The Red Serpent Strikes, Part Four

XXX

11:30 p.m.      

The big black car rounded a corner on a street in Deerfield. Gato killed the lights as he inched forward.

            “That’s it.” The Serpent pointed at a three-story house atop a hill with a long driveway. “Go around the block.”

            The streets curved. Eventually Gato eased to the curb in front of a dark house just behind the address for Hensley.

            The Serpent opened his door. “Bring the plastique. Set it around the foundation, but not on a timer. We’ll set it off if we have to, but not if there’s family in there.”

            Gato nodded. “Right.”

            They crept up through the neighbor’s backyard. The Serpent peered over the fence into Hensley’s yard.

Two guards sat behind the house, assault rifles in their arms. One next to the back door, smoking a cigarette. Another at a picnic table in the middle of the yard.

            The Serpent looked at Gato. “Keep it silent.”

            Gato grinned. “Always.”

            The Serpent crept away.

            Gato watched him disappear, slithering into the darkness. He waited. One, two, three . . . He flung one dagger.

The guard at the picnic table grunted as Gato’s dagger pierced his chest. He toppled forward, dropping his rifle, and slumped on the grass.

The guard near the back door stood up, tossing his cigarette away. “Dave? You okay?”

Gato hurled a second dagger. Twenty yards or more. But he’d practiced for years in Special Forces.

The dagger caught the second guard in the throat. He fell, choking, and collapsed on the porch.

Gato hauled himself over the fence and began setting the explosives around the house.

“Here.” Rachel jabbed a finger. “Right here.”

            The big black car stood on the street. Silent and empty.

            I stopped the Honda and killed the headlights.

            “Now what?” Rachel crossed her arms.

            I peered through the windshield. The three-story house in front of us was completely dark. Something about this didn’t make sense.

            I started the car again and made my way back around the block. The streets here weren’t laid out in straight lines, but I managed to find the house behind the one where Lamb had left his vehicle.

            I peered up the driveway. Lights glowed on the ground floor. The middle floor was dark. At the top a faint light burned, like a candle signaling for help.

            “This is it.” Rachel shivered. “Something’s going on in there. I can feel —”

            Before she could finish, a fist knocked on my window. And a handgun the size of Dirty Harry’s .44 magnum pointed at my face.

            I lowered the window. “Uh, hi. We’re just, uh, making out. Or we were going to. We’ll move along now.”

            The man outside grinned. “Get out. Now.”

            Oh hell.

I’ve had handguns pointed at my face before. It was the main reason I was on anti-anxiety meds and couldn’t have a beer. “Okay, okay.” I unlocked the doors. “No reason to get excited.”

            We walked up the driveway, the gunman two steps behind me.

            “Making out?” Rachel wanted to hit me. Hard. “That’s the best you could come up with?”

            “Shut up.” The gunman’s voice was a growl. “Inside. Up those steps.”

            Rachel pulled on a screen door. I pushed the heavy door inside.

            On one side, a long living room with a hardwood floor. On the other side, a broad dining room with a wide circular table. A long staircase split the two rooms.

            The gunman pushed us into the dining room. “Boss, these two were . . .” He hesitated. “What’s going on?”

One guard stood in a kitchen doorway, holding an assault rifle.

A heavyset African American man sat behind a table, a wide window behind him, curtains closed. He looked in his 60s. Two large handguns sat on the table in front of him.

            The Red Serpent stood in the center of the room, a big automatic handgun clutched in his gloved fist.

            “Who’s this, Janus?” The man at the table looked annoyed.

            “Found these two outside, Mr. Hensley.” The man behind us—Janus—sounded confused. “Watching the house.”

            Hensley glanced toward the Serpent. “You know them?”

            The Serpent’s eyes flicked toward me, then zeroed in on Hensley. “They’re nothing to me.”

            Thanks, I thought.

            Hensley smirked. “Then let’s get this over with. You want to do business with me?”

            “I don’t want to ‘do’ business. I want all your business.” The Serpent smiled. “You’re done, Hensley. Victor’s going to testify against you—that’s why you tried to kill him. And that guy named Junk? He’s going to make a deal. The best thing you can do is bow out now. I can offer you 10 percent. And that’s a limited time deal.”

            He laughed. “I don’t think so. I’ve got—”

            “AAHHH!” The guard in the kitchen toppled down, clutching his throat as his assault weapon clattered on the hardwood floor. Blood dripped down his neck as he dropped to his knees and fell over, gasping for air.

            The Serpent whirled around and fired his .45.

Janus staggered back, cursing as blood spread over his chest. He fell back, collapsing next to the doorway.

            Another knife flew across the room. It stabbed Hensley in the shoulder as he grabbed for a weapon. He shoved his chair back, gasping, and fell over, hitting his skull on the windowsill.

            George—was it him? He wore a hood and a red mask, like the Serpent. He stood in the kitchen doorway, another dagger ready to fly. “It’s all set to go down. Charges are in place.”

            “No!” Hensley lurched up. “My daughter Marla’s upstairs. You can’t . . . you can’t . . .”

            The candle in the window. I glanced at the stairs.

            The Serpent leaned down and grabbed Hensley’s collar with one hand. He pressed the snout of his handgun at Hensley’s neck. “Do you know who I am?”

            “This is my business.” Hensley gasped. “I started it, but . . .” He coughed.

            I saw a shadow at the bottom of the staircase. “Serpent!”

            I pushed Rachel to the floor as a handgun boomed. Rachel punched my shoulder as we rolled under the table.

            George toppled back, clutching his shoulder as blood ran down his arm. Even on the floor, he managed hurl his knife at the shooter—

            A barefoot woman in sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, holding a small silver handgun. Curly black hair like Hensley.

George’s dagger missed her. She fired again.

            The Serpent crouched down and shot out the light in the ceiling. The dining room went dark, but lamps in the living and lights in the kitchen still shone, throwing shadows across the walls.

            I huddled next to Rachel, certain I was going to have a heart attack any minute. “Sorry about this.”

            “Shut up.”  She squeezed my hand. “I brought this.”

            Her stun gun. If only I had a chance—

            Handguns boomed again. The walls shook. Neighbors would call the police, wouldn’t they?

            “Take care of it, Marla.” Hensley gasped. “Finish them off.”

            She laughed. I saw her feet move forward. “Good night, Serpent.”

            I lurched over and pressed Rachel’s stun gun to her bare ankle.

            Marla shrieked as I pressed the stud. She fell back, and I saw the big silver handgun drop from her hand. I hit the stud again. She tried to kick me, but she didn’t have enough strength to push me away.

            I pushed the handgun across the floor, gasping. Rachel pulled herself next to me.

“Good job.” The Red Serpent—Trevor Lamb—nodded to me as he pulled off his glove. “Now get out of here. This house is going down.”

He planted the Serpent seal on Hensley’s forehead.

“Marla?” Hensley blinked, on the verge of losing consciousness from his shoulder wound. “Marla!”

            “I’m okay,” she murmured. “Get them . . .”

            The Serpent turned to me. “Take them outside. Then drive away.”

            I glanced at George. “What about him?”

            “I’ll take care of Gato.” He looked around the room. “Get clear soon.”

            “We have to talk.” As scared as I was, I still needed to report to my client.

            “Later.” The Serpent picked up George—Gato?—in his arms and carried him through a door in the kitchen.

            I looked at Rachel. She shrugged.

            Hensley was heavy, but at least I didn’t have to zap him with the stun gun. Rachel dragged Marla out of the house by the legs. We left them in the front yard and ran to the Honda.

            I started up, my heart racing. “What do you think he meant by—”

            The house exploded.

            Flames burst in the air, lighting the night sky. Burning leaves flickered down on the lawn and the street.

            I took a breath. “Just when I thought I could go off my meds and have a beer.”

            Rachel slugged me. “Just drive.”

10:30 a.m.

The media next morning was full of the news:

SURBURBAN DRUG HOUSE DESTROYED     

House burns; suspected family drug ring members found on lawn

Police say they have broken up a massive drug ring following an explosive fire at a home suspected of containing large quantities of illicit narcotics, including opioids and other drugs. Philip Hensley and his daughter Marla King, owners of the house, were found outside as the dwelling burned, wounded but denying any knowledge of the drugs found.

Hensley, in the hospital, is reported to have the mark of the Forehead Killer on his face, an apparent vigilante who has been known to be involved in various gang-related killings around the city.

2:30 p.m.

We sat in Elly Lamb’s house that afternoon.

            “Is George all right?” I sipped my coffee. “Or Gato?”

            Lamb looked tired. “I have a doctor who can take care of things.”

            Elly sat forward. “Dad? What’s going on?”

            Lamb groaned. He looked at his daughter. “Elly? . . .” He shook his head. “My father—your grandfather—he came back from Korea, and he was . . .  damaged. PTSD, except they didn’t know anything about that yet. He decided he wanted to fight crime.” He gulped some coffee. “He was the first Red Serpent. He taught me how to fight, how to use weapons, when I was just a kid. Before he died, he gave me this.”

            He dropped the signet ring on the table.

            I picked it up. “What is this?”

            “When I wear it . . .” Lamb smiled. “I feel young again. Able to take on anything. And when I look around this city—all the drugs, all the gangbangers—someone’s got to do something.”

            Rachel picked up the ring. Then she dropped it. “Whoa! It’s very . . . powerful. Where did it come from?”

            “Somewhere in Korea. A village called Sinanju.”

            I’d heard of the place. “So now what? Are you going back to killing crooks?”

            Lamb sighed. “I’m too old. Last night was the end. I only wanted to shut Hensley down.” He shook his head. “The Red Serpent is done.”

            “Wait.” Elly picked up the ring.

            “Elly, don’t!” Lamb lurched up and clutched at her wrist. “You don’t know—”

            She pulled away and slid the ring on her finger. “Oh, wow.”

Elly stood up, her eyes blazing. She twirled around on her toes, then crouched down, flexing her arms. “This is amazing!” She leaned back, her body shuddering. “Oh. Oh, wow.”

Lamb grabbed her arm. “Elly? Are you all right?”

            Her eyes flickered. “Yes.” She took the ring off and smiled. “I’m going to need black clothes and a jacket. And a red mask.”

            Lamb chuckled. “You need to be careful. I’ll train you. Gato will help.”

            “I’ve been taking Krav Maga at the gym.” She rubbed her forehead. “That won’t be enough, of course. Can we start tomorrow?”

            Rachel leaned forward. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

            Elly grinned. “It’s my destiny. Right, dad?”

            “It’s dangerous.” Lamb looked up past her, at a photo on a bookcase—a younger man, and a young woman in a blue T-shirt. “If your mother knew . . .” He shuddered.

            “You’ll help me. Gato will help me.” She looked at me.

            I stood up. “I can’t help you. The cops will be after you—the Forehead Killer. The most I can do is keep my mouth shut. If I can. I’ll try.”

            But I held a hand out. “Don’t kill too many people. That gas bomb last night worked pretty good.”

            She shook my hand. “Send me your bill.”

            “Be careful with that ring.” Rachel shook her hand too. “Those kinds of things can get out of control.”

            “Thanks.” She sat down again and looked at her father. “I guess we should talk.”

           

(Author’s note: I may have been watching too many episodes of “The Green Hornet” on YouTube when I wrote this.)

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