Night Vision

by Randy Wayne White

I looked at my leather boat shoes. The tread was distinctive, so I found rubber dive boots in my truck.

  When I had changed shoes, I tried calling Chapo on the radio again—nothing but static. Then I frisked Dedos and Calavero more thoroughly.

  Dedos had pointed a .45 caliber Glock at me, fifteen rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber. Because Glocks have no safety—and I don’t trust the weapon, anyway—I chose not to slide it into my belt.

  That would come later.

  Calavero’s derringer was a .357. The recoil had to be horrendous, but it was a manstopper at close range. I slipped it into my back pocket.

  I found a key to the gate and keys to what Dedos said was a Dodge Ram pickup hidden in the trees fifty yards down the hunting camp road. Because a priority was getting my own truck out of sight, I opened the gate, backed my truck into the shadows, then jogged back to Calavero and Dedos. I used my Randall knife to free their ankles—but not their hands—then ripped the tape from their eyes.

  “Get up, get moving,” I told them, pointing Dedos’s Glock at them. If I was going to shoot someone, I wanted the medical examiner to find rounds from a gangbanger’s gun, not mine.

  “Show me you where you parked your truck,” I ordered them. “You can lay in the back while I look for the girl. Or stay here if you want. Let the ants eat you, that’s your choice.”

  It was a lie. They were going with me.

  From my equipment bag, I removed the night vision monocular, then hid the bag behind the seat of my truck. The monocular is fitted on a headband that holds the lens flush over one eye.

  When I flicked the switch, the gloom of the woodland ahead vanished. I was in an eerie green daylight world, details sharp. My right eye is dominant, yet I prefer to shoot using natural night vision, which is why I wore the monocular over my left eye. It is a personal preference that wouldn’t have held true were I carrying a rifle or a full automatic.

  As we jogged toward the hunting camp—I had to literally kick both men in the butt to get them going—I stayed behind them off to the side. Because I couldn’t get Chapo on the radio, I had no choice now but to go into the hunting camp fast and hard.

  Twice, I told Calavero to shut up, stop talking, but he continued to goad me. Breathing heavily, he made threats about what the V-man would do when I found him, then said, “When our lawyer gets you in court, man, how you gonna explain to the judge about my broken ribs? Dedos’s fucked-up face? You going to jail, faggot. Police brutality. We got lots of Latin King brothers in the joint, they’ll love meeting you. Man, those brothers gonna have some fun!”

  That caused him to laugh, imagining what they would do to me.

  By then, I could see the grille of their Dodge hidden in trees. To silence Calavero, I considered hammering him in the back of the head with the Glock but didn’t. Pointless demonstrations of power—like anger—is for amateurs.

  Instead, I timed his steps, kicked his right foot into his left ankle, then brought my knee down hard, between his shoulders when he fell. I taped his mouth, then pulled the man to his feet. As I forced Calavero to lean his head against the fender of the truck, I told Dedos, “You seem like the smart one. Keep your mouth shut until I tell you to speak.”

  Dedos nodded eagerly, his face through the night vision lens a misshapen montage of silver eyes and glittering blood.

  Dedos got his chance to speak sooner than expected. As I forced Calavero, then Dedos, into the passenger side of the Dodge, the radio squelched with a muffled voice. Pulling the radio from my pocket, I heard a man say, “Calavero, you there, man? Come in.”

  It wasn’t Chapo’s voice.

  I touched the transmit button and replied, “Hang on a minute. Talk to Dedos.”

  Then I pressed the radio to my chest and told Dedos, “Tell him cops just busted through the gate. In a truck. Tell him to leave the girl where she is and run. But”—I slapped him behind the ear for emphasis—“listen to what I’m telling you. If you screw this up, if they hurt that girl, I’ll kill you. I’ll shoot you in the back of the head.”

  To make my point, I touched the Glock to his temple, mildly amused that, beside him, Calavero leaned toward the dashboard so he wouldn’t be hit if the bullet exited his partner’s head.

  Dedos looked at me as if I were crazy. “You kidding, man. The truth? That’s what you want me to say to my boys?”

  I replied, “Do it!” then held the radio up to Dedos’s mouth.

  Dedos was so frightened, his voice had a hysterical edge, the pitch of nervous laughter.

  “The hell you talking about?” the pandillero replied. “Stop with your joking. V-man is sick of that little virgin, so we need something in the truck. The chain saw. Check, make sure it’s there.”

  I took a deep breath, steadying myself. As I did, the man spoke again, saying, “Wait a minute. You serious? Put Calavero on. You’re joking about cops, right?”

  I ignored him, thinking it through. If they needed a chain saw, it was to dismember Tula’s body. And if the girl was already dead, I was better off going in quietly. It was safer, cleaner. Take the men by surprise, one by one. Or just wait for them to finish up and jump them as they left the camp.

  But what if they were killing her now?

  I held the radio to my face for a moment, undecided. Then I touched the transmit button and said in English, “If you hurt that girl, you’re dead. Understand me? Tell Victorino. Tell him to stop everything and throw your weapons on the ground. We’re coming in. You’ve got three minutes, then you’re going to jail.”

  There was a shocked paused before the man responded in English, saying, “The fuck you talking about? Who is this?”

  Hoping the gangbangers would abandon the girl and scatter, I told him, “We’ve got your names, we know where you live. We’ll come to your houses if you run. But don’t hurt that girl—or you’ll be sitting on death row.”

  The pandillero was replying as I sprinted around to the driver’s side, saying, “I don’t know nothing about no girl, man! We having a party, that’s all . . . ,” but I didn’t listen to more.

  I tossed the radio into Calavero’s lap as I started the Dodge, put it in drive, then transferred the Glock to my right hand. Because I knew I might need the emergency break, I tested it to make sure it worked. Then I floored the accelerator, fishtailing toward the hunting camp.

  Dedos was hollering at me, calling me crazy, saying, “I can’t see nothing, man! You’re gonna kill us all!” because I drove with the lights off.

  I could see fine. Through the night vision lens, my world was sharp and clear. It was, to me, a familiar world, where shadows are unambiguous, a place without shades of gray.

  Dedos was right about one thing, though. If Tula Choimha was dead, I would kill them all.

  FOURTEEN

  WHEN THE MEXICAN MAN WITH GOLD TEETH SHOT HARRIS Squires with a rifle, Tula Choimha collapsed on the ground, in shock for a moment, regressing back to the child that life had never allowed her to be.

  The lone exception: the night she had watched her father die in flames.

  Tula screamed, drawing her body into a fetal position, as her eyes continued to watch what was happening. She screamed again when she saw that blood peppered the giant’s face and chest. But when the big man stumbled . . . almost fell . . . then somehow found the strength to keep moving forward, toward the man with gold teeth, Tula’s hysteria was displaced by her concern for Harris Squires.

  The girl got to her feet, yelling in Spanish, “Stop hurting him! Don’t shoot him again!” Then she ran toward the Mexican, her fists clenched.

  The Mexican was laughing at Squires, taunting him. He was motioning with his hand for the giant to keep coming. With every step, though, the Mexican took a step backward, staying just out of the giant’s reach.

  Behind Tula, the redheaded woman was enjoying herself, calling, “V-man . . . Hey, Vic! Try to shoot him in the balls. See what kind of marksman you are!”

  The rifle the man carried, Tula
noticed, had two barrels. So maybe the rifle was a shotgun, although Tula wasn’t sure of the difference. Was the V-man carrying the gun in the crook of his arm because both barrels had been fired with one shot?

  If so, Tula believed the giant might survive because his spirit was still strong despite the blood that now soaked his pretty blue shirt. The girl could tell because Squires was saying to the Mexican, “Is that your best shot, chilie? That the best you can do, douche bag?” his voice flinching with pain at each step but his eyes aflame, focused on the V-man.

  Suddenly, it was as if the Mexican was done having fun, because he took two fast steps backward. Then he pointed the shotgun at Squires’s pelvis, saying, “I want to do this slow, jelly boy. Maybe shoot off your penga, that’ll make you smile for the camera. Then I’ll use the knife.”

  Still grinning, the V-man looked toward the redhead as if seeking her approval . . . but then his expression changed. His attention shifted to Tula, who, still running and only a few strides away, screamed, “No-o-o-o!” a word that she had transformed into a sustained shriek.

  The resonance of a young girl’s scream is fine-tuned by eons of adaptation to repel attackers, particularly human males. The V-man winced, his ears aching, and his awareness of Harris Squires was momentarily jammed. Then he had to stick a hand out to stop Tula, who crashed into his thigh, her fingernails flailing, as she tried to sink her teeth into the man’s arm.

  Victorino’s Latin King soldiers had been pillaging the RV. But two of them were now sprinting to help as the V-man hollered, “Ouch, goddamn you!” Then: “Get this little bitch off me!”

  Victorino swung his open hand at the girl’s face but missed. “Damn brat!” he hissed, then swung again and connected hard. Tula went sprawling, her nose bloody.

  An instant later, the V-man’s attention returned to Squires, who was suddenly towering over him, his right fist drawn back. Victorino noticed just in time to roll his face away from the sledgehammer impact, a glancing blow that would have crushed his face. Instead, Victorino backpedaled several steps, still holding the shotgun, then went down hard on his butt.

  Squires kept coming, the grin on his face grotesque because of the blood. But then the giant wasn’t grinning anymore because the V-man’s soldiers, Chapo and Zopilote, tackled him from behind.

  Chapo had a small crowbar in his hand—he’d probably been looking for a secret stash inside the RV. And he began hammering at Squires’s back and butt with the bar to immobilize the man.

  Victorino was dazed but still coherent enough to yell to Chapo, “Cripple him, but don’t kill him! Leave him for me!”

  Then, standing, testing his balance, Victorino had to yell again, warning Chapo, “Watch out for the little cougar!” because the girl had a rock in her hand and was sprinting to help Squires.

  Frankie intercepted the girl, though. She did it on the run, even with a drink in her hand, sweeping the skinny child up with her muscles, then swinging her around as if playing a game.

  The redhead was still in a playful mood, the V-man could see it, which provided him an optimistic boost. So far, tonight hadn’t been nearly as much fun as he’d hoped. On the drive to the hunting camp, he’d pictured how it would go in his mind, first impressing the redhead by killing Squires with a flourish, then the two of them getting it on in front of the camera, being real sexy-dirty with the cute little chula.

  But this chula was a street cat, not a whimpering child like most. And jelly boy had proven he had balls after all, almost humiliating him in front of Frankie.

  Shit—Victorino was looking at his wrist where the girl had bitten him to the bone—the puta would have to pay for this. He’d make an example of her. Not kill her—a girl her age was too valuable—but maybe tie her up and use a razor like the Muslims did. Cut her body so she’d never be able to enjoy a man even when she was old and not getting paid for it.

  Yeah, get it on camera. Victorino was wiping blood on his jeans as he pictured how it would go. Give the redhead a private warning by letting her watch him use the box cutter on the girl, then show the video to new chulas when they arrived in Florida desperate enough to do anything for money.

  Tell the new girls: See what happens when you disobey the V-man?

  But that would come later. After he and the redhead had enjoyed themselves a little, just as planned.

  It would happen.

  Victorino felt his confidence returning as he watched Frankie touch her fingernails to the little virgin’s throat and whisper something into the girl’s ear.

  The chula had been screaming but instantly stopped, her face paling as if she was about to be sick.

  It caused Frankie to beam at the V-man and brag, “You’re an idiot when it comes to girls, know that? To make a spoiled brat behave, you have to understand it’s all an act. Screaming, not putting out, whatever. It’s because they want something. Figure out what it is, then threaten to take it away. That’s how you handle a puta. Just about any girl, if she’s cute at all. They’re all the same.”

  Frankie laughed into the chula’s face, adding, “Aren’t you, darling? Aren’t you?” Then looked at Victorino, smiling. “I think the two of us are gonna get along just fine. You ready to have some fun?”

  Spooky, the V-man decided, the way the redhead said that. They’re all the same. But kind of sexy, too, like Frankie was different from other women.

  And maybe she was. But the bitch was already insulting him in front of his soldiers, calling him an idiot in her superior way. Which had to stop.

  Victorino watched Frankie brush the girl’s hair back very gently as if playing with a doll, then he turned his head and told Chapo and Zopilote in Spanish, “Tie up jelly boy, we’ll deal with him later. Then search his truck. The tall gringa and me want some privacy for maybe an hour, with the girl. Find the money wherever jelly boy hid it. Then get the gas cans out, soak everything so the whole fucking place goes up when we’re ready. Afterward, I’ll give you the redhead as a present.”

  In reply to their surprised expressions, he added, “Seriously. Have yourselves some fun with those big chichis of hers tonight because tomorrow, maybe next day at the latest, I’m cutting them off.”

  What Frankie whispered into Tula’s ear was, “Listen, you spoiled little bitch. If Harris dies tonight, it’s your fault. So shut your mouth . . . or God’s gonna blame you for killing your new sweetheart.”

  It shocked Tula that a woman with eyes as black with fog as Frankie’s could speak of God in such a knowing, confident way. And also that the woman was able to look into Tula’s heart and recognize the sudden affection she felt for Squires.

  Never in her life had a man done so much to protect her. Not since her father had died. The giant had not only tried to save Tula, he had continued to fight for her safety even after having been shot, then beaten. It squeezed the girl’s heart now, seeing him lying on the ground, bleeding and humiliated, after risking so much to help her. She wondered how many bullets were in his body and if he was dying.

  He is our warrior, the Maiden said into Tula’s mind when she stopped struggling against the tall woman’s muscles. He is our knight. You must do whatever you can to help him.

  As if reading Tula’s thoughts, the redhead surprised the girl again by saying, “Harris is kind of cute, isn’t he? Like a big stupid animal who’s eager to please. Trust me”—the woman laughed into the girl’s face, her breath foul with smoke and alcohol—“I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

  Into Tula’s mind flashed the image of the sad bear in the zoo as Frankie swung her toward the RV, bragging, “Know how I do it? I understand how women think. All their sneaky, catty ways. Plus, we’re a lot alike, me and tomboys like you. The first time I saw you, I could tell. A boy, my ass.

  “Difference between us, you’re still hiding behind God. Me, I got smart quick and joined the other side. That’s where the fun is and the power. It’s all about power, niña. Power and money-money-money.”

  Then the woman
stumbled, slurring, “Shit—you spilled my drink! Look at what you did. And your goddamn blood’s all over my new tank top!”

  They were at the door to the RV now, and Tula was looking over the woman’s shoulder, seeing two men use tape on the giant’s wrists as the Mexican with gold teeth watched, holding the shotgun over his shoulder like a soldier who was tired of marching. In the lights of the pickup truck, Victorino’s face appeared swollen, misshapen, which reminded Tula of her own throbbing nose.

  She pushed herself away from the woman and said, “I can’t breathe, please put me down. I need to blow my nose because the man hit me.”

  The woman dropped Tula without warning—like a practical joke. When the girl’s head banged the steel steps to the trailer, it evoked a snort of laughter from Frankie.

  “Good,” she said. “Knock some sense into you.”

  The woman had found a tissue in her jeans and was rubbing at the blood on her shirt, her balance unsteady, getting madder as she smeared the blood. Then she gave up and hurled the tissue at Tula. “Stop fighting me! If you don’t, I’ll tell that Mexican to kill your boyfriend. How’d you like that?”

  Tula was on her feet, sniffling, trying to stop her nose from bleeding, but her eyes were focused on Squires, who was still on his back, hands folded across his belly like a corpse because of the tape. The two men had the doors to the giant’s truck open. They were leaning inside, throwing things out onto the ground, while the Mexican with the gold teeth walked toward the RV, a bandy-legged man trying to appear taller than he was.

  Frankie looked away from Tula long enough to grin at the V-man, who was close enough for her to call, “Does my Mexican stallion need a drinkie?”

  Then the woman stabbed her fingernails under the girl’s chin, lifting Tula’s face, and whispered, “How’s a little saint like you gonna feel? Murdering your sweetie when God knows you could’ve stopped it.”

  Tula could barely hear the woman’s words because, suddenly, the Maiden was in her head, voice firm, telling her what to do, what to say. The girl’s heart was pounding, but she wasn’t afraid—not for herself, anyway—but she ached for Squires, who lay on the ground, breathing fast, shallow breaths. She watched him turn his head to the side and cough, something bubbling out of his mouth and nose.