An almost imperceptible creak of a moldy stair riser will sound like a fracturing two-by-four to most dogs; to an animal with the exquisite hearing of a Saint Bernard, it sounded like a train wreck. The lock on the door, being of 1980s vintage, was in such poor condition that it could be picked with a kitchen knife. Tyra slid her lock pick noiselessly into the keyhole, and the tumblers were edged silently into position—silent to human ears, but to Bam-Bam, they echoed like I-beams crashing onto a factory floor. As Tyra entered the suite, his teeth were bared and his massive muscles became compressed metal springs. He struck with the speed and power of a python.
The gun was slowly rising to bed level when Bam-Bam uncoiled. Almost 200 pounds of fury launched itself from the bed and massive jaws clamped around Tyra’s shooting arm. The ulna and radius were shattered by the crunching lock of Bam-Bam’s jaws. Tyra screamed and fell over backward, discharging several bullets into the ceiling as she went down. Bam-Bam’s jaws were so strong, they could have been powered by hydraulics. He went for Tyra’s throat but she was able to fend him off with her good arm. In the melee, Bam-Bam’s monstrous jaws clamped onto that arm, snapping the same two bones. For good measure, a couple of bones in Tyra’s left wrist were fractured into irreparable ruins.
Tyra’s screaming and Bam-Bam’s roar awakened both Dana and Chris instantly. Chris flicked on a bedside light in time to witness the final stages of the battle. Tyra was rolling around on the ground screaming, and Bam-Bam was going for her throat. “Bam-Bam, stop!” Chris yelled, not wanting a death on the premises. He pulled Bam-Bam off Tyra, who sat up, moaning. In her agony, basic training took over. She saw the gun lying under the rear edge of the bed. With three bullets in the ceiling, she had six left. In spite of her pain and fractures, she dove for the gun. Chris saw the Beretta and kicked Tyra hard in the head. He grabbed the gun, and although he’d never shot or even held one in his life, he fired twice more, first hitting Tyra’s left knee, and then her right, shattering bones and ligaments. Tyra was done. She couldn’t stand, sit, or lie down. She was moaning in pain, keeping a wary eye on a still furious Bam-Bam, who at this point was being restrained by Dana.
“Call 9-1-1, hon,” said Chris, gasping for air. “I’ve got a gun on this witch.”
“Don’t take your eye off her for a second, Chris,” Dana responded, punching out the three digits. Chris kept the gun aimed at the intruder.
Tyra didn’t respond but stayed put, sitting in the corner of the room, arms and legs useless and in extreme pain. If Dana was looking for an excuse, Bam-Bam was looking for anything even remotely threatening. If Tyra had even met the Saint Bernard’s stare, Bam-Bam would have finished dismantling the broken-down agent. Fortunately, the police arrived en masse and almost immediately. There is nothing quite like a “shots fired” 911 call in relatively gun-free Vancouver to bring the many PCs scattered throughout the huge suburb to a caller’s door. Within five minutes, emergency tourniquets were applied to the bleeding and battered Tyra, an ambulence was called, and statements were taken. After questioning both Chris and Dana, detectives realized the incident was intended to be a hit, with the clear purpose of getting the Lestage proceedings mistrialed or adjourned.
As in any large metropolis, there were plenty of reporters on the night beat, spending most of their time playing computer games and listening to police radio frequencies. When the words “shots fired” were used in the same sentence as “Dana Wittenberg residence,” a story of massive proportions was sniffed out. The reporters began arriving before the police left. Dana was too upset to speak to anyone other than to provide a statement to the police. Chris, however, began giving impromptu press conferences. “I heard the police say that the gun was a Beretta 92FS with sound suppression,” he said. “I’m not sure what the significance is, other than I believe that’s the same type of weapon the Vancouver police retrieved from the dead and captured CIA agents at the courthouse yesterday. This witch came into our home, into our bedroom, and if it wouldn’t have been for Bam-Bam here, we would both be dead.”
News photographers were allowed to take a few photographs of the suite, including close-ups of the bullets lodged in the ceiling, the gun, an immensely proud Bam-Bam, and of Chris and Dana. Editors changed the front-page story halfway through the press run. The CBC called. Chris was interviewed, giving precise details of what happened. The story was soon receiving international attention.
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As Bam-Bam was crunching on Tyra, a few miles away George motioned his head at Turbee. “Go to the door,” he whispered, “and ask who it is. I’ll get behind the door. Khasha, get out of the line of sight. Get behind that couch.”
They were assuming their positions when the knocking repeated. “Who is it?” asked Turbee.
“Room service,” came the response from the other side of the door. Fitzpatrick had arrived, with Plan C in his back pocket. He had been told that Kumar was in the suite.
“Open the door and step back,” George whispered. Turbee unlocked the deadbolt, opened the door, and quickly stepped behind it. Khasha, from behind the couch, was able to see into the hallway as the door opened. A figure slowly pushed it open further. She was able to see the man’s face and hands. This was not a hotel employee, and what was he pulling out of a shoulder holster . . .
“Gun!” she yelled. “He’s got a gun!”
George was tall, six-foot-two, weighed 210, and was in excellent physical shape. Not only that, but he had a lifetime of experience in street fighting. His parents tried to channel his aggression in
