Randy White - Night Vision

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?