Night Vision df-18

by Randy Wayne White

  Through the night vision monocular I saw two men kneeling in the doorway of a wooden shack, guns drawn, as I steered the Dodge truck, headlights off, toward an RV where a tall woman was approaching the steps, presumably about to enter.

  Isolated beneath a macrodome of Everglades stars, the detailed images of the woman, the men and both structures were as sharply defined as if looking through a well-focused microscope.

  The men heard our truck approaching, then singled us out in the darkness. The woman did not. She appeared oblivious, standing with her back to the road, patting her pockets for something, probably looking for a flashlight or maybe cigarettes.

  Beside me, Calavero, his mouth taped, made grunting noises of disapproval while, beside him, Dedos told me, “ There -that’s the redhead bitch. It was all her idea, her and that asshole bodybuilder.”

  Because the truck’s windows were closed, air conditioner on, the man didn’t have to raise his voice to be heard. It also guaranteed that his fellow gangbangers wouldn’t hear him if he decided to call a warning or yell for help.

  For the last half mile, Dedos, my new best friend, had been supplying me with information as we bounced through the woods at forty miles an hour, the heads of both men banging off the ceiling more than once.

  I had only slowed long enough to transform my wool watch cap into a full-faced ski mask, then fit the night vision monocular over it.

  I had also experimented with the vehicle’s cruise control. It worked fine at twenty-five mph, but I needed more speed to skid the truck into a combat turn-which is what I intended to do. On pavement, I would’ve needed to be doing at least sixty. On this dirt lane, though, forty would work-even with the Dodge’s antilock brakes.

  Antilock brakes have become the bane of tactical driving schools worldwide. I’ve been through enough of those schools to know.

  As we closed on the hunting camp, I noted a redneck-looking pickup truck, off to the left. The doors were open, junk strewn all around, which made no sense. But it was the sort of truck a guy like Harris Squires would drive and it gave me hope that he and Tula Choimha were still here.

  I kept my eyes focused on the men in the doorway, paying close attention to the orientation of their weapons. One man held a pistol-a long-barreled revolver, it looked like. The other, a fully automatic Tec-9 that Dedos had mentioned. Maybe he was the gang leader-V-man, they called him, or Victorino-but that was too early to confirm. If Dedos had told me the truth, the math was neither difficult nor comforting. One gangbanger was missing. So was a second Tec-9.

  Where?

  Time for careful observation was over. We were speeding toward the clearing, and I had to make my moves fast and clean. In preparation, as I drove, I opened my door and held it open with my left foot. Because I had already switched off the truck’s dome light, the cab remained dark.

  With cruise control locked in at forty, I was free to move my right foot to the emergency brake. Pointing the Glock at the men in the doorway, I waited… waited until I saw one of the men stand, bringing his weapon up to fire, and that’s when I jammed the emergency brake to the floor.

  The cruise control disengaged instantly, the wheels didn’t lock, but the truck had enough momentum to bounce into a skid, then do a slow-motion right turn as I guided the wheel. My left foot was already searching for the chrome step to the ground when the door flew open.

  A “modified boot-turn,” is the tactical term. The turn is used to effect a hasty retreat from roadblocks or a trigger-happy enemy. The technique dates back to the days of bootleggers.

  Crouched low, I waited as the truck skidded. Then, as it slowed, I closed the door quietly and stepped off the running board while the Dodge was still moving. For a second or two, I trotted along behind the truck, using the bed to screen me from sight.

  By the time the Dodge had come to a stop, I was several paces into the woods. In the doorway of the shack, both men were on their feet now. The temptation was to take a wild shot at them. For an expert marksman, eighty feet was manageable. But I am only a competent shot with a handgun, plus I was using a stranger’s weapon, the Glock. I wasn’t going to risk giving away my location to a man carrying a full automatic.

  Besides, I had already committed myself to an extraction plan and I was determined to stick with it. It was the simplest plan I could devise, and it didn’t include engaging gangbangers in a running gun battle.

  I had whittled the strategy down to three priorities: If possible, I wanted to block the exit to the road so they couldn’t pack Tula into a vehicle and run. Next, I would locate and mobilize the girl. Finally, I would have to eliminate witnesses who might be able to identify me later.

  As far as Dedos and Calavero were concerned, the last priority came first. They had seen my face, they could ID my truck. I could have killed them myself. Later, I would do just that if they survived the scenario I had just contrived. Surprise, panic and confusion-these are all linking elements in the majority of deaths from friendly fire. Using the gangbangers’ own radio and vehicle, I had combined the elements into a volatile combination.

  Kneeling behind a tree, I provided what I hoped was an effective catalyst. I took aim and fired two shots, targeting the Dodge’s rear tires. Maybe the tires ruptured, maybe they didn’t, but I didn’t stick around to confirm that I had or had not temporarily immobilized the truck and blocked the exit to the road.

  Instantly, I was on my feet and running. The structures which comprised the hunting camp were luminous green through the night vision monocular. They flickered past, bracketed by trees, as I gave careful attention to each building. As I ran, I did a hostage assessment, trying to determine the girl’s most likely location. That’s when the men in the doorway opened fire.

  I dropped to the ground and remained motionless for a moment. Then I lifted my head, hoping to confirm that they were firing at the Dodge.

  They were. The Tec-9 sounded like a fiberglass machine gun firing plastic bullets. The report of the revolver was flat and heavy. Combined, they created a chorus of breaking glass and punctured metal as slugs hammered through the Dodge.

  In less than five seconds, the men had fired twenty, maybe thirty rounds. Then there was an abrupt silence that left the night sky echoing with the squawks of outraged birds and the trilling of indifferent frogs.

  I crawled toward the Dodge, then lifted my head again. I could see only the back of the truck. The silhouettes of Dedos and Calavero were no longer visible through the shattered rear window. It seemed impossible that they hadn’t been hit, but that was something I would have to confirm later. Judging from the vehicle’s tilted angle and the steam spiraling from the engine, the blockade I’d hoped to create was now solidly in place.

  I got to my knees, my attention on the two gangbangers. They weren’t heading for the safety of the RV as I’d assumed. They sprinted past the trailer, indifferent to the woman cowering near the steps, and I watched as one of the men took something from a bag and handed it to the man carrying the Tec-9.

  A fresh magazine, I realized.

  As the two men slowed to reload, I heard one of them holler, “Chapo! Where are you? Chapo, get your ass over here now! We’re going!”

  The woman looked unsteady as she got to her feet, one hand on the stair railing. She screamed, “What the hell is happening?” then added a string of profanities, calling the men cowards for leaving her. Her language became more graphic as she demanded money they owed her.

  She mentioned a figure: sixty thousand cash.

  Interesting, but my mind was on Chapo, the missing pandillero. His was the voice I had heard on the VHF. Presumably, he was the gangbanger carrying the other Tec-9.

  Was he in the RV, guarding Tula Choimha? Or in the shack? Until proven otherwise, I would have to handle myself as if either could be true.

  The man carrying the Tec-9 was the V-man, the gang’s leader, I decided. I was sure of it when he summoned Chapo again, yelling, “You better get your ass in gear, man, ’cause we�
��re leaving now!”

  The men didn’t wait for an answer and neither did I. As they took off running, I shadowed their pace, keeping trees between us. They were headed for what I assumed to be Squires’s truck. It was a massive vehicle, built for the swamps, with deepwater tires, an industrial winch and banks of lights mounted overhead on a roll bar. A mudder, Floridians might have called it, a swamp buggy, to uninformed outsiders.

  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, Senorita 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, senorita. 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 Ca
lavero 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 nickname 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.”