Don Bruns - Stuff to die for

“Can you tell if anything is missing?”

James handed the glases back to me. “Nah. Too far away. Now I’m not sure it’s him. It looks like he’s either sitting on his hands or they’re behind him. Could be tied up.”

“Your friend doesn’t seem to be missing a finger?”

I shook my head, having second thoughts. “We can’t tell. And maybe it’s not our friend.”

“Damn, Skip, it sure looks like him.”

The white car pulled away and the overhead door on the building rolled down. Clouds filtered across the moon and the parking lot was filled with eerie shadows and dim light. The three of us stayed low as the Lexus drove by us and made a turn down at the main street.

“If Fuentes’s kid is alive, I think he’d like to know.”

“It’s gonna be tough, James. We weren’t supposed to follow these guys.”

“Well, shit. We did. Trouble is we don’t know for sure if the kid we saw was Vic Maitlin. If it was, he’s not the burned up body. If you had a kid, wouldn’t you-ah, I’m sorry, Skip, you’re about to have a kid. Shouldn’t we tell Fuentes there’s a chance his kid is alive?”

Angel shook his head from side to side. “You know nothing. You both admitted you weren’t sure who it was. You’re not sure of anything. What are you going to tell his father? Something that calms him? Maybe something that upsets him?” Angel sounded disgusted. “You know nothing.”

I felt chastised. He was right, we couldn’t call and tell him what we didn’t know.

James tapped me on the shoulder. “I say we head back, pardner. It’s late and I think the party is over.”

I hesitated. “I want to know.”

James shook his head. “No, compadre. Let’s get away from this right now.”

As long as this hung over our heads, we didn’t know what kind of trouble we might be in. I wanted an answer, and the worst part was I didn’t even know the question. I opened the door and stepped out. I started walking toward the building.

There’s safety in numbers. However, no one followed me, and with the moon behind the clouds and the dim light as my only guide, I felt very much alone. If the guy in the warehouse was Vic, I wanted to know. I can’t explain what drove me to make that walk. It wasn’t a macho thing. It was a chance to make up for something that had haunted me for eleven years. And at the very least there was a father who thought his son might be dead. I was possibly in a position to prove that theory wrong.

The walk took forever. Finally, I stood between the buildings, staring at the door from which James had seen someone walk between the two structures. I turned the knob, knowing full well that it was a futile gesture. It most certainly was locked. Instead, the door handle rotated a half turn and the door opened on well-oiled hinges. So much for futile gestures.

It was time to put up or shut up. I eased it open and stuck my head around the door jamb, peering inside. The bright interior lights had been switched off and just a dim glow from some mounted wall fixtures covered the room. Thank God no one was in sight. Wooden crates lined the far wall and another forklift was parked in the center of the cavernous space. The floor was smooth gray cement, and I could make out a small glass-windowed office to my right at the far end. What the hell was I doing?

Here I was, playing the Lone Ranger and boldly taking on my mission with no support from the troops. I couldn’t just abandon the task and admit failure. I should have. But I didn’t. I pushed farther and walked in, casting furtive glances in all directions. Everyone seemed to have vanished. To my immediate right stood five metal cylinders about four feet around and five feet tall. They looked like they contained some sort of gas, with escape valves and a faucet handle to turn them on or shut them off.

The room echoed with silence, and I stood still for a good minute, afraid that any motion would immediately alert the Cubans to my presence. Assuring myself that blue jeans and a black T-shirt would help me blend into the surroundings, I stepped behind the first cylinder, staying close to the wall and keeping track of how close I was to the door. For the first time, I glanced toward the ceiling, noticing a balcony that hung out over the back of the room. The protrusion extended maybe four feet into space and was surrounded by a railing. There was no one on the upper level, thank God.

It was eerily quiet, and when I heard the first voice it startled me. I jerked like I’d been shocked with electricity. To make matters worse, I didn’t understand a word. Whoever was speaking was speaking in Spanish, and having taken two years of German in high school, I didn’t have a clue what was being said.

Obviously they weren’t speaking to me. I couldn’t see anyone, but the voice was to my right. A second speaker answered and a conversation ensued. Instinctively I flattened myself against the wall.

I looked up again as someone turned on a bank of fluores-cent lights, and at the far end of the balcony two men appeared, one smoking a cigar. They leaned against the railing and the older of the two was flicking ashes to the cement floor below. If they had looked toward the door, they would have seen me in an instant. A third man walked out of the office at the end of the room and motioned up to the two men. They disappeared and a moment later came walking out of the office. I assumed there were stairs in the back that I couldn’t see.

Silently I cursed James, the truck, and whatever had gotten us into this confusing mess. The three conversationalists were lost in their dialogue and I was the last person who wanted to disturb them. They started walking toward my end of the building and I felt my heart jump. Crouching, I made every attempt to become one with the metal cylinder.

They stopped at the first set of wooden crates, almost directly across from me, and I recognized our Cuban friend as he pointed to the closest box. The man with the cigar picked up a crow bar from the floor and pried the top from the crate, puffing on his stogie the entire time. He tossed the lid onto the floor and reached inside. I realized I was holding my breath.

He pulled out a long metal object, partially hidden by their three bodies. I had a good idea of what it was before he turned and held it to the light, admiring its sleek lines and form. I knew nothing about firearms, but this appeared to be some sort of a high-tech rifle, not the kind you’d go hunting with in the woods. I let out my breath. Boxes and boxes of rifles. Enough for a small army.

They turned to the boxes, their backs to me.

It was time to get the hell out of Dodge. Practically dragging my feet, I measured my distance to the door. I slid silently, afraid that actual footsteps would resonate throughout the hollow building. I could sense rather than see the door, and I was sure that with two more steps I would be within reaching distance. It was at that moment my phone blared “Born in the USA” at full volume.

I grabbed for it, yanking it out of my pocket as I reached the door. I was tempted to throw it on the ground and run, but I took one extra second just to see who the hell was calling me at the most critical time in my life. I couldn’t explain then, and I can’t explain now, why I would have checked the caller’s number, but I did. And as I twisted the door handle, pulled it open, and ran, I could hear the angry shouts from inside. I fully expected to be tackled from behind or have someone firing bullets at my back, but what surprised me more than anything was the gunshot from in front of me. One shot, a cracking sound like someone with a whip, then two more shots and I hit the pavement, just as the floodlight went dark.

Glass shattered and rained down around me onto the parking lot surface, and looking ahead I could see headlights flashing a rapid off and on pattern. I stumbled to my feet and ran again, my legs pumping like pistons, my chest heaving, gasping for air. How far was the damned Jeep. The passenger door was wide open and I leaped in as Angel tromped on the gas. We shot out of the parking lot and hit the road doing at least forty.