I have no cover so I’m doing what’s called advancing under fire, and I think I get the gunman with the submachine gun and then Pelayo is on the ground, firing back at me, but yeah, like most civilians, he’s not used to firing in a prone position, and there’s whistling noises as rounds roar by me, and I shoot and shoot and I’m aiming at the Yukon’s tire, and then at Pelayo, for my loved ones are in that vehicle and I’m not about to let it head out.
The rear passenger door suddenly pops open, and Tom and Denise tumble out in a confused pile, and I keep on advancing, and another Yukon roars by, front passenger door opening up, and Pelayo runs to it, and I don’t care, I let him go. Tom and Denise are right here, and Pelayo can go to the North Pole for all I care, and now I take cover behind the first Yukon and Tom rolls over, eyes wide, covered with blood, and he’s struggling to take a piece of tape off his mouth.
And the little girl next to him is in familiar black slacks and an Epcot sweatshirt, and as I reach for her, Tom screams, “That’s not Denise! That’s not Denise!”
The girl rolls over, eyes wide, tape on her mouth as well.
A hammer blow hits me so hard I think I’ve been struck by an RPG round.
The girl is not Denise.
I run to the front of the disabled Yukon.
The second Yukon is still there, door open, Pelayo climbing into the passenger’s seat, and there’s a confusing scramble, and then he shoves out a little girl who screams, “Mommy!” and then she’s pulled back in and the door slams and the Yukon roars off.
CHAPTER 85
TOM CORNWALL sits up and wipes at the blood on his face and shirt. His lower legs are still secured by tape. He crawls back into the rear bloody seat of the Yukon, finds the cutting tool, goes back out to the parking lot, works at his legs.
There’s a man dying in the front seat, gurgling and coughing, and Tom doesn’t want to be near him.
There.
The tape is off and Tom works to free the little girl. She’s bawling, and he has no idea who she is—another kidnap victim?—and once her tape is off, she gets up and runs away, screaming.
Tom sees a man on the ground, legs and arms splayed out, and he scrambles over and sees the man’s eyes are open, and his mouth is slowly opening and closing, like a fish out of water, slowly suffocating. His white dress shirt is soaked with blood, he has closely trimmed white hair and beard, and moments ago, he was standing next to his wife, Amy.
“Sir, I’m Tom Cornwall,” he gasps out. “I’m…damn, I’m so sorry this happened. I swear to God.”
Tom leans over as the man softly speaks. “I’m sorry, too, that I can’t answer your questions, Mister Cornwall…but…I think you might have enough for a book, eh?”
The man closes his eyes.
A man of his named Georges is driving the second Yukon, and the screaming little girl is in Pelayo’s lap, and he turns to the rear and says, “My father, did you see my father?”
Casper is there, pistol in his right hand. “Jefe, I saw him fall. I saw blood on his chest.”
The girl is still screaming, and Pelayo slaps his hand over the brat’s mouth.
“Good,” he says, as the girl squirms and struggles on his lap.
Casper sharply says, “Good? For real, jefe?”
Pelayo yells to Georges, “Drive faster, fool!”
The young man swerves the Yukon around a group of children, standing in the middle of the parking lot, and speeds to the gate.
I’ve dumped the silly flip-flops and I’m racing across the hot asphalt of the parking lot, then the grass, then the parking lot again, my SIG Sauer in my right hand, running, running, running, not letting the Yukon get out of my sight.
The black vehicle suddenly stops in front of a group of laughing children, swerves, and then picks up speed.
Running.
Running.
People are watching and pointing at the chunky woman spilling out of her teeny-tiny bikini, running, holding a pistol in her hands, and I ignore them all.
The Yukon is heading right toward the gate.
Running.
Should I stop, aim for the tires?
Can I do that?
But this is no thriller novel, no blow-’em-up movie, no cop show on TV, where the hero can be a hundred yards away and carefully shoot out the rear tires of a racing vehicle. I’m scared, I’m angry, and if I stand and try to shoot, shit, I might take out a tire, a taillight, or—
A high-speed round from my hand, my weapon, could break through the rear window of the Yukon and kill my little girl.
I don’t stop.
I keep on running.
Will somebody call the police after seeing this shootout? Will the cavalry ride to the rescue?
Of course not.
This artificial community created by drug money has no police.
Running.
The Yukon makes a turn to the right and I break right as well, and I screech as my right foot is sliced opened by something but I don’t care.
Now.
The Yukon has stopped.
Finally!
A hand emerges from the left side, works a keypad.
Running.
A stitch starts stabbing hard at my left side.
The pistol feels like it weighs a ton.
My breathing is harsh and ragged.
“Denise!” I scream.
The gate ahead starts rattling to the right.
The taillights of the Yukon blink as the driver takes his foot off the brakes.
In a few seconds the SUV with my kidnapped daughter aboard will quietly go out into traffic and then disappear.
“Denise!”
I bring up my pistol but it feels useless.
I’m too far away.
I’m not going to make it.
“Denise!” I scream one more time.
Oh, God, I’m not going to make it.
CHAPTER 86
GEORGES BRINGS his arm in and the gate starts moving, and Pelayo is confident it will all work out. In just a few minutes, he’ll be at a private airstrip to the northeast of Beachside, and with Casper and this little girl with him, they’ll head back south to Mexico.
There he’ll regroup and think things through.
The little girl is still crying and struggling.
As for her?
Well, he knows that objects can be sent via delivery systems to nearly anywhere in the United States. A small shipping container with frozen dry ice would keep something fresh for several days, until it got to a certain Army captain’s home.
Fresh, like a little girl’s head.
The gate is open, but the way is blocked by a steady stream of tourists and beachgoers, and Casper calmly says, “The Cornwall woman is back there, running at us.”
“Georges!” Pelayo yells. “Move!”
The driver honks the horn, the line of people moves to the left and right, except for one tired-looking, short-haired woman, carrying a folded beach umbrella over her shoulder.
The woman doesn’t move.
Casper says, “She’s coming closer.”
Pelayo leans over, pushes the horn again.
The woman stares and stares at them, and then looks behind the SUV, and back to them.
Pelayo pushes the horn, tells Georges, “Move! Drive over her if you have to!”
Then the woman finally moves to the left.
Drops the beach umbrella.
And pulls out a pump-action shotgun.
For some reason the Yukon isn’t moving, and my heart leaps as with each passing second, I get closer and closer…
Damn it!
I’m still not going to make it.
The Yukon honks its horn once, twice, and then I see a woman move around, with short hair, wearing tan shorts and a white T-shirt, and she looks vaguely familiar, and the beach umbrella drops and—
What the hell?
A pump-action shotgun is now in the woman’s hands.
I now recognize her.
Here?
To arrest me?
It’s not going to happen.
I make a split-second decision, turning my SIG Sauer in her direction.
But she’s faster.
The shotgun is up and aimed.
I don’t care. I’ve turned into a coldhearted bitch, and I warned her to stay away and told her what would happen if she showed up.
I start pulling the trigger.
But…
Her shotgun isn’t pointed at me.
It’s aimed at the Yukon.
The strange woman with the shotgun fires once, BOOM! And the Yukon shudders and there are two more booming gunshots as the woman takes out both the engine and the two front tires.
The engine rattles and dies, red lights appear on the instrument panel, and he yells to Georges, “Shoot her, shoot her, shoot her!”
Georges lowers the window, brings up his pistol, and Pelayo does the same on his side. Before Georges can shoot, the woman shoots again, hitting the side of the door, tossing Georges back.
Pelayo gets off one shot that is insanely loud in the Yukon’s interior, and the girl is screaming and forces herself to the rear, and Casper grabs her around the waist, forcing the right rear door open.
Pelayo jumps out, leaving Georges behind, who’s now crying with pain, and he leans over the right fender, firing off three shots. The woman with the shotgun spins around and falls to the pavement. Beyond her, people are running away, screaming, and a couple of cars have collided by the fountain in their attempt to drive away.
The glass to the passenger door shatters as another gunshot rings out, and Casper yells, “The Army woman is coming!”
Pelayo whirls, sees the crazed woman coming at them, pistol out in front of her, and Pelayo yells, “Move!”
He breaks away from the Yukon, starts running to a small clump of people, knowing he can slip through them, make a phone call, and then get out of here before the county sheriff or state police roar up.
Another shot snaps out, something stings his leg, but he won’t break stride.
He needs to get out of here.
Now.
Pelayo turns, sees Casper breathing hard, trying to catch up, still holding that little brat in his arms, and he calls back, “Shoot her! Shoot her and get going!”
He keeps on running, hears the nearby crack of a gunshot, flips back one more time, sees the crumpled form of the little girl on the ground, Casper now racing faster, and Pelayo thinks, Yes, we’re going to make it.
The crowd ahead moves apart to let him and Casper escape.
Behind him he hears a woman screaming.
Good.
CHAPTER 87
MY FEET are sore and bleeding and I could give a shit. I race past the Yukon, turn, and there’s Pelayo and another man, holding my Denise, and I brake to a halt, bring up my pistol, and I’m about scream, “Stop!” but before I can do that, the man…
Lifts up his own pistol.
To my daughter’s head.
Pulls the trigger.
My daughter flops.
He drops her to the ground.
I scream so loud I can’t hear myself.
Rosaria Vasquez thinks, Christ, this hurts more than I could ever imagine.
Will it ever stop?
She’s looking up at the blue sky, some palm tree fronds, and she thinks, Well, good planning. Earlier she stopped to get her hair closely trimmed to disguise herself, and to purchase a Remington 12-gauge pump-action shotgun, because she no longer trusted anyone in this screwy case, and Amy Cornwall had taken her pistol back at the library.
But maybe she should have gotten a bulletproof vest.
That would have made sense.
She moans.
Jesus, is her chest ever going to stop hurting?
Tom Cornwall is moving toward where he last saw the Yukon driving away, with his wife, Amy, in full pursuit, when he hears Amy yelling, “Denise, Denise,” and then gunshots, and then a full-throated scream from his wife.
He starts running harder.
I’m sobbing, yelling, and I feel like I’m going to lose control of my bladder and bowels as I approach the still form of my little girl.
Oh, Denise.
I drop to my knees, scraping them hard, and my girl’s head is blackened and there’s blood, and I can’t see anymore, I’m crying so very, very hard.
Denise!
I reach down and touch my little girl.
And—
“Mommy?”
I break out in one more loud sob.
She’s sitting up, rubbing at the side of her face.
“Mommy…my ear hurts. It hurts a lot.”
I grab her and squeeze her hard, and if I could, I wouldn’t move for the rest of the week.
She says, “Oh, Mommy, you’re squeezing me too hard!”
I ignore her, refuse to let her go.
CHAPTER 88
IT HURTS too much to do anything, including keeping her eyes open, and then there’s a dim voice above her.
“Special Agent Vasquez? Can you hear me?”
Rosaria manages to get her right eye open. It sort of focuses in, and there’s a woman looking down at her, wearing a skimpy bathing suit.
“Yeah, I can hear you,” she says. “Who…Captain Cornwall, is that you?”
“Yes, yes,” and now the captain is holding her left hand.
“Damn, girl, why are you in a bathing suit?”
Her hand is squeezed. “A long story, Vasquez.”
“Then save it for later.”
I’m holding Special Agent Vasquez’s left hand, and my other arm is tight around my brave little girl, Denise, who isn’t sobbing but who’s running a hand over and over her scorched hair, near where the muzzle blast of that man’s pistol had passed through.
Sirens are in the distance, and there’s a circle of people watching us, lots using their cell phones to record this horrible scene.
Tom races up, clothes bloody, and he kneels down next to me, starts squeezing Denise as well.
We’re finally together.
“Vasquez,” I say. “Why did you do it? Why did you come here?”
Her right eye is the only one open. Even with the bullet wounds in her chest and her soaking-wet T-shirt from her spilling blood, the haircut makes her look ten years younger and oh so vulnerable.
“I told you that, back at the library…I wanted to help…you and your family…”
“You could have done that by staying away or going back to Quantico.”
Her eye flutters shut, opens up again.
She manages a smile. Her lower lip is frothy red with blood.
“That would be running away…and I wasn’t going to do that…I have no family…I thought for a long time the Army was my family…I was so wrong…They kicked me to the curb like a piece of trash…”
Tom has an arm around me.
The sirens are getting louder.
I squeeze her hand again. “Hang on, Vasquez. The EMTs are coming. Hang on.”
She says, “Captain…I need to warn you…need to tell you something…”
A long, drawn-out wheeze.
Tom says, “Isn’t there anything we can do?”
“Be quiet,” I say to him, and then I squeeze her hand again.
“Vasquez? What is it? What do you want to warn me about?”
Her other eye opens up, and both eyes wander and then lock in on me.
“Captain…is that your husband? Your daughter? Your…family?”
“Yes, yes it is,” I say.
“Oh, so beautiful,” she whispers. “So beautiful…”
Her eyes close and then she’s gone.
CHAPTER 89
IN HIS Army career, Major Bruno Wenner has seen lots of odd things, but he’s sure this afternoon’s meeting is going to be one of the strangest events he’s ever seen, three days after
a firefight in Florida brought everything about Captain Amy Cornwall to a fiery head. He and five others are in a small, secure conference room in Fort Belvoir, and they are all waiting on Captain Amy Cornwall, who should have been here five minutes ago.
At the head of the table is his boss, Lieutenant Colonel Hugh Denton, in dress uniform, and with each passing minute of Cornwall’s absence, his face grows redder and redder. At his left are a colonel and brigadier general from the Judge Advocate Group, a male and female, and across the table are three quiet men in expensive-looking dark-gray suits, white shirts, and red neckties, like they had been dispatched from some government-central tailor shop. The near man, with a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and blinking eyes that make him look like an owl, says he’s from the Department of Defense. In the middle is a quiet man with closely trimmed dark-brown hair, who says he’s from the FBI. And the last civilian looks bored and has a dark tan, and claims he’s an observer from the Department of the Army.
Nobody in the room believes the last man is from the Department of the Army. Wenner is guessing that he’s CIA, but keeps his guess to himself. He’s sitting to the right and rear of Colonel Denton.
General Sawyer looks to Colonel Denton and then her watch. “Well, where is she?”
“She should be here any minute.”
The general says, “Give her five more minutes, then send out some MPs to drag her sorry ass in here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Denton says, and he turns and glares at Wenner, like it’s his fault that Captain Cornwall hasn’t shown up.
Wenner looks away and then there’s a rap at the door; it opens up, and Captain Cornwall comes in, cover in hand, saying, “My apologies, Colonel Denton, and everyone else. I was…unavoidably delayed.”
“Sit down, Captain Cornwall,” Denton snaps out, and Cornwall sits at the end of the polished conference room table, moving slowly, her feet bandaged, Wenner knows. She looks impressive in her uniform with the badges and ribbons, and Wenner feels sorry for her. Based on the bloody and wild trip she had through the American South, the captain will eventually exchange that uniform for the dull khakis of a prison uniform at Leavenworth.
The Cornwalls Are Gone Page 23
