Ken Goddard - Chimera

“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.