The Red Serpent Strikes, Part Three

9:30 p.m.

The Serpent pointed to a warehouse. “There.”

            Gato wheeled the car around. A sign read FRANKEN STORAGE. The gate was open. The parking lot held two black vans and a blue Corvette. Gato pulled up to the vans.

            “He knows where to find Hensley.” The Serpent checked his .45 automatic. “I’ll go in the front. You take the side door.”

            Gato nodded, tense. “Got it.” He wore a black Kevlar vest, and a hoodie over a red mask. Like the Serpent. Daggers hung from his belt.

            The Serpent glided silently in the darkness to the front door. He waited, giving Gato time to get into position. He listened intently for any trace of movement, but all his keen ears picked up were the sounds of cars driving by on the road outside the gate.

            He tried the knob. Unlocked. Muntz was either very careless or overconfident.

            At the side door, Gato found a heavy door, locked tight. From his vest he pulled two small explosive devices—a form of plastique that would blow up almost silently—and attached them to the door, one next to the knob, the other above, where the deadbolt would be. He tapped the stud on each one and then stepped back, waiting for them to take the door down.

            The Serpent opened the front door. Fluorescent lights lined the ceiling overhead. He heard voices coming from an office near the back. No guards.

            He stalked forward, gun in hand. The office door was halfway open. Careless again—or maybe Muntz didn’t realize that he was a target of the Serpent.

            Voices. “ . . . wants that guy dead! Why can’t anybody find him?”

            “He’s gone hiding. After the other night he knows we’re after him. The cops got Junk, but he isn’t talking. Not for now.”

            “That’s another problem we’ve got to take care of.” A phone rang. “Goddamn it . . .

            Gato strode up quietly next to the Serpent. “All quiet.”

            “Good.” The Serpent raised his gun. “Remember, we need Muntz alive.”

            He kicked the door open.

            Muntz sat behind a metal desk, a phone to his ear. A fat man in a leather jacket sat facing him in a swivel chair.

            The door hit a third man. He staggered back, grabbing at his belt.

            The Serpent’s .45 roared.

            The man at the door staggered back and fell, dead or dying. The fat man swung around, but Gato hurled a dagger that caught him in the shoulder. He yelped, grabbing at the knife as blood flowed over his fingers.

            Muntz dropped the phone and pulled the top desk drawer open, pushing his chair back. The Serpent fired—over his head. Muntz ducked and lifted his hands, his face red with panic.

            Gato yanked his dagger from the fat man’s shoulder and then shoved him to the floor, one foot on his neck. “Don’t.”

            “Do you know who I am?” The voice, as always, was low and menacing.

            “The Red Serpent?” Muntz waved his arms. “What are you doing here? I never did anything to you!”

            “Is that Hensley on the phone?”

            Muntz was silent.

            Keeping his handgun trained on Muntz, the Serpent walked around the desk and picked up the phone. “Hensley?”

            A moment passed. Then—“Serpent?”

            “Your crew is running drugs all over the city. I want a piece of it. Or it’s coming to an end.”

            A laugh. A nervous one. “Why should I let you cut in on me?”

            The Serpent aimed his .45 at Muntz’s forehead, and held the phone away from his ear so Muntz could hear. “Because I’ll kill your friend Muntz right now.”

            Another pause. Then—“Go ahead.”

            The Serpent raised his pistol and fired—putting a second bullet into the wall behind the desk. Then he hung up the phone.

He stared at Muntz. “Did you hear that?”

            Muntz looked ready to throw up. “Bastard. Son of a bastard. Son of a—”

            Again the Serpent pointed his .45 at Muntz’s face. “Where do I find Hensley?”

            “All right, all right!” He stammered a suburban address. “But he’s got a lot of guys there. And he may move. And if he finds out—”

            “You’d better run.” The Serpent pulled his glove off and planted his seal on the fat man and the dead man on the floor. “Far and fast.” He turned to George. “Let’s go, Gato.”

10 p.m.

I rolled over, my stomach churning. “Rachel?”

            “Right here.” She was sitting up. “What was that?”

            “Gas.” I felt lucky to be alive. Anesthetic gas works fine on TV, but it could be a tricky thing in real life. Like tranquilizer darts, too little will only make you woozy. Too much will kill you.

            “Oh, my god.” Elly Lamb moaned from the floor. “What’s going on?”

            We managed to get back into our chairs. I gulped some coffee. It was cold. I checked the time on my phone.

            We’d been unconscious for more than an hour.

            “So here’s the thing.” I took a breath. “I think your father believes he’s the Red Serpent.”

            “You told me about the scrapbook.” Elly looked at Rachel. “What is he talking about?”

            “The Red Serpent was some kind of vigilante.” Rachel rubbed her eyes and coughed. “He killed dozens of mobsters in the 1960s. Then he stopped. But he always left some kind of seal on the foreheads of the people he killed, like a snake.”

            “So what . . .” She gasped. “You don’t mean—”

            “The Forehead Killer.” I nodded. “The police won’t tell anyone what the mark is, but—”

            “My father is 72 years old!” Elly stood up, her legs still unsteady. “How can he be running around the city blowing gangbangers away? Even with George helping him?” She collapsed back onto her seat. “Oh, god, George? Maybe he’s the one?”

            “Whatever. They’re obviously working together.” I tapped my phone. “There’s only one thing to do now—”

            “No!” Elly pounded the table. Coffee spilled. “You can’t call the police! You can’t! They’ll kill him—or he’ll die in prison!”

            Not my plan. Although this one wasn’t much better. “Rachel, open your laptop.”

            She pulled up her case. “What am I looking for?”

            “The tracking program.”

            Her eyes narrowed. “Wow. Cool.”

            “W-what?” Elly sank back, still catching her breath. “Do you . . .”

            In a recent case I’d had to drive out to the suburbs, then back to my old apartment, and then back to the suburbs again to attach a tracker. Since then I’ve always kept gear in my Honda. And I’d attached one to the big black car I’d found.

            “Okay, okay, okay, give me a second . . .” Rachel tapped keys. “Give me another second. Come on, come on, come on . . . here it is.” She pointed her laptop at me.

            I peered at the map. “Okay, send it to my phone.”

            She punched a button. “I’m coming with you.”

            We’d had this argument before. And I usually lost. “Fine. Let’s go.”

            Elly managed to stand up again. “What are you going to do?”

            “Find your father. Try to stop him. Or at least stop him from getting . . . you know.” I stood up. My feet still felt wobbly. Lamb was a retired chemist, Elly had said. I wondered what he’d used to make the gas.

            “But that sounds . . . dangerous.” Elly caught the edge of her chair. “I don’t want you guys getting hurt.”

            “Hey, danger is our business.” Rachel punched my shoulder. “Right, Tom?

            “Uh, yeah.” My heart pounded. “Let’s roll.”