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.
The big man’s eyes flew open in shock; first from the sudden impact of the icy water, and then from the searing pains in his ribs and sternum that sent hot needles into his brain with every slight movement of his legs, arms and upper torso.
“Okay, sport,” Bulatt said as he yanked the big man to his feet, and then held him steady until he finally stopped blinking in shock and gasping for breath, “now that we’ve come to a mutual understanding, I think it’s time we had a serious talk with some of your friends.”
The receptionist looked up — first in surprise, and then in shock — as Bulatt shoved his bleeding and strapping-tape-secured assailant in through the front door entrance to Hood Electronics; and then proceeded to support and muscle the barely-conscious man past the reception counter toward the right-side door in staggering eighteen-inch steps.
“Can I help — ?” the receptionist tried.
“That’s all right, I’ll announce myself,” Bulatt said as he shoved his trussed-up assailant through the second door.
Bill Rightmore was still holding the phone in his hand, trying to understand what his frantic receptionist was trying to tell him, when a big man — whose arms and feet were restrained by strapping tape — staggered through the closed swing-doors to his research lab and then collapsed to the floor; immediately followed by another familiar figure with a pistol in one hand and a federal agent badge case in the other.
“What the hell — ?!” Rightmore started to demand, his right hand making a reflexive grab for a nearby drawer before Bulatt waved him off with the Sig Sauer.
“Federal Agent,” Bulatt said calmly as he sat down on the edge of one of the lay-out tables, and placed his badge case back into his jacket pocket. “Move over by the doors.”
“But — ?”
“Do it now,” Bulatt ordered, calming aiming the Sig at the ashen electronics expert’s chest with his right hand while he pulled his Blackberry cell phone out of its belt holder with his left.
“You won’t shoot me,” Rightmore tried as he began to move grudgingly toward the now-closed doors. “You can’t; I haven’t done anything to provoke you.”
“Yes, you have… and yes, I can, Mr. Rightmore, because I consider you to be a very dangerous man; someone who is perfectly capable of going for a hidden weapon — as you tried to do just a moment ago — and making a lethal attempt on my life. That will be my testimony before the board of review; and, if necessary, on the witness stand. You, of course, won’t be testifying.”
“But I am not — ”
“Yes, you are. Pick him up,” Bulatt directed, motioning with the Sig at the taped man sprawled on the floor as he began working the Blackberry with his left index finger.
“But — ”
“Pick that man up and brace him against those doors, right now, Mr. Rightmore; or take a bullet in the knee, your choice,” Bulatt ordered as he selected the Blackberry’s CALL function. He could hear a commotion starting up in the distant reception room.
“Listen to me, you don’t know what — !”
The sound of heavy boots began to echo down the hallway.
Bulatt shifted his aim to Rightmore’s left knee.
“No! Wait! Don’t shoot… I’ll do it!”
The heavy doors crashed open just as Rightmore managed to get Bulatt’s semi-conscious assailant standing upright; the left one slamming into Rightmore hard and sending both men tumbling to the floor. The re-bounding impact of the door knocked the first newcomer off-balance, causing him to stumble into his partner; whereupon both men tripped over the sprawled legs and arms of Rightmore and the still-unconscious parking lot assailant.
By the time the two newcomers managed to regain their balance, they found themselves staring at the working end a Sig Sauer. 40-caliber semiautomatic pistol; and at a federal agent belt-badge visible under Bulatt’s open jacket.
“Hello, this is Special Agent Gedimin Bulatt, of the U.S. Fish amp; Wildlife Service, requesting immediate assistance,” Bulatt said, watching the two newcomers as he spoke calmly into his Blackberry cell phone. “I’m in the office of a Mr. Bill Rightmore, the owner of Hood Electronics in the city of Redmond; and I’m holding a gun on three men, at least two of whom are visibly armed and presumably dangerous. There’s fourth man in the parking lot — in the back of a dark blue van — that I’ve chained to the trailer hitch, and probably a couple others on the perimeter.”
There was a pause. “No, I’m fine here, but I would appreciate it if you’d send some officers by to check on the fellow in the van; make sure he’s ok. Yes, as soon as you can; but no, a code-run won’t be necessary. Yes, thank you.”
Bulatt shut off the Blackberry, set it on the table, and then stared amiably at the two newcomers.
“That was the local police dispatcher,” he explained. “There should be uniformed patrol officers arriving in the parking lot, oh, I’d say within three-to-four minutes, tops. I understand they’re pretty good about officer-needs-assistance calls around here, even when it involves the feds.”
“You son-of-a-bitch,” first arriving newcomer whispered. Both of the casually-dressed men looked thoroughly pissed, and ready to go for the holstered weapons under their unzipped jackets at any second.
“Yes, I agree; a truly nasty trick to play on a fellow fed, assuming that’s what you fellows really are,” Bulatt said. “But your two thugs out in the parking lot deserved what they got; and you will too if you don’t decide to start talking in the next couple of minutes.”
“I’ll take Tommy with me, and drive him and Joe out of here with their van,” the second newcomer said to the first as he bend down and dead-lifted his bound and semi-conscious comrade to his feet. “You cover; this asshole’s not going to shoot.”
“Not unless one of you does something really stupid, like go for a gun,” Bulatt agreed. “And I’m not even going to shoot if both of you decide to turn around and walk back out that door,” he added. “But I don’t think you’re going to want to do that without these.” He held up a pair of padlock keys.
“Why would I need keys?” the second newcomer demanded. “I’ll just cut the fucking chain off.”
“Possibly because it’s going to take you at least a half-hour to hack-saw your way through that chain, or the locks, assuming you manage to find a decent hacksaw with some extra blades,” Bulatt suggested, “and I’m guessing at least that long to find bolt-cutter big enough to do the job.”