Night Vision (39 page)

In less than five seconds, the men had fired twenty, maybe thirty rounds. Then there was an abrupt silence that left the night sky echoing with the squawks of outraged birds and the trilling of indifferent frogs.

I crawled toward the Dodge, then lifted my head again. I could see only the back of the truck. The silhouettes of Dedos and Calavero were no longer visible through the shattered rear window. It seemed impossible that they hadn’t been hit, but that was something I would have to confirm later. Judging from the vehicle’s tilted angle and the steam spiraling from the engine, the blockade I’d hoped to create was now solidly in place.

I got to my knees, my attention on the two gangbangers. They weren’t heading for the safety of the RV as I’d assumed. They sprinted past the trailer, indifferent to the woman cowering near the steps, and I watched as one of the men took something from a bag and handed it to the man carrying the Tec-9.

A fresh magazine, I realized.

As the two men slowed to reload, I heard one of them holler, “Chapo! Where are you? Chapo, get your ass over here now! We’re going!”

The woman looked unsteady as she got to her feet, one hand on the stair railing. She screamed, “What the hell is happening?” then added a string of profanities, calling the men cowards for leaving her. Her language became more graphic as she demanded money they owed her.

She mentioned a figure: sixty thousand cash.

Interesting, but my mind was on Chapo, the missing
pandillero
. His was the voice I had heard on the VHF. Presumably, he was the gangbanger carrying the other Tec-9.

Was he in the RV, guarding Tula Choimha? Or in the shack? Until proven otherwise, I would have to handle myself as if either could be true.

The man carrying the Tec-9 was the V-man, the gang’s leader, I decided. I was sure of it when he summoned Chapo again, yelling, “You better get your ass in gear, man, ’cause we’re leaving now!”

The men didn’t wait for an answer and neither did I. As they took off running, I shadowed their pace, keeping trees between us. They were headed for what I assumed to be Squires’s truck. It was a massive vehicle, built for the swamps, with deepwater tires, an industrial winch and banks of lights mounted overhead on a roll bar. A mudder, Floridians might have called it, a swamp buggy, to uninformed outsiders.

I had a head full of adrenaline, and my first instinct was to disable the truck so the men couldn’t escape. A vehicle that size could bulldoze the Dodge aside, then make a clean break for the road.

Ahead was a tangle of swamp tupelo, then a stand of bald cypress, the trees wide enough to provide cover and thick enough to shield me from bullets. It was a marshy area. I knew it even before I was ankle-deep in water, but the trees gave me an ideal angle, a clean side view of Squires’s truck. The Glock held fourteen more rounds. I was tempted to put a couple of slugs into the tires, then a few more into the engine. Do it right, have some luck, and the gangbangers wouldn’t be going anywhere. Not fast, at least.

As I pressed myself against one of the trees, though, my training and experience took over. An emotional response is for amateurs. Anger is a liability that signals a lack of discipline.

Priorities,
I reminded myself.
Stick to the plan.

Engaging an enemy with superior firepower was not only dangerous, it was a waste of time. And pointless. So far, these two gangbangers had not seen me. Killing them—or even stopping them from escaping—was unimportant.

In certain circles, there was a maxim that has saved many lives and taken more than a few.

Keep it simple, stupid.

That’s exactly what I intended to do.

 

 

I shifted my focus
to one objective and one objective only: Find the girl, then get her out safely.

My second priority was also important—leave no witnesses—but it was still a secondary consideration. If the V-man and his partner made it to the road, that was a problem for the police. Dedos and Calavero were a different story, but they weren’t going anywhere. If they weren’t dead, they were at least wounded and could be dealt with later.

The girl was foremost in my mind. I had to find the girl. I might also have to deal with Chapo, I reminded myself, the man who carried the second Tec-9. Or the tall woman who Dedos had accused of orchestrating Tula’s abduction and rape. In my lifetime, I have encountered at least two women who were as dangerous as any man. Maybe this woman was as dangerous or maybe she was just a masochistic freak. If the time came, I would find out. The fact that she was female would not save her if circumstances required me to act.

Shielded by the cypress tree, I knelt and took a closer look at Squires’s truck. It was a supersized model, and all four doors were open, dome light on. So much junk lay scattered around the truck, I got the impression that it had been ransacked. The woman’s reference to sixty thousand dollars came into my mind, but I didn’t linger on the implications.

I wanted to be absolutely certain that the girl wasn’t being held captive in the truck. I could see clearly enough through my night vision to confirm she wasn’t in the cab. But what about the bed?

The truck bed wasn’t covered, and it seemed unlikely the gangbangers would have left her there. To be sure, I watched both men closely as they approached the truck. It took a while. They appeared worried about what was hidden in the trees behind them, close to the smoking Dodge.

Finally, it was V-man, carrying the Tec-9, who told me what I needed to know. As he approached the driver’s side of the truck, he didn’t bother to glance into the open bed. Same with the man carrying the revolver.

Had Squires or the girl been lying there, they would have at least taken a quick look to make sure their captives were still secured. Instead, the men climbed up into the truck, then the engine started.

Surprisingly, as I watched, the gang leader didn’t turn toward the exit road as expected—maybe he didn’t want to be slowed by the disabled Dodge or possibly because he feared an ambush. Instead, he accelerated fast over ruts and through tall sedge, the truck’s headlights bouncing northwest toward what to me appeared to be swamp, judging from the hillock of cypress trees in the distance.

Maybe Victorino was familiar with the area and knew of a lumberman’s trail not visible on the satellite photo. I had studied the photo pretty thoroughly, though, and was doubtful. But the fate of the gang boss and his partner was no longer my concern.

The girl wasn’t in the truck, that’s all I needed to know. It told me that Tula was being held in the RV or the wooden shack—unless they had already killed her and disposed of her body someplace in the woods.

I turned and began retracing my steps toward the Dodge, studying the two buildings, but also keeping an eye on the tall woman who was still watching the truck as if hoping the gangbangers would change their minds and return. She had been yelling a stream of profanities and threats even as the men drove away, but now she punctuated it all by screaming, “Come back here, you assholes!”

After a few moments of silence, as the woman cupped her hands to light a cigarette, a man’s voice surprised both of us, calling, “Don’t worry, Señorita Frankie! They comin’ back right now. I just talked to the V-man.”

I recognized the voice, the heavy Mexican accent, and began trotting faster toward the disabled truck. Because of the rubber dive boots I wore, I moved quietly, using night vision to pick the cleanest, shortest path. I had the Glock in my right hand, my gloved index finger ready, resting parallel to the barrel. In my left hand, I carried the Dazer.

It was Chapo’s voice. Finally, I had located the man armed with the second Tec-9. He had played it smart, I realized. Instead of panicking, he had remained in the shadows, trying to figure out what was happening before making a move. It was a sensible thing to do. Chapo had a VHF. He knew that Victorino or his partner had a radio, too. So why should he risk making his position known?

My brain assembled all of this data automatically, then warned me that dealing with this man might require special care.

Startled by Chapo’s voice, the woman shouted, “Jesus Christ! You scared the hell out of me!” Then she stood taller, exhaling smoke, and searched the darkness before calling, “Where are you? What was all that shooting about? No one tells me shit around here!”

To the northwest, I noticed, the truck was already turning—but having some trouble from the way it looked, rocking back and forth in what might have been mud. I allowed myself only a glance, though, because I was still moving fast.

I changed my heading slightly when I heard Chapo reply to the woman, saying, “I wanted to be sure of something before getting V-man on the radio. Now I’m sure. You better go on inside the trailer ’til you can come out.”

The woman was drunk, I realized. She puffed on the cigarette and took a couple of careful steps in the direction of the truck before Chapo stopped her, dropping his pretense of politeness. “No closer,
puta
—you’ll get yourself hurt. I’ll shoot anyone, they get too close. Do what I say. Get your ass inside that trailer until it’s safe to come out.”

The woman hollered back, “For Christ’s sake, at least tell me what’s happening! Is it the cops?”

I was zeroing in on the man’s hiding place, deciding maybe Chapo wasn’t so smart after all because he continued to respond, saying, “We got us a visitor,
señorita
. He’s around here somewhere. Hell, maybe he’s got a gun pointed at you right now.”

Chapo laughed, then tried to bait me by adding, “But it’s no big deal. It’s only a dumb redneck—sorta like jelly boy. And you saw what happened to jelly boy. V-man and us will take care of this Gomer. I bet he can hear me right now!”

No, Chapo had his shrewd moments, but he wasn’t smart. He had just provided me with important intel. Jelly boy? He was referring to Squires, I decided. They had ransacked the bodybuilder’s truck, probably looking for money, then they had killed him. Or tortured him at the very least. Chapo had also let it slip that Dedos or Calavero had told him about their visitor. Maybe just before they had died ... or maybe both men had survived.

If so, their minutes were numbered because now I was close enough to the Dodge to see where Chapo had hidden himself. The
pandilleros
hadn’t told him I was wearing night vision, apparently . . . or the man wasn’t aware that he’d done a bad job of concealing his feet.

Just as his nickname suggested, Chapo was a little man. The first thing I spotted were his two child-sized cowboy boots. He had positioned himself under the truck, feet visible beneath the passenger’s side, the barrel of the Tec-9 and a portion of his head protruding from beneath the driver’s side. It provided him a panoramic view of the buildings and the clearing while the truck’s chassis protected him on three borders.

Or so he thought.

As I approached, I considered yelling to get his attention, then using the Dazer. A bad idea, I decided. Even bat blind, a man with an automatic weapon can cover a lot of area by spraying bullets.

Instead, I got to my knees, then to my belly. I crawled for a short distance but then stopped. I was approaching from the back of the truck, which wasn’t ideal. It gave me a decent shot at the man’s lower body, but that’s not where I needed to hit him.

I had to try something different and I had to make up my mind fast. Unless the gangbangers had mired Squires’s truck up to the axles, they might soon return, although I thought it unlikely.

Peripherally, I was aware that the woman was now on the steps of the RV, reaching for the door, when I decided to surprise Chapo by doing the unexpected. I bounced to my feet, already running, and reached the bumper of the Dodge after three long strides. When I dropped down into the bed of the truck, I could hear Chapo yelling, “Hey! Who’s up there?” his question nonsensical because he was so startled.

I was looking down at the man, seeing the back of his head, holding the Glock steady in both hands. Only because it might provide me a larger target, I answered the man, hoping he would turn. I told Chapo, “Up here, it’s Gomer. Take a look.”

He replied,
“Who?”
maybe trying to buy some time as he tilted his face to see but also attempting to aim the Tec-9 upward without shooting himself in the chin.

Twice I shot Chapo: Once above the jaw hinge, although I had aimed at his temple. And once at the base of the skull.

A moment later, I heard Dedos’s frail voice call from inside the cab, saying, “
Amigo!
I need a doctor, I’m hurt!”

I looked to confirm that Chapo wasn’t moving, then I knelt to peer through the shattered back window. The truck was a chaos of glass, debris and blood.

Dedos was staring at me from the front seat, his hands somehow free, maybe from broken glass or possibly Chapo had cut the tape. When the man realized who I was, he thrust one arm toward me, palm outstretched, a classic defensive response when a man sees a gun aimed at his face.

Dedos spoke again, saying, “It’s me,
amigo
. I helped you. Remember?” His voice had a pleading quality but also an edge of resignation that I have heard more than once.

Speaking to myself, not Dedos, I replied softly, “This is necessary—I’m sorry,” a phrase I have spoken many times under similar circumstances before squeezing a trigger or snapping a man’s neck.

We are a species that relies on ceremony to provide order, yet I have never allowed myself to explore or inspect my habit of apologizing before killing a man.

When I fired the Glock, the round severed a portion of Dedos’s hand before piercing his forehead. I shot him once more, then turned my attention to Calavero, whose body was splayed sideways between the front and back seats.

Through it all, the man hadn’t moved. Maybe Calavero had died more quickly because his mouth was taped. I didn’t know—or care. If Calavero was still alive, though, he would be able to identify me later. I couldn’t risk that.