Night Vision

by Randy Wayne White

  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, Señorita 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?

  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, señorita. 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 nic
kname 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?

  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 ta
ken 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.