Snake Eye (17 page)

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!”

“That would be lovely,” Detective Tolley observed. “So, why do I have a feeling that it isn’t going to happen?”

“Because it
isn’t
,” Hawkins answered somberly. “Not yet anyway. And here’s the problem. As many of you know, Inez and Rossi conducted an interview with a knife-wielding gentlemen by the name of Hector Battoon. He claims that the body that came ashore near Port Angeles originated from a vessel named the
South Wind
. Which, according to him, took on ten illegals in Hong Kong. But that isn’t the worst of it. The concept of bringing illegals in by sea is hardly new, but most of the people who come in that way are caught soon after they arrive, and the other nine haven’t been. Not so far at any rate, and we don’t have any idea how many more may have arrived
before
the
South Wind
shipment, or since. And that’s in spite of redoubling our efforts to find out what’s going on.”

“Okay,” Olman agreed, “but why wait? If you arrest Chow he might be willing to cut a deal.”

“Most people would,” Hawkins replied. “Especially if they were facing murder charges. But Little Chow is likely to be the exception. He was raised to be a criminal, and while there is friction between Joe and his father, we believe they remain loyal to each other nevertheless. The same goes for the Chow family foot soldiers—only more so, since they know that some very bad things could happen to them
and
their families should they cooperate with authorities. And the stakes are very, very, high. This is more than an immigration issue. There are some very dangerous people who would like to enter the United States—and they have no intention of slaving away in a sweatshop. What if the Chows brought in members of Al Qaida or a similar group via their pipeline? The results could be disastrous. Amy? Would you like to comment on that?”

Haxton remembered her last phone call with Demont, a rather onesided exchange in which the administrator had been careful to offer “suggestions” rather than orders, so that both he and his career would be well-insulated should the SNAKE EYE case go critical. She manufactured a smile. “I think you summarized the situation rather well. The folks in the Department of Homeland Security are concerned that terrorists might take advantage of this particular
vulnerability. And, because of that, they want us to figure out how the pipeline works
before
we shut it down.”

Rossi looked skeptical. “And if Little Chow decides to shoot some regular citizens? What then?”

Haxton sighed. “Then we’ll be sorry.
Very
sorry.”

“But that’s
if
things go wrong,” Hawkins commented. “And it’s our job to make sure that they don’t. And we have some new leads. A woman named Letisha Jones was with Pong’s mother when she came in to ID the body. She described herself as a ‘friend,’ but we have it on good authority that she had been one of Pong’s customers, and was his mistress when he died. That raises the question of what, if anything, does she know? I would like Rossi and Inez to follow up on that.”

Both agents nodded. The meeting continued for another hour. Once it was over, Rossi followed Theel and Haxton out into the rain. “So,” Theel said as he held the door for her. “What do you think?”

Rossi thought about the recordings she had listened to over the last couple of weeks. It was pretty clear that Chow was a sadist, if not a psychopath, and very unstable. His father had been able to hold him in check—but for how long? “I think Chow is a grenade,” she answered. “If someone or something pulls the pin he’ll go off. Shrapnel will fly in every direction and people will get hurt.”

“Yeah,” Theel agreed soberly. “It won’t be pretty.”

Haxton looked from one agent to the other and made a wry face. “Thanks. No wonder I have an ulcer. I work with two prophets of doom. Come on, let’s find some lunch.”

It was night, but many predators
love
the night, and Dexter was no exception as he parked his SUV on the gently winding street and killed the lights. Cars passed on a regular basis, but no one took notice of the 4-Runner, nor was there any reason to. The north slope of Capital Hill was a desirable area and nice cars were the norm. The houses to his right were perched on top of the steep slope and looked out over Portage Bay, which was part of the passageway that linked Lake Union to Lake Washington.

The businessman waited for traffic to clear, got out of the truck, and went around back. Had anyone been paying attention they might have noticed that he was wearing a black jacket, black Levis, and black boots. He pulled the long, soft-sided case out of the rear cargo compartment, brought the hatch down, and touched the remote. Lights flashed and the SUV was locked. Then, walking with the assurance of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing, the ex-SEAL faded into the night.

Even though a number of houses had been constructed along the street, there were a number of areas where the clay soil was subject to slippage, and people couldn’t get permits. Having scouted the area two days earlier Dexter knew that one such lot lay directly above his target. That was the good news. The bad news was that good though his prosthesis was, it lacked the flexibility of the original limb, and the steep decent would be difficult. And, due to the fact that it was a hassle to get footwear on and off the artificial leg, he was wearing street shoes, an additional handicap that he now regretted.

Clumps of maple trees dominated the hillside, along with large patches of ivy and isolated bushes. The ex-SEAL had slung the case across his back by then, and a good thing, too, since both hands were required in order to secure temporary grips on the smaller tree trunks, which served to slow him down. Dexter instinctively placed his good leg in next to the hill. A series of
small jumps took him steadily downwards. But there was a lot of loose material on the slope, including construction debris that had been dumped there, and it wasn’t long before the ex-naval officer landed on some loose boards. They slid. Dexter lost his balance, and fell. He landed on his butt, skidded for a ways, and collided with a half-rotten stump. The impact hurt, but the pulpy wood was softer than a tree trunk would have been, and brought the slide to an end. The ex-SEAL ignored the pain as he eyed the dwelling below.

John Pasco was a man of habit, and habits get you killed. That was just one of the many pearls of wisdom that Dexter had acquired during his years as a special ops warrior. But the saying was true, since habits made people predictable, and predictable people are easy to hit.
Very easy
, Dexter thought to himself as he eased his way further down the hill and settled in behind some bushes.

The house nestled into the hillside below him was listed on the tax rolls as belonging to Helen Pasco, John Pasco’s mother, who was still part of his life on Thursdays at any rate, when the retired CPO came over for dinner and she took care of his laundry. The kitchen had windows. The blinds were up and the pair of them were seated across from each other eating. That made them targets,
easy
targets, that any half-competent marksman could hit. And Dexter was a lot better than that.

The businessman unzipped the case, removed the bolt-action rifle, and screwed the homemade silencer onto the carefully threaded barrel. Not the sort of thing that most people could fabricate—but the ex-naval officer wasn’t most people. He placed the rifle across a convenient limb, brought the Leupold scope up to his eye, and panned the target. The old woman and the middle-aged man were talking at the moment, profiles exposed, with the light behind them. Pasco pretty much deserved to die—but the only crime the old woman had committed was raising a scumbag. Shooting Helen Pasco still made sense though. She would call the police if he didn’t, and given the amount of time it would take the ex-naval officer to climb the hill, the cops would arrive before he could reach the Toyota.