Randy White - Night Vision

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.