was a genuine shock-device, not something purchased from a department store.

  They tossed her, their prisoner, over the motorcycle like a sack of bananas. They’d sprayed something over her face and nostrils. It had a sweet odor but tasted bitter when it entered her mouth and she became dizzy…chloroform with a knockout from a pressure pack. Pakdee had seldom used any form of pharmaceutical drug in her entire life, not even headache tablets and this substance paralyzed her, and it worked well.

  The four motorcycles of the apocalypse roared into life and they were gone. So was she.

  “Move your ass. Get up.”

  Through a dizzy haze he saw the old guy’s craggy features. Tanaka let out a grunt and shifted forward. JJ Hatfield. He’d stayed put, his eyes fixed on the sniper who’d spared him. Hatfield moved his right shoulder under the man’s bodyweight and heaved himself upright with all of Tanaka’s bulk upon him. Like a fireman. Hatfield staggered toward the hospital gate. Now the street was alive again, worried bystanders running back and forward and onlookers gathering.

  Hatfield yelled out loud. “Shoot! Where’s your buddy? Where’s Jackson?”

  Then a honk from a car horn, the black vehicle reversed and parked up, Jackson at the wheel and the Filipino driver in the passenger’s seat waving his hands. Hatfield hurled Tanaka into the rear and jumped in, careful not to land on top of the agent as Jackson floored the accelerator and squealed the tires in a cloud of blue smoke and steam. They were out, by the skin of their teeth. They were safe…for now. Like an evening in Tornado Alley things had gone from calm to chaos, in a moment.

  Hatfield’s chest was heaving. Jackson was chattering non-stop and Tanaka had propped himself up -- he’d live. Hatfield shut his eyes and pressed back into the seat as they accelerated; his heart was racing. Then it hit him, that day: one Sunday afternoon so many years ago:

  Sitting, watching the world go by. Watching the cars go by. Between patrols, a few hours off-duty. A dysfunctional city on a dreamy afternoon, the Catholics returning home from church dressed in their best and the Buddhists and Chinese; it was business as usual. Women in their ‘Ao-zais’ strolled by, arm in arm. Hot, sticky and tense…the place was no longer like it used to be. They could still swipe a Jeep and get out, away from base and have a look around. Night time too dangerous to move anywhere, even in a tank. All sides pushing for talks and the whole thing gone to crappers.

  A hundred and three in the shade, the suds went down well. Atmosphere dripping with humidity and fragrant garlic mixed with fumes from two stroke scooters. A noodle vendor right next to them; she was popular with the GIs. They flocked to her, she did good business. Maybe that’s what it was…

  Two wiry Vietnamese guys with wraparound sunglasses, dressed in tight slacks and body-shirts. They whipped out a piece with no warning. Two shots, the noodle lady went down in a spray of blood. They’d hit her twice in the side of her throat, she was floundering everywhere knocking stuff over and upending the steaming pans as she bled to death, or choked to death.

  The marines hit the deck and then the real fun started: South Vietnamese soldiers, security guards, shop owners and everyone else joined in. A free-for-all. They kept their heads down; the entire city opened fire. When the dust settled the two punks lay dead next to the noodle lady they’d just killed. Terrorists, armed robbers or extortionists?

  Welcome to Dodge City, 1972…

  They were still yelling after they had gotten away. The black sedan hit the curb as it lurched around a corner and Hatfield struck his head on the side window. He let out a howl of pain. Tanaka was clutching the burn on the side of his neck and the chauffer up front shouting directions and pointing as Jackson held the wheel for dear life.

  “What the hell happened back there, did you see them?” cried Tanaka. “Where is she?”

  “No idea.” Jackson shook his head.

  “Assholes!” yelled Hatfield.

  Someone retorted, indignant: “What?!”

  “Assholes.” Hatfield glowered at Tanaka, waited a moment and caught his breath. Wanted to hit someone. “Damn you man,” he snapped. “You just gone and dropped me in the middle of another war.”

  The special agents would be under the pump, grilled for more than two hours each. The ambassador would get involved. Th
e hierarchy would be pulling them out the second Billy-Bob Hatfield’s remains were sealed and signed for. The field trip was over as quickly as it had begun.

  Special Agent P Kelvin Tanaka spent his entire adult life as a policeman and nothing came anywhere near this -- all the arrests he’d done back in the days as a uniformed city-hall cop on the beat. Call-outs, emergencies and takedowns. When asked, he answered they had no jurisdiction whatsoever to detain her, nothing.

  Nobody said it out loud. It was lucky for them they didn’t try to pin her; if they had they’d be going home in caskets along with Hatfield’s son. Anna would have dropped them both in a second.

  Without a second thought, she would have shot them both. Then the security guards at the door. Then the kidnappers would have probably killed her. Fight to the bitter end.

  He was there he’d seen her for what she really was. The key to unlock the whole crime; now she was gone, taken. Still, he had no idea who he was dealing with. Nobody had any idea. And she’d disappeared like a ghost on the highway.