Chimera (25 page)

“A hundred-and-ten each; with a fifteen-percent discount in orders of ten or more,” Rightmore nodded, shrugging apologetically.
 
“We’d certainly like to make them more affordable; but the multi-phase transmitter chips we’re using to regulate the output signal are still very expensive, even when we buy them in thousand-unit lots.”

Bulatt grimaced and then sighed.
 
“I was afraid the situation might be something like that; they’re definitely way out of our budget, as usual.”

Rightmore smiled sympathetically.

“I guess you probably hear that a lot from the state research biologists here in Washington, too,” Bulatt went on.
 
“It’s been a constant battle trying to get the state fish and game agencies in the Northwest to properly fund basic wildlife research these last few years.”

“We do get a lot of queries from the states,” Rightmore said.
 
“And, on occasion, we have been able to come up with much less expensive devices that more-or-less meet their needs.”

“Then you must have to put up with a local friend of mine, Dr. Philip Rainier, on a fairly regular basis.”
 
Bulatt smiled.
 
“Phil’s pretty much a legend in the Northwest animal behavior research community; jury-rigs tracking devices with just about anything he can get his hands on that possesses an electronic pulse.”

“Dr. Rainier has stopped by a few times in the past,” Rightmore acknowledged, “but I don’t believe we’ve seen him recently.”

“Probably just as well.
 
Knowing Phil, he probably took one look at your gear, and then spent the rest of his visit trying to figure out how he could pry your back door without setting off the alarms.”

“Actually, we’ve enjoyed his occasional visits.
 
You could always count on him to come up with some innovative approaches to data collection; but we did have to keep a close eye on him around the stockroom,” Rightmore acknowledged with a seemingly amused shrug.

“Well, for better or worse, he did finally retire; almost a year ago now,” Bulatt said.
 
“I understand he spends most of his time now fishing in Oregon with his two grandkids.”

“Heard a lot about those kids over the years,” Rightmore said.
 
“Good for Phil, couldn’t happen to a more deserving fellow.” Then he looked back down at the flashers and collar.
 
“As for these units, our chief design engineer will be back in the office tomorrow.
 
Perhaps, if you could leave them with me for a couple of days, he may be able to give you a lead on your lion trackers.”

“Actually, I’d like to,” Bulatt said as he walked over to the workbench, picked up the flasher and collar, put them back into the nylon satchel, and zipped it closed, “but I’ve already promised to show them to a group of Northwest park managers at a coordination meeting in Olympia tomorrow.
 
But, if you don’t mind, I would like to bring them back later — maybe in a couple of days — so we can try to get a lead on their owners?
 
I really hate to give up on a potential equipment-sharing opportunity.”

Bulatt caught a brief flash of annoyance in Rightmore’s expression, but it quickly disappeared as the electronics researcher nodded his head agreeably.

“That would be fine, of course.
 
We’re always happy to try to help potential customers, even if their resources are a bit limited.”

Bulatt shrugged.
 
“Actually, it’s been my experience that people with limited resources can always find ways to solve problems, as long as they’re willing to work together.”
 
Bulatt picked up the satchel and extended his hand.
 
“Mr. Rightmore, I really do appreciate your help in this matter.”

“Not at all,” Rightmore said as he led Bulatt back down the hallway to the reception area.
 
“And please, the next time you hear from Dr. Rainier, please give him my regards.”

“Yes,” Bulatt said, “I’ll certainly do that.”

*
   
*
   
*

“Gecko-Two to Gecko-One.”

“Gecko-One, go.”

“You called it right on the money, boss,” Quince Lanyard spoke into his throat mike as he adjusted the range and focus of his spotting scope to bring the dark blue van back into focus.
 
“The place is crawling with bleedin’ coppers; you’d think they were holding a convention.”

“Any idea who we’re dealing with?”

“Not at this distance.
 
With weather conditions the way they are, we’re doing good to pick out the bloody vehicles; but they’re definitely using spotter teams.
 
We’re set up in a warehouse parking lot across the road, maybe a hundred meters out.
 
The rain’s a bit of a bitch, so we’re not getting much in the way of usable photos; but I wouldn’t want to chance trying to get in any closer just yet.
 
We’re counting at least three teams on the watch, and it looks like they’re working staggered eight hour rotations.
 
If that’s the case, we can bloody well forget about re-supplying the larder.”

“That’s all right, we can make do with what we’ve got for a while,” Wallis replied.
 
“I don’t see how they’re going to be of much use on this next job anyway.”

“Actually, that’s one of the reasons I checked in.
 
Our lad, Jack-o, may have come up with a clever solution to our problem.”

“Really?”

Lanyard could hear the amusement in Wallis’ voice.

“Thing is, I think his plan is fucking brilliant, unlikely as that might seem,” Lanyard went on, giving Gavin a broad wink.
 
“And since there’s not much of interest going on around here, I thought —”

“Give it another hour, in case the weather clears, and then bring it in,” Wallis agreed.
 
“We need to talk.”

*
   
*
   
*

It was raining even harder when Bulatt stepped outside the Hood Electronics entrance and started walking toward his rented van, wondering how he was going to play this latest bit of interesting information.

Thirty seconds later, as he was walking past the dark blue van, he had his answer.

One of the SWAT types suddenly stood up between two nearby cars, walked casually over into the driving lane and placed himself in Bulatt’s path, both hands folded casually in front of his belt.

Bulatt stopped, cocked his head curiously, glanced back to confirm that the second member of the team had taken up position six feet behind him, and then turned his attention back to his first confronter.

“Can I help you?” Bulatt asked.

“We’d like to see what you’ve got in the bag.”

“Really?
 
Why would that be any of your business?” Bulatt asked reasonably.

“We don’t have to give you a reason,” the first man said matter-of-factly.

“Are you planning on showing me a badge, or maybe a set of credentials, along with a signed search warrant?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Well, in that case, whatever I’ve got in this bag is definitely none of your business,” Bulatt said with a slight smile and shrug.
 
“So, if you’ll excuse me —”

Bulatt heard the man behind him coming in fast, glanced back, saw the sap arcing toward his head, reflexively turned as he tossed the satchel aside, and deflected the potentially lethal blow with a sweeping right forearm block.
 
Then — because he sensed the front man moving in just as fast — he brought his right leg up, twisted his hips sideways, drove his right boot sharply down into the side of his rear assailant’s knee with a
ki-yi
yell that completely masked the crunching sound of bone against bone.

Continuing his hip-twisting, counter-clockwise spin-move, Bulatt slammed his right forearm solidly into his rear assailant’s face; the brain-scrambling strike crushing the man’s nose and knocked him unconscious at the same instant, thereby cutting off his agonized scream in mid-shriek.

Then, as his rear-assailant was still crumbling to the ground, Bulatt reversed his spin move, used a sweeping left forearm block to deflect his front assailant’s slashing fist strike and knock him sideways; caught the man’s wrist with both hands; pulled him forward off balance; and then drove a hip-snapping round-kick square into his
solar plexus.
 
The impact drove most of the air out of the muscular man’s lungs, and dropped him to his knees in shock.

*
   
*
   
*

“Hold on,” Quince Lanyard said, suddenly shifting the focal point of his spotting scope over a few feet, zooming in, and then refocusing, “I think we’ve got something interesting going on out there after all.”

“What is it,” Jake Gavin asked from the back of the camper, his head snapping up alert.

“Not sure just yet, mate; but I think the copper’s are starting to have a go at each other.”

“Bloody hell,” Gavin exclaimed as he scrambled up into the main camper bed, “let me see.”

*
   
*
   
*

Reacting with reflexes honed from twenty-some years of martial arts and law enforcement training, Bulatt immediately stepped away from his two downed assailants — one now face down unconscious on the wet asphalt, and the other trying to regain his feet, red-faced and gasping for air — into a classic defensive stance.

“You fucking … bastard —” his front assailant managed to gasp out with what little air he’d managed to suck into his nearly-paralyzed lungs.

“You really want to stay down,” Bulatt warned.
 
“Don’t push it.”

The struggling man looked like he was going to try to say something else.
 
But then, with what appeared to be a super-human effort, he forced himself erect, lunged at Bulatt with his hands extended for what he probably intended to be a lethal throat strike; and then absorbed the full boot-sole impact of a leaping front kick that snapped his head back with a burst of blood from his split lips.

Bulatt could have stepped back, allowing his front assailant to crumble to the ground next to his unmoving partner, and then resorted to far-less-violent control techniques to subdue and handcuff his assailants.
 
Both men were badly hurt, and not really capable of causing any further grief at the moment.

He considered the idea as he watched the big man stagger backwards, trying to maintain his balance on wobbling legs; and probably would have halted his counter-attack, had the man’s initial hand-strike not been attempted in such a savage and potentially lethal manner.

And then, too, it occurred to Bulatt that the big fellow just might be useful in the serious discussion that was going to take place in the next few minutes.

So, instead of showing mercy to a defeated opponent, he lunged forward into the man’s muscular chest with his shoulder, whirled to his left, driving his left elbow into the man’s ribs and sternum with another screaming
ki-yi
— shattering and separating left-side rib bones from cartilage; whirled back around sharply with his right elbow, causing precisely the same damage to the big man’s right rib cage and sternum; and then stepped back and away into the same defensive stance as the stricken man collapsed to the wet pavement in a unconscious heap.

*
   
*
   
*

“Holy mother of God,” Jake Gavin whispered, his right eye glued to the spotting scope.

“What’s the matter?” Quince Lanyard demanded.

“He took them out, those big SWAT roosters, both of them, one-two, like they were a couple of snot-nosed kids.”

“What?
 
Let me see that scope,” Lanyard demanded, grabbing for the spotting scope.

“I’m telling you, mate,” Gavin said as Lanyard fumbled to re-set the scope on the camper mattress, “I think that bloke could take our man Wallis on, straight up, hand-to-hand, and maybe even walk away with the silver cup.”

“No fucking way,” Lanyard whispered, and then blinked in disbelief as he tried to focus the scope’s rain-blurred field on view on the two sprawled bodies in front of the dark blue van.

“Maybe not; but you and I definitely want to be there to watch if the boss and that lad ever do square up.”

*
   
*
   
*

Bulatt was moving quickly now, working on the assumption that his freedom of movement could start closing down at any moment.

A search of the dark blue van’s rear storage compartment revealed a number of useful items, including a roll of nylon strapping tape, a six-foot length of heavy chain that was probably used to tow cars, a pair of heavy-duty padlocks, and several soft drink cans in a plastic ice chest filled with crushed ice and water.

Bulatt used the strapping tape to tightly secure the hands of his rear assailant behind his back; taped his ankles together; dragged the limp body into the back of the van; turned him over and around so that he was lying face down with his head near the van’s rear double doors; checked to make sure he was breathing steadily; secured one end of the chain snugly — but not too tight — around the man’s thick neck with one of the locks; and connected the other end of the chain to the welded portion of the van’s rear bumper mount with the second lock.

After gently closing the van doors against the chain, Bulatt used the strapping tape again to secure his front assailant’s hands behind his back, creating a strapping-tape hobble that would limit the extended movement any one foot to eighteen inches.

Then he went back to his van to collect some of his gear, inserted a pair of electronic noise-suppressors in his ears, locked the satchel in the camera case, returned to the dark blue van, grabbed the now-semiconscious and softly-moaning man by his jacket collar, propped him up against the side of the van, set the soft drink cans aside, and then tossed the ice-water contents of the plastic chest into his face.