Field of Fire

by James O. Born

  He kept his voice low even though no one was close and there was a lot of noise from the traffic on the highway and salsa music blaring from one of the trailers. “I’m directly south of the office trailer with the two red flags.”

  After a minute his phone shook, and he heard Stoddard say, “I don’t see you.”

  “Trust me, I’m there. I’ll call if I see him.” Duarte had to admit, at least to himself, it was satisfying to have Stoddard unable to see him. He hadn’t forgotten all his training from Fort Leonard Wood or Bragg.

  He watched the regular late-afternoon movements of the camp and noticed that people knew what to do and seemed to do it without complaint. No one had to yell orders and everyone was busy. After just thirty minutes, Duarte figured he had seen most of the camp’s workers.

  Then, just as he was contemplating heading back to the car, Duarte heard a female’s shout drift across the camp. He turned in the direction of the angry voice and saw the open door to the trailer at the rear of the residential area.

  A well-dressed woman in a tan skirt shoved a man outside, emphasizing the act with some sharp phrases in Spanish. He didn’t know the exact words, but he caught the meaning well enough.

  After the woman had slammed the door, the man looked around, almost as if he was daring anyone to have noticed the incident at all. In fact, the people in the camp appeared far too busy to worry about a minor argument between two adults. The man, dressed in a colorful polo-type shirt and clean jeans, looked out of place. His clothes didn’t belong to a working person. He strutted past some men trudging back from a field. He wasn’t working; he was showing off. Duarte had little use for show-offs, especially in front of people like this. He waited as the man came closer. The problem was that as he walked toward the row of old, beat-up parked cars near the highway, his left ear was on the wrong side of Duarte. He wouldn’t see it clearly as the man walked past. His right ear was intact, with a giant, round gold hoop earring dangling from it. The single, side view of Salez from the old arrest photo didn’t really look like this guy. There was no bushy mustache in the photo, and his skin looked rougher than in the photo that was a few years old.

  He waited as the man passed and Duarte could get a good look at him. It was hard to tell from the photo. Then, just as the man passed, Duarte called from the bushes: “Alberto.”

  The man turned quickly, like someone used to being on guard. He looked down the row of trailers and never even glanced in Duarte’s direction. It was enough. Duarte could clearly see the mangled ear. This was their man.

  Duarte waited until the man continued his trek toward the cars and then chirped up his partner. “Chuck, he’s walking toward the highway near the row of vehicles. Come on down, nice and easy.”

  “On the way.”

  Duarte stepped out of the bushes away from Salez. No one even noticed as he stood up and brushed himself off; his army training to always stay neat kicking in, despite his urge to chase after the fugitive. He stepped out to the pathway and started walking casually toward Salez, who was now looking at the rear tires of a beat-up Ford Mustang. Duarte knew to wait for his partner, but what was taking him so long?

  Then Salez, still unaware of Duarte as he approached, stood up and turned toward the driver’s-side door. Duarte picked up the pace and closed in on the car as Salez lingered at the door. As he broke into a run, Duarte pulled out a badge on a chain from underneath his shirt and let it hang like a necklace down his chest. He looked up but didn’t see Stoddard in the Taurus yet.

  He surprised Salez while he was still standing next to the car. “Alberto Salez?”

  The man’s head snapped at the sound of his name. His eyes darted to the badge, and he sprang to the front of the car and paused, his eyes shifting to each side.

  Duarte slid to a stop at the rear of the rusty Mustang. He hadn’t drawn his Glock, and wasn’t the least bit out of breath. He just wanted to give Chuck a chance to roll up and help corral this guy. He said to Salez, “Don’t run.”

  “Why not?”

  Duarte thought, that’s a good question.

  Salez turned toward the road, then saw Chuck Stoddard in the ATF Ford Taurus pulling onto the side of the roadway. The fugitive looked back at Duarte, then toward the rear of the camp, and broke into an all-out sprint away from the highway. He managed to slip past Duarte’s lunge by using the trunk of his Mustang to block him, and by keeping a good pace.

  Duarte matched his effort, but was a good ways back, and not quite as fast. The gun on his hip threw off his stride, but he preferred it to trying to run with a pistol in his hand. He didn’t really like the feel of any pistol in his hand.

  He watched as Salez tore past all the trailers, attracting the stares of the other residents. Duarte didn’t know whether the fugitive was hoping for help or had an escape route. Either way, Salez had company as Duarte chased him past a packing house with a loading dock and then into a crop of tall corn. It wasn’t hard to follow the man as he brushed cornstalk after cornstalk. They came out into an open field, and he could see the fugitive start to lose steam. Finally Duarte saw him duck into a long shed with wide double doors. Duarte didn’t hesitate to burst into the shed. The biggest problem was that, as he came in from the fading sunlight, he had no night vision in the dark shed.

  Duarte still hadn’t drawn his gun. He preferred his fists, or even a good explosive, if he had to choose a weapon. He didn’t pause by the door, where he was silhouetted by the sunlight. He turned and ducked to the side, then crouched to get what limited view he could of the shed. It was longer than he thought, and there was only one door. He was in here with Salez.

  Duarte eased next to a large riding mower and listened. He was breathing a little hard from the run, but this was the kind of stuff he liked. He even smiled slightly for the first time all day. Then he sensed movement directly in front of him. He felt the swoosh of a shovel as it crashed into the hood of the mower.

  Duarte didn’t wait for a second swing. He sprang up in the direction the shovel had come from and threw his body into the smaller Salez. The fugitive fell back to the other side of the shed, bouncing off the flexible aluminum walls.

  Duarte moved to the right, forcing Salez to move toward the door and into the light. Now Duarte had a clear view of the dark man holding a short shovel like a baseball bat. Duarte feinted toward him, causing Salez to swing full force at him. After the blade of the shovel had passed, Duarte sprang forward and landed an open shuto strike across Salez’s face. The hard edge of Duarte’s hand made the man drop the shovel and stumble back until he regained his composure again. In a quick, smooth motion, Duarte reached up and stuck his finger through the large hoop earring and yanked as the man passed him. Salez pivoted and screamed in pain, as Duarte delivered a roundhouse kick to his ribs, followed by a left punch on his chin. He dropped straight to the ground without another sound.

  Duarte looked at his right hand and saw the hoop earring with a one-inch hunk of flesh dripping from it. He had solved the mystery of the fugitive’s other missing ear.

  2

  ALEX DUARTE OPENED THE DOOR TO THE TWO-BEDROOM apartment over the garage and prayed his brother wasn’t home. His car was out front, but that didn’t mean he was in the apartment. He stuck his head in and called out: “Frank?”

  No answer.

  Thank God. Duarte just wasn’t up to his brother tonight. It had taken too long to book the fugitive, and he had used up all his patience with the deputies at the Palm Beach County jail explaining that Salez was a federal prisoner but that the marshals had said to bring him to the county jail for the night. Now all he wanted was a shower, food and another night lying on his back and looking at his ceiling. At least it would take the pressure off his knees.

  He stretched as he entered his bedroom, his shoes making a hollow sound on the hardwood floors. He carefully threaded his belt out of the hip holster and then placed his Glock and holster on the top shelf of his closet. He always placed it in exactly the same place
. He then pulled out his official ATF badge and credential case, keys, nine dollars and a nice BenchMark folding combat knife he had carried since his return from Bosnia in 1998. The only difference was where he lived then. And even that was only a change of about one hundred feet.

  As he set the badge on the shelf, it caught the reflection of his closet light. He would often stare at his gold badge. Not one to admit pride, he had to acknowledge the fact that he was pleased to be associated with an agency like the Federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, even though everyone referred to them as ATF. The year before he mustered out of the army, as he finished his college degree at Troy State University, he started to ask around about who might appreciate his ability with explosives. There were plenty of options. Local police agencies, construction companies, even the FBI—but everyone seemed to speak with respect of the ATF. The one thing his pop had taught him growing up was that respect was the only thing worth the effort. And it took a lot of effort.

  At first, it was a little hard to find information on the relatively small but hardworking federal agency. Unfortunately, many people associated them with the events in Waco, Texas, with the Branch Davidians. But all the ATF had done was make a good criminal case against several of the group’s members. Things didn’t go as planned, and the rest played out on national TV for months. But if no one ever broke the law, there would be no risk for law enforcement. Sometimes people forgot that.

  After the terror attacks in 2001, the various bureaucrats decided that a reorganization of federal agencies was needed. In the shake up, where U.S. Customs and Immigration merged under Homeland Security, the ATF was moved from the Treasury Department to the Department of Justice.

  Now, when he spent his time in his office near the other agencies, he was convinced he’d made the right decision.

  In his room, as he sat on the edge of his bed, he sighed out his fatigue and glanced at the four books stacked on his night table. He was an avid reader. On his night table, he had a Shelby Foote book on the Civil War he had already read twice, a biography of Robert E. Lee, Jeff Shaara’s classic Gods and Generals, and The Plot Against America by Philip Roth. He figured he’d make another trip to the library if he had more nights like the last one.

  After a shower, he changed into shorts and a T-shirt and started to rummage through the refrigerator. Aside from his brother’s Slim-Fast and two expired yogurts, he was out of luck. As he considered his options, he heard Frank’s heavy footsteps on the outside stairs that led to the apartment.

  “Hey, Rocket, when’d you get home?”

  “Little while ago.”

  “Hungry?”

  Duarte shrugged.

  “Ma’s got ropa vieja over rice.”

  “Really?” Then he caught himself.

  “Go ahead. We don’t live with them anymore. We can have a meal with our parents.”

  “Frank, we live over their garage. You eat breakfast and dinner there. It’s like we never left home.”

  “Bullshit. You left in the army, and I went away to school.”

  “Then we moved back.”

  “So? No one is forcing you to stay.”

  Duarte thought about that. On the other hand, he had no reason to leave either. It wasn’t like he had his own family, and living here allowed him to sock away some cash.

  Frank said, “Go ahead, think of it as a favor to Ma.”

  Duarte lingered over his second dessert. After the main dish and salad, plantains, soup and bread, he had tried the tiramisu and now the chocolate cake. He didn’t want to offend his ma.

  His father sipped his coffee, careful to avoid the extravagant desserts his wife made every night. Duarte’s father was convinced she was trying to put him in an early grave by offering up the various delicacies and sweets.

  His father cut his eyes to Duarte. “You do a good job today?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The old man nodded. He had a slight accent after forty years of life in this same house off Parker Avenue in West Palm Beach, Florida. It was an elegant accent. He rarely spoke Spanish, and had, since his arrival in Miami from Paraguay in the sixties, taken English class after English class, followed by literature classes. Cesar Duarte was probably the best-read plumber in Palm Beach County.

  “I hope your brother works as hard.”

  “Frank works hard, Pop.”

  “I guess as hard as lawyers can work.”

  Duarte shrugged.

  His ma came from the kitchen with a plate of food wrapped in plastic. “This is for tonight, Alex, when you get hungry again.” She placed it next to him and then leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. “You need to keep up your strength.”

  “Thanks, Ma.” He took the food, cleaned his place and after repeated good-byes to his ma and a nod to his pop was off to his apartment over the garage.

  He was dreaming of fire, as he often did in his short fits of sleep, when his cell phone rang from his nightstand. He was instantly awake and had the small Nextel open. “Duarte.”

  “Rocket,” said his supervisor. “There’s been some kind of explosion. We need you to check it out.”

  “Where?”

  “A labor camp off U.S. 27.”

  Duarte sat up, “The one where we found the fugitive today?”

  “Don’t know. I was told it’s out near Belle Glade. Bailey Brothers farm.”

  “On the way, boss.”

  Before Duarte could hang up, his supervisor said, “Hey, Rocket.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t know if it means anything to you but I was told from above to put you on this.”

  “Really?”

  “You must be doin’ something right for them to even take notice.”

  “Probably just my background.”

  “Never know. Do a good job.”

  “Count on it, boss.”

  It was after three in the morning when Duarte slowed his Taurus as he approached the sprawling labor camp off the highway. Even from the road, he could see the crime scene tape. The old Mustang that Duarte had chased Salez around that afternoon seemed to be the center of the destruction. The car was turned on its side, with the trunk lid twisted at an odd angle and the driver’s-side door missing completely. There were still two fire engines in the lot, a half dozen Palm Beach County Sheriff’s vehicles, with their blue lights spinning, and several unmarked cars. Duarte showed the deputy at the front gate his ATF credentials. The uniformed cop just nodded toward a group of seven or eight people listening to a briefing.

  Duarte parked and headed toward a large black woman speaking in a loud voice at the center of the group. She clearly had everyone’s attention and spoke with authority.

  “Looks professional. We figured the two corpses found over there”—she pointed a thick finger toward the mangled row of cars—“detonated the device by opening the Mustang’s door. We’re trying to determine if one of ’em was the intended target.”

  Duarte looked over his shoulder at the twisted cars. Then, as he turned back to the briefing, he saw a woman crying, as she leaned against the closest fire engine. Her dark hair sprayed out at odd angles, and her eyes were puffy and red. A beefy firefighter stood next to her, holding a box of tissues and looking like he’d rather be sleeping. Duarte knew the feeling, but just the idea of someone from headquarters asking for him personally on a case gave him energy. After a moment, Duarte recognized her as the woman who pushed Salez out of the trailer earlier that day, and that in addition to crying he noted that she wore a long terry cloth robe.

  He turned back to the woman addressing the group. The woman looked back at Duarte. “I know you’re a cop or the deputy wouldn’t have let you in. What’s your name?”

  “Alex Duarte, ATF.”

  “Alex, I’m Annette Cutter. I’m the captain of the sheriff’s substation here. You an explosives guy or just an agent?”

  “Both.”

  The woman cut through the crowd. “Good, come with me.” She was
nearly as tall as Duarte, with a few extra pounds on an already-wide frame. She wrapped a meaty arm around Duarte’s shoulder. He could tell she had a positive way of dealing with people and got what she wanted. “We got us a mess over here.”

  “I heard what happened as I walked up.”

  “We got the two near the car dead, another man who was standing about thirty feet away killed by the blast and a kid who had snuck out of his mama’s trailer killed by a freak shrapnel piece about a hundred feet away.”

  That caused Duarte to freeze. His stomach tightened and he asked, “Where’d he get hit?”

  “Head. Dead instantly. A real shame.”

  Duarte swallowed hard, thinking about his own experiences blowing targets in and around Bosnia. He now understood the sobbing woman at the fire engine.

  Duarte recovered slightly and asked, “What type of explosive? Black powder?”

  “C-4.”

  Duarte looked at the woman. “You sure, Captain?”

  “That’s what my bomb techs tell me. I’m no expert. I’m an administrator now. But they know their business.”

  “It’s just unusual to find something like C-4…” He didn’t finish his thought.

  “In a shithole like this? I know, my guys said the same thing. We’ve never seen it either.”

  Duarte nodded, taking in all the information. He appreciated a boss that admitted she didn’t know everything. There were politics and turf wars in police work, but the agents of the Federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms weren’t usually a part of them. The cops liked it when ATF agents showed up. He didn’t want to change that. He just doubted that any local sheriff’s bomb tech had more practical experience with C-4 than he did.

  Captain Cutter pointed out to the fields surrounding the camp. “A lot of the residents fled into the fields. They don’t want to talk to the cops.” She yawned. “I’m too old to be out this time of night. I should be in a warm bed with my husband.”

  Duarte nodded.