Randy White - Night Vision

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?