Night Vision

FIFTEEN

Through the night vision monocular I saw two men kneeling in the doorway of a wooden shack, guns drawn, as I steered the Dodge truck, headlights off, toward an RV where a tall woman was approaching the steps, presumably about to enter.

Isolated beneath a macrodome of Everglades stars, the detailed images of the woman, the men and both structures were as sharply defined as if looking through a well-focused microscope.

The men heard our truck approaching, then singled us out in the darkness. The woman did not. She appeared oblivious, standing with her back to the road, patting her pockets for something, probably looking for a flashlight or maybe cigarettes.

Beside me, Calavero, his mouth taped, made grunting noises of disapproval while, beside him, Dedos told me, “ There -that’s the redhead bitch. It was all her idea, her and that asshole bodybuilder.”

Because the truck’s windows were closed, air conditioner on, the man didn’t have to raise his voice to be heard. It also guaranteed that his fellow gangbangers wouldn’t hear him if he decided to call a warning or yell for help.

For the last half mile, Dedos, my new best friend, had been supplying me with information as we bounced through the woods at forty miles an hour, the heads of both men banging off the ceiling more than once.

I had only slowed long enough to transform my wool watch cap into a full-faced ski mask, then fit the night vision monocular over it.

I had also experimented with the vehicle’s cruise control. It worked fine at twenty-five mph, but I needed more speed to skid the truck into a combat turn-which is what I intended to do. On pavement, I would’ve needed to be doing at least sixty. On this dirt lane, though, forty would work-even with the Dodge’s antilock brakes.

Antilock brakes have become the bane of tactical driving schools worldwide. I’ve been through enough of those schools to know.

As we closed on the hunting camp, I noted a redneck-looking pickup truck, off to the left. The doors were open, junk strewn all around, which made no sense. But it was the sort of truck a guy like Harris Squires would drive and it gave me hope that he and Tula Choimha were still here.

I kept my eyes focused on the men in the doorway, paying close attention to the orientation of their weapons. One man held a pistol-a long-barreled revolver, it looked like. The other, a fully automatic Tec-9 that Dedos had mentioned. Maybe he was the gang leader-V-man, they called him, or Victorino-but that was too early to confirm. If Dedos had told me the truth, the math was neither difficult nor comforting. One gangbanger was missing. So was a second Tec-9.

Where?

Time for careful observation was over. We were speeding toward the clearing, and I had to make my moves fast and clean. In preparation, as I drove, I opened my door and held it open with my left foot. Because I had already switched off the truck’s dome light, the cab remained dark.

With cruise control locked in at forty, I was free to move my right foot to the emergency brake. Pointing the Glock at the men in the doorway, I waited… waited until I saw one of the men stand, bringing his weapon up to fire, and that’s when I jammed the emergency brake to the floor.

The cruise control disengaged instantly, the wheels didn’t lock, but the truck had enough momentum to bounce into a skid, then do a slow-motion right turn as I guided the wheel. My left foot was already searching for the chrome step to the ground when the door flew open.

A “modified boot-turn,” is the tactical term. The turn is used to effect a hasty retreat from roadblocks or a trigger-happy enemy. The technique dates back to the days of bootleggers.

Crouched low, I waited as the truck skidded. Then, as it slowed, I closed the door quietly and stepped off the running board while the Dodge was still moving. For a second or two, I trotted along behind the truck, using the bed to screen me from sight.

By the time the Dodge had come to a stop, I was several paces into the woods. In the doorway of the shack, both men were on their feet now. The temptation was to take a wild shot at them. For an expert marksman, eighty feet was manageable. But I am only a competent shot with a handgun, plus I was using a stranger’s weapon, the Glock. I wasn’t going to risk giving away my location to a man carrying a full automatic.

Besides, I had already committed myself to an extraction plan and I was determined to stick with it. It was the simplest plan I could devise, and it didn’t include engaging gangbangers in a running gun battle.

I had whittled the strategy down to three priorities: If possible, I wanted to block the exit to the road so they couldn’t pack Tula into a vehicle and run. Next, I would locate and mobilize the girl. Finally, I would have to eliminate witnesses who might be able to identify me later.

As far as Dedos and Calavero were concerned, the last priority came first. They had seen my face, they could ID my truck. I could have killed them myself. Later, I would do just that if they survived the scenario I had just contrived. Surprise, panic and confusion-these are all linking elements in the majority of deaths from friendly fire. Using the gangbangers’ own radio and vehicle, I had combined the elements into a volatile combination.

Kneeling behind a tree, I provided what I hoped was an effective catalyst. I took aim and fired two shots, targeting the Dodge’s rear tires. Maybe the tires ruptured, maybe they didn’t, but I didn’t stick around to confirm that I had or had not temporarily immobilized the truck and blocked the exit to the road.

Instantly, I was on my feet and running. The structures which comprised the hunting camp were luminous green through the night vision monocular. They flickered past, bracketed by trees, as I gave careful attention to each building. As I ran, I did a hostage assessment, trying to determine the girl’s most likely location. That’s when the men in the doorway opened fire.

I dropped to the ground and remained motionless for a moment. Then I lifted my head, hoping to confirm that they were firing at the Dodge.

They were. The Tec-9 sounded like a fiberglass machine gun firing plastic bullets. The report of the revolver was flat and heavy. Combined, they created a chorus of breaking glass and punctured metal as slugs hammered through the Dodge.

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, Senorita 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, senorita. 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.

Because I was aware that this would soon be a crime scene that demanded close inspection, I knelt, placed the Glock next to my feet, then took Calavero’s own. 357 derringer from my back pocket. When the medical examiner recovered slugs of different calibers from these bodies, it would suggest to police that there had been more than one shooter.

Recent headlines had inspired the crime scene I was now manipulating. Eighteen people killed, execution style, by a gang in Ensenada. A dozen in Chiapas forced to kneel, then shot in the back of the head. It was not something a respected marine biologist from Sanibel Island would be party to.

I had to lean through the back window to position myself closer to Calavero. I wanted to get a clean angle, close to the man’s left ear. Because the gun was so small and the caliber of the cartridge so large, I anticipated the terrible recoil. When I pulled the trigger, though, I was the one who felt as if he’d been shot.

It wasn’t because of the derringer’s recoil. Simultaneously, as I pulled the trigger, there was a thunderous explosion to my left. I was thrown sideways, the derringer still in my hand, aware there were flames boiling in the sky above me.

I landed hard on my shoulder but got quickly to my feet, holding the Glock again, unsure of what had happened. Nearby-close enough to feel the heat-what had once been a recreational vehicle was now a mushroom cloud of smoke and fire. Flames were radiating outward, toward where Squires’s truck had been parked, and also toward the wooden shack, traveling in a line like a lighted fuse.

Someone had poured a gas track, that was obvious. It was arson. But what had caused the explosion?

I remembered the tall woman standing at the door to the RV, a cigarette in her hand. RVs, like many oceangoing vessels, use propane. It was all the explanation I needed

Then, as if to confirm my theory, the women suddenly reappeared from the flames. She was screaming for help, slapping wildly at her clothing even though her clothes didn’t appear to be on fire. I watched her spin in a panicked circle, then sprint toward the cooling darkness that lay beyond the inferno. Soon, she disappeared into a veil of smoke that separated what was left of the RV and the wooden shack.

If Dedos hadn’t told me the woman had orchestrated the Guatemalan girl’s abduction, I might have gone after her. Instead, I tossed the derringer into the cab of the Dodge, then vaulted to the ground.

Running hard, I headed toward the flames, yelling Tula’s name.

To my right, the wooden structure hadn’t caught fire yet. It soon would, but I had to check the RV first because, as I had already decided, it was the most likely place to keep a captive girl.

There was a light breeze out of the northeast. It was enough to change the angle of the flames and channel the flow of smoke, so I had to circle to the back of the trailer before I could get a good look at what was left of the structure.

There wasn’t much. The westernmost section of the trailer, though, was still intact. I noticed two small windows there-bedroom windows, perhaps-that had been shattered by the explosion. The darkness within told me flames hadn’t reached one of the rooms yet, so I ran to take a look.

As I got closer, the heat was so intense that I had to get down on the ground and crawl. It seemed impossible that anyone inside could still be alive, but I had to make sure. I took a deep breath, put both gloved hands on the frame of the windows and pulled myself up to take a look.

Smoke was boiling from the plywood door, the floor was a scattered mess of photographs, some of them already curling from the heat. There was an oversized bed and so many shattered mirrors that I would have guessed the room had been used to film pornography even if I hadn’t noted the tiresome, repetitive content of the photos. A camera tripod lying on the floor was additional confirmation.

Tula had been in this room. I sensed it-a belief which, by definition, had no validity. Yet, I also knew intellectually that if the tall woman and her gangbanger accomplices had planned to rape the girl, this is the place they would have chosen.

I screamed Tula’s name. I tried to wedge my shoulders through the window and call for her again.

Tula!

The window was too small fit my body through, the heat suffocating, and I was finally forced to drop to the ground just to take another full breath.

I squatted there, breathing heavily, trying to decide what to do. I told myself the girl couldn’t possibly be alive, yet I pulled myself up to the window for a final look.

There was a closet, but the door was open wide enough to convince me the girl hadn’t taken refuge inside. I called Tula’s name over and over, but when I smelled the stink of my own burning hair I dropped to the ground, then jogged away in search of a fresh breath.

I was furious with myself. It was irrational anger, but to come so close to saving the girl’s life only to fall short and lose her to fire was maddening. I also couldn’t delude myself of the truth: I probably could have forced my shoulders through the window and made a more thorough search of the RV had I really tried.

The fact was, I was afraid.

Like the other primary elements wind, air and water, fire can assume an incorruptible momentum that is a reality-and a fear-hardwired into our genetic memories over fifty million years of trying to domesticate nature’s most indifferent killer.

That’s what I was thinking as I ran toward the wooden building, my attention focused on the building’s roof that was now ablaze, instead of noticing what was going on around me-a mistake. With my night vision system, I owned the darkness, yet instead of looping around through the shadows I stupidly sprinted straight toward the burning building-in plain sight of Victorino and his partner, I soon realized, as Squires’s truck skidded to a stop only thirty yards to my right.

Because of the fire’s combustive roar, I hadn’t heard the engine approaching. Nor had I been listening for it. My last memory of the two men was of them bogged in mud, trying to escape.

That all changed when I heard a gunshot, then the telltale sizzle of a bullet passing close to my ear. It was an electric sensation punctuated by a vacuum of awareness-a sound once heard, never forgotten.

I ducked and turned, seeing one of the gangbangers using an open door to steady the gun he was holding. Thirty yards is a long distance for a revolver, but the man had come close. I was already diving toward the ground when he fired a second round.

I was shooting back at him with the Glock even before I hit the ground, squeezing the trigger rapid-fire, my rounds puckering the door’s sheet metal, then shattering the glass window.

I heard the man bellow as he ducked from view, but I kept firing, while my left hand searched for the Dazer that was in my back pocket. I didn’t aim, I shot instinctually, letting muscle memory control my right hand. Nor did I count the rounds-something I always do-because I had been taken so totally by surprise, and also because I had allowed myself to panic.

There was a valid reason to be afraid. I could see Victorino behind the diver’s-side door, slapping at the Tec-9, getting ready to open fire. Maybe he hadn’t seen me until his partner had drawn his weapon and fired. Or maybe the Tec-9 had jammed-they are notoriously undependable.

Whatever the reason, I knew that if he got the machine pistol working, I was dead.

When Victorino’s partner suddenly reappeared, he was beneath the passenger’s-side door on his back, chest pulsing a geyser of blood. At least one of my rounds had hit him.

Because there was no cover nearby, I got to my feet and charged the truck. I had the Dazer in my left hand, the Glock in my right. It seemed impossible that the gun’s magazine had more than one or two rounds left, and I was tempted to dump the weapon and reach for my Kahr 9mm-the pistol I had used to kill the gator. It was in my hip pocket, fully loaded.

Victorino was bringing the Tec-9 up to fire, though, his head and shoulders framed by the driver’s-side window. A wasted second would have killed me. I was pointing the Glock at the man, screaming, “Drop it! Drop it!” as I squeezed the trigger.

Instead of a gunshot, I heard Click.

Absurdly, I tried the trigger again. Click-Click-Click.

The Glock was empty.

Victorino had ducked involuntarily when he saw me sprinting toward him, aiming the pistol. But now that he realized I was out of ammunition, I watched the man appear to grow taller as he stepped away from the truck. He was taking his time now, grinning at me with what might have been gold teeth, the machine pistol held at chest level.

I had stopped running. The Glock was useless, so I dropped the thing at my feet, hoping the man was egocentric enough not to shoot me immediately, which is what a professional would have done. Maybe he would offer some smart-ass remark, provide me with a few seconds to think while he gloated over his triumph before killing me.

As if surrendering, I thrust my hands in the air, as Victorino took charge, his ego on display. He told me, “The flashlight, too. Drop the flashlight, jelly boy. Who the fuck you think you are, coming in here causing so much trouble? And take off that goddamn ski mask!”

I was holding the Dazer in my left hand, my thumb on the pressure switch. My heart was pounding. Even if I had the laser aimed accurately, even if I blinded him instantly, the man would still be able to fire twenty or thirty rounds in the space of a couple of seconds. It was my only hope, though. Drop the Dazer without at least trying, I would be dead.

Victorino took a step toward me and yelled, “Do it now, cabron!”

As I reached to remove my watch cap, I mashed the pressure switch and collapsed to my knees. My aim was off only slightly, and I saw a shock of green light pierce the man’s eyes. In sync with Victorino’s shriek of surprise, I rolled to the ground, anticipating a long volley of gunfire. Instead, a three-round burst kicked the sand nearby, then the gun the went silent while the man continued to howl, trying to shield his eyes with his left hand but still jabbing the machine pistol at me with his right.

The Tec-9 had jammed again, I realized.

I took a long, deep breath and got to my feet, still aiming the laser. Until the weapon’s fouled chamber had been cleared, the thing was probably harmless, yet there was also a possibility that Victorino had somehow activated the safety-a mistake he might correct at any moment.

Holding the laser in both hands, I kept it focused on Victorino’s face as I dodged out of his probable line of fire. I was yelling, “Drop the weapon, get down on your belly!” repeating the commands over and over as I approached. But the man was in such obvious pain, I doubted if my words registered.

When I was close enough, I slapped the machine pistol out of Victorino’s hands. When he tried to take a blind swing at me, I grabbed him by the collar, kicked his legs from beneath him, then pinned the man to the ground.

I had one knee on Victorino’s chest as I jammed the Dazer hard into the socket of his left eye. The laser’s megawattage was radiating heat through its aluminum casing that even I could feel despite my leather gloves.

I held the gang leader there for several seconds, ignoring his screaming pleas, his wild promises, until I was certain he had had enough. Then I switched off the laser, pressed my nose close to his and said, “Tula Choimha. The Guatemalan girl you abducted-where is she?”

Victorino started to tell me, “I don’t know nothing about no-” but I didn’t let him finish.

I speared the Dazer into the socket of the man’s right eye and held the pressure switch, full power, as he tried to wrestle away. Even when he had stopped fighting me and was screaming, “I’ll tell you anything! Anything!” I kept his head pinned to the ground. I held him there for another few seconds before switching off the laser, then I tried again.

“Where’s the girl?” I asked the man. “Did you kill her?”

In the stark light of the inferno, Victorino was crying now-perhaps an involuntary ocular response to the laser or because he was afraid. The teardrop tattoo beneath his left eye glistened with real tears. The irony might have struck me as vaguely amusing had I been in a different mood.

I placed a finger on Victorino’s Adam’s apple, my thumb on his carotid artery. As I squeezed, I said, “I’m not going to ask you again. Where is she?” and then I lifted until the gang leader was on his feet.

He didn’t try to fight me. “You blinded me, man,” he said. “I can’t see! How the hell you expect me to answer questions when I can’t see nothing?”

When I squeezed his throat harder, though, Victorino opened his eyes and blinked a few times before telling me, “Okay, okay. Everything’s real blurry, man. And my eyes fucking hurt, man. It’s like you stuck a knife in my brain. You got to give me a minute.”

I gave him a shake and said, “Tell me where you have her-the girl. And what happened to Harris Squires?”

I released the man long enough to confirm his partner was dead. Beside the body was a. 44 Smith amp; Wesson, a small cannon that caused my pants to sag when I stuck it in the back of my belt.

My attention had shifted to the wooden building, flames shooting out the door now. It caused Victorino to turn his head, and I felt myself cringe when he finally answered my question. “Last time I saw that little girl,” he said, “she was in there.”

I got behind the gang leader and shoved him toward the flames. If Tula Choimha was still alive, she wouldn’t last long.

We had to hurry.

I slapped Victorino in the back of the head, then pushed him harder toward the building, yelling, “The girl might still be alive. Run! Help me get her out, I won’t kill you!”

The man replied, “You serious?”

When I pulled my hand back to hit him again, Victorino took off running.

Together, we sprinted toward the wooden structure, the heat from the burning RV so intense that we had to circle away before angling toward the door of the shack. As we ran, I took the Kahr semiautomatic from my pocket, already aware that Victorino was faster than I and he might decide to keep running.

That’s exactly what he had decided to do-until I stopped him by skipping two rounds near his feet.

“Goddamn it, man!” he yelled. “I’m not escaping, I’m trying to get to the back side of this place. I think there might be a window there.”

Victorino had long black hair. I grabbed a fistful, then used it like a leash to steer him, saying, “We check the door first. Get as close as you can and take a look.”

I gave the man a shove toward the opening as my brain scanned frantically for a better way to clear the building. For a moment, I considered the possibility of ramming one of the walls with Squires’s truck-but that might bring the blazing ceiling down on the girl, if she was still alive inside.

But Tula wasn’t alive. She couldn’t be. I knew it was impossible, as my eyes shifted from the truck to the building that was now a roaring conflagration of smoke and flames.

Twenty feet from the door, Victorino dropped to his belly because of the heat. He yelled, “There’s something you don’t know, man! This place”-he gestured toward the building-“it’s a cookshack for steroids. It’s got a bunch of propane tanks all lined up. Any second, they’re gonna start-”

There was no need for him to continue because that’s when the first propane canister exploded. Then three more followed in staccato succession, each shooting a fireworks tapestry of sparks into the night sky.

When Victorino got to his feet and tried to sprint to safety, I caught him by the hair again and yelled, “We check that window next. I’m not giving up until I’m sure.”

From the expression on the gang leader’s face, I knew there was no window. He had been lying. Even so, I herded him to the back of the building, where a small section of the wall had been blown outward. From a distance of thirty yards-that was as close as we could get-I could at least see inside the place.

I was positive then. No living thing could have survived that fire.

For several seconds, I stood there numbly, taking in the scene. Had I arrived a few minutes earlier, spent less time interrogating Dedos and Calavero, maybe I could have saved the girl. It wasn’t the first time my obsession for detail had thwarted a larger objective. But it was the first time an innocent person had died because I could not govern what secretly I have always known is a form of mania-or rage.

Obsession is rage, a Dinkin’s Bay neighbor had once told me-a man who also happens to be a Ph. D. expert on brain chemistry and human behavior.

The fact was, I was doing it now-obsessing-and I forced myself to concentrate. Later, I could wallow in the knowledge of my inadequacies. Tonight, I still had work to do.

There were a lot of unanswered questions. Unless I was willing to risk prison, I had to understand what had happened here. Obsessive or not, details are vital when manipulating a crime scene.

I asked Victorino, “Is Squires in there, too?” The wooden building, I meant.

I knew the man wasn’t telling me the whole truth when he replied, “I think so. Him and that woman, Frankie, they did some weird, kinky shit. But she got pissed off at him. That Frankie is crazy.”

I watched Victorino’s head swivel. “Where the hell that woman go? She’s the one you ought to be hammering on, man. Not me.”

When I told him the woman had been in the RV when it exploded, he did a poor job of hiding his reaction-a mix of relief and perverse satisfaction.

Victorino and Frankie had been sexually involved at one time, I guessed. Hatred is often catalyzed by the pain of previous intimacies-or infidelities.

I asked, “Were his hands tied? His feet? What about Squires?”

I was trying to assemble a better overview of who had done what to whom. Before crime scene police could understand who the bad guys were, I had to understand it myself.

Victorino replied, “Man, I had nothing to do with that shit.” When he saw my expression change, though, he added quickly, “But, yeah, I’m pretty sure Frankie had them both tied pretty good. She was getting ready to do a video deal, you know? So later she could have fun watching herself do shit to the girl, and her old boyfriend, too. A freak, man. I already told you.”

The truth of what had happened was becoming clearer in my mind despite Victorino’s dissembling. As the man continued talking, inventing details, I was studying the portion of wall that had been blown open. It was a narrow section of planking wide enough for me to see inside, if the angle was right, but not large in comparison with the rest of the structure.

It bothered me for some reason. What I was seeing didn’t mesh with my knowledge of explosives and the complex dynamics involved. At that instant, as if to illustrate, another propane canister exploded, and we both ducked instinctively, watching a column of red sparks shoot skyward.

Victorino was telling me, “My boys and me, we sold them grass, coke, whatever. Sometimes moved some of the muscle juice shit they made-strictly business, you understand. That’s the only reason we come out here tonight. Then this shit happened.”

What bothered me about the hole in the wall, I realized, was that the boards had shattered geometrically, yet it was a random displacement of matter in an otherwise solid wall.

What I was seeing made no sense. An explosive force creates a rapidly expanding wave of pressure slightly larger than the volume of the explosive. It expands with predictable symmetry-a three-dimensional sphere capped by a matrix of superheated gases and particles. The matrix created by the exploding propane takes was rocketing upward. Why had this small space been blown outward?

But then I decided that the anomaly could be explained in many ways. A weakness in the structure, an absence of bracing because the hole had once been a window or a door. The shack looked homemade, sturdy but inconsistent. What I was doing, I realized, was fishing for hope-hope that the girl and Squires had managed to crash their way through the wall and escape.

The fire had started so suddenly, though, the heat and flames so intense that the pair would have had very little time to knock a hole in what had been a very solid wall. And they had both been tied, hands and legs.

“The bitch invited us,” Victorino told me. “She told me they had a new batch of muscle juice. Only reason my boys and me were here tonight. And we got certain security procedures we follow. Two guards at the gate, two of my best men with me riding shotgun. A dude they don’t know shows up, they’re trained to take certain steps. It was nothing personal. You understand.”

I waited, watching Victorino’s eyes move from the fire to the shattered windows of the Dodge pickup, aware that at least two of his men were dead inside. The truck appearing animated in the oscillating light. I wondered if the man would have the nerve to ask what he was aching to know. He finally tried.

“Maybe you know something about the steroid trade yourself?” I watched Victorino grin, showing his gold teeth. He wasn’t a badlooking guy, actually. He had a good chin, a strong Aztec nose and cheeks. Had the man made different decisions-or been born in a different setting-he might have succeeded in a legitimate business.

Staring into the fire, I said, “Her name was Tula Choimha-the surname dates back to the time of the Maya. She was thirteen years old, two thousand miles from home, and the girl had no one to protect her from scum like you. That’s why I’m here.”

Victorino chose not to respond.

Slowly, I backed away from the heat. Victorino backed away, too, but he was gradually creating more distance between us, I noticed, until I hollered at him to stop. I used the pistol to wave him closer, before telling him, “Let’s get in the truck and get the hell out of here. You drive.”

It surprised the man. He replied, “Both of us you mean?” unsure if he had less to fear or more to fear.

“A plane or a helicopter’s going to spot the flames,” I told him. “Cops and firefighters will be coming soon. Maybe park rangers-we’re close enough to the Everglades. I don’t want to be here when they show up. How about you?”

I had taken off the night vision headgear, and Victorino jerked his head away when he realized I was going to remove the ski mask, too.

Mask up-but not off-my face pouring sweat, I told the man, “It’s okay. You can look.”

Victorino was three steps ahead of me, facing the truck. I could see his mind working, wondering what was going on.

The man stood frozen for what seemed like several seconds. Perhaps because I began to whisper to myself, repeating a private liturgy, he finally turned to look at me.

When he did, I asked, “Where’s the money? Sixty thousand dollars cash.” I didn’t know if the drunken woman was telling the truth, but I was thinking about Tula Choimha’s determination to lead her family home to Guatemala. They would need money.

Victorino’s eyes revealed the money’s location, but I waited until he lied to me, replying, “Money? What money?” the staged look of confusion still on the man’s face when I shot him in the chest. A few seconds later, I shot him at close range in the back of the head.

His partner’s. 44 Smith amp; Wesson made a thud when it landed on the ground beside Victorino’s body.

I wasn’t going to invest much time searching for the money-if it existed. What I had told Victorino was true. The hunting camp was in one of the most remote regions in Florida, yet a fire of that magnitude might still attract attention.

I found the cash in a canvas gym bag on the floor of Squires’s truck, along with a. 357 Ruger Blackhawk revolver. The temptation was to get behind the wheel of the truck, and drive as fast as I could back to the main road. But then I remembered that the Dodge blocked the exit. Bulldozing the thing out of the way would take time and would make a lot of noise. It would also prove that at least one of the shooters had escaped.

It was safer, cleaner, if I returned on foot.

To add further confusion to the scene, I tossed the Blackhawk under the truck, then took off, jogging toward the darkness, gym bag over my shoulder, as I repositioned the night vision monocular over my left eye.

I had learned my lesson. Until I was close enough to my truck to risk stepping into the open, I would stay in the shadows. To me, darkness-and open water-have always represented safety.

I am a stubborn man, though. Because the anomalous hole in the wall still bothered me and because it would be the driest route back to my truck, I chose to run past the burning shack before turning into the woods. There, the topography was upland pine. Plenty of cover but lots of open ground, unlike the swamp to my right. It would be a hell of a lot easier to parallel the hunting camp road before angling to the gate where my truck was hidden.

There was a third reason: I also believed that if Squires and the girl had managed to escape, they would have had to travel a similar path to safety. It was unlikely that they had survived, but it would satisfy my mania for thoroughness while also providing an ironic last hope that my obssessiveness hadn’t cost a young girl her life.

It happened.

Fifty yards into the woods, north of where the shack was still burning, I heard a mewing sound. It was soft, rhythmic, a noise so similar to the sound of wind in the pine canopy that I would have dismissed it as a feral cat had I not been wearing night vision.

After only a few more steps, I could discern the source of the noise. It was Tula Choimha. She was kneeling over a massive shape that I soon realized was the body of Harris Squires.

I had been moving so quietly, the girl hadn’t heard me. I didn’t want to frighten her, but I also realized that I couldn’t allow her to see my face. I lowered the ski mask, readjusted the monocular, then knelt before calling to her softly, “Tomlinson sent me. Don’t be afraid. Your friend Tomlinson wants me to help you.”

It was as if I had spoken a secret password. Instead of being startled, the girl jumped to her feet and ran to me, sobbing, then threw herself into my arms. Only when she noticed my strange headgear did she recoil, but I patted her between the shoulders as I held her and spoke into her ear, saying, “I’m taking you home. Please don’t ask me any questions. Okay? But it’s true, I’m taking you home.”

Through the lens, the girl’s face was as radiant as phosphorus, but I could also see that her nose was swollen, her face bruised. She stared at me for a moment, and I sensed she knew exactly who I was, although she had only seen me briefly after the alligator attack at Red Citrus.

“You’re Tomlinson’s friend?” she asked, but there was a complexity to her intonation that signaled she was asking far more than that simple question.

“I’m taking you home,” I repeated. “That’s all I can tell you. But first I need to know how badly you’re hurt. Someone hit you in the face, I can see that. But were you burned? It’s important that you tell me the truth.”

My mind was already scanning our options. If Tula needed emergency attention, the decision was easy. I would call 911 and risk the fallout-claim to have found her wandering in the woods, which was true. If she was okay, I would park in the shadows at Red Citrus and not let her out of my truck until Tomlinson had arrived and found her “officially.”

But the girl replied, “I have a headache, that’s all. Some of my hair got singed. The only reason I’m not hurt is because”-her head pivoted toward Squires-“because the giant saved me. I have never met a man so strong-stronger than Hercules, even. We were in a building, there was a fire, so he picked me up like a bear, then we both crashed through a wall.”

Carrying the girl in my arms, I walked toward Squires. What I saw was unexpected. The man appeared to be badly burned on his shoulders, yes, but he had also been peppered with a shotgun and castrated. It caused me to remember what Victorino had said about the woman I had seen running from the RV, batting at imaginary flames.

“That Frankie is crazy,” he had told me.

It was a rare nugget of truth from the gang leader.

“Please,” the girl told me after several seconds. “You shouldn’t look at Harris anymore. He’s not covered. God is with him now, but we still need to show respect. I’ll come back later. I’ll pray for Harris and then cover him with a shroud.”

I wasn’t surprised that Tula was in shock. But I also wondered if she was delusional-something I had suspected from the first-because she leaned her mouth close to my ear as if to whisper a secret, saying, “Jehanne already told me that you were coming. That you would be wearing a helmet like a knight. I expected it to be made of steel”-the girl touched her fingers to my ski mask-“but this is the armor that Jehanne spoke of. I understand now. You are the warrior knight God sent to save me. That’s why I understand I cannot ask you questions.”

“Jehanne,” I said gently even though I had never heard the name. “Yes… that was good of her. I’m glad she told you because I didn’t want you to be afraid.”

Cradling the girl in my arms, I turned and began walking in the direction of my truck. Tula laid her head against my shoulder and began to cry. After a few steps, though, she pulled away and plucked at an oversized polo shirt that covered her like a dress, saying, “Normally, I’m not so weak, but I can’t help myself. It’s hard for me to leave Harris all alone because he fought for me so hard. He even gave me his shirt to wear. And he found my amulets-my shields.”

The girl was cupping what looked like a necklace, as she continued, “Once I was wearing my amulet, I thought everything was going to be okay, that God would heal him. That we would live in the mountains together, where I could take care of him. But then… but then…”

I felt the girl’s body shudder, and I expected her to say that it was then that Squires had died.

Instead, Tula turned to look at something I hadn’t yet noticed. It was an elongated form lying in the distance, difficult to decipher details even with night vision. I began walking toward the shape as I listened to the girl explain, “But even God can’t control evil. The power it has over people-a giant like Harris, it makes no difference. I wonder sometimes if even Jehanne understands.”

The girl nodded toward the shape, her expression fierce, then turned away before telling me, “Evil. That’s what killed Harris-even though I fought to save him just like he fought for me. She came out of the darkness, screaming profanities, and running. It surprised us. Both of us. I fought back. But Harris lost his strength and died.”

Carefully, I placed the girl on the ground, her back turned, and I walked to the body of the woman I had seen fleeing the RV. It was Frankie, I realized

I knelt, then risked moving the woman’s arms to assess her injuries as best I could. To be certain, I even used a small LED light to check her legs, her face, a portion of her abdomen.

The flames might not have been imaginary, but Frankie’s body had only minor burns. Some blistering on her arms and a head of singed red hair. Maybe the explosion had blown the woman clear of the fire-possible, if she had been standing in an open doorway when a cigarette ignited the propane.

I knew from what I’d witnessed that the woman was already drunk. Alcohol could have contributed to her hysteria, so Frankie had assumed the worst, panicked and sprinted into the woods. Maybe the woman had tripped and fallen. Or collapsed from exhaustion-but only after surprising the Guatemalan girl and her injured bodybuilder protector.

What my careful scenario didn’t explain was the blood that soaked the woman’s tube top… and the paring knife protruding from Frankie’s throat.

“She was evil,” Tula said to me, her back still turned. “She wanted to kill Harris and she finally did. But not his goodness. That’s what I was trying to save.”

My mind was working fast, already anticipating the questioning the girl would have to endure. Tula Choimha needed an out. Something real. Something she had witnessed with her own eyes so she could speak honestly of it later.

I said to Tula, “I want you to watch something. It won’t be pleasant. Later, though-when people ask you about what happened-you’ll be able to tell them honestly what you saw. Other things… things that happened earlier tonight… you’ll probably want to forget.”

I waited until I was certain that the girl had turned to look. Then I used the paring knife on Frankie-several times-before leaving the knife just as I had found it, in her throat.

We walked in silence then, the girl in my arms. It wasn’t until we were almost back to my truck that Tula looked up into my masked face and said, “Do you remember the goodness that was in you as a child? God’s goodness, I’m talking about.”

I replied, “Sure. Everyone does,” because I thought it might make her feel better or reassure her at the very least.

I had underestimated the Guatemalan girl’s strength, however, and her maturity. It was Tula who then provided me with a more tangible form of reassurance, saying, “That doesn’t mean warriors shouldn’t lie to protect other warriors. Joan of Arc did it many times to protect her knights. The Maiden has promised me it’s true-Dr. Ford.”