Night Vision

by Randy Wayne White

  The Mexican was pointing a pistol at Frankie, holding the weapon steady until the woman muttered, “A couple of big tough wetbacks, that’s what you are,” then dropped the razor, too unconcerned to watch where it landed.

  Tula was watching, though. She kept her eyes on the razor even as Frankie collected her cigarettes and pushed past the Mexican, outside, pausing only to tell Victorino, “I need a drink. Either of you disappear while I’m getting it, I’ll have your nuts!”

  Then, without waiting for a reply, she was walking toward the RV, hips swinging. Tula could see the woman plainly through the open door. The girl focused her eyes on the back of Frankie’s head, then pictured the woman on the RV steps. Tula was telegraphing images, thinking over and over, Light a cigarette . . . Light a cigarette.

  Tula could also see Victorino standing in the doorway, the weapon in both hands, his concentration intense. Maybe he hadn’t heard the woman’s insult. No . . . he’d heard, because as his eyes swept the darkness he called after the redhead, “You can burn in hell, for all I care—” but then stopped abruptly and crouched.

  A second passed, then another, before he whispered to the Mexican, “Hey—there’s a vehicle coming down the road. See it? No lights, but it’s headed this way. How the hell they get past Calavero and Dedos?”

  The Mexican started to say, “Our two guys—maybe that’s who it is. See them through the window?” then stopped talking as he watched the truck fishtail, then drift into a slow spin.

  Now on his knees, the V-man was yelling, “Shit—that’s our Dodge! Those aren’t cops. They stole our goddamn truck!”

  Beside him, the Mexican tried to mention Calavero and Dedos again but was interrupted by two consecutive gunshots, WHAP-WHAP! very close.

  Victorino ducked his head back, hissing, “Shit, they firing on us, man! Shooting at us from our own truck!” Then he took a quick look out the door and decided, “We’ve got to get to jelly boy’s truck. Four-wheel drive, we can drive through the goddamn swamp if we need to.”

  The Mexican sounded dubious, saying, “I don’t know, man, that shit’s wet out there.”

  “Our goddamn truck’s got the road blocked, man!” Victorino said, getting mad. “You don’t got eyes in your head? Plus, they probably got more dudes waiting for us as we leave. We gotta take jelly boy’s truck and get the hell out of here.” The man peeked out the door again, asking, “You ready with the thing I told you about?”

  The Mexican showed Victorino the lighter in his hand, saying, “You want me to wait until the gringa is inside the RV? Unless you think we don’t have time.”

  Smiling, the V-man replied, “I warned the bitch. You heard me warn her. Let’s go!”

  Both men took off running, the Mexican firing three shots at something, then Victorino opening up, his weapon making a continuous ratcheting sound, loud, but not as loud as the pistol.

  From outside came the sound of more gunshots—maybe Victorino’s men. Maybe someone else.

  Tula’s mind was too busy thinking to notice or care.

  Sensing the room’s sudden emptiness, Tula lay back for a moment, concentrating on breathing into her belly to calm herself. Then she attempted to communicate with the Maiden.

  They poured gasoline, I can smell it. This building might catch on fire. Please don’t let me burn.

  Jehanne didn’t reply, but into Tula’s head came words Joan of Arc had written, words the girl had committed to memory: Help yourself, and God will help you. Act, and God will act through you.

  Tula raised her head. Through the open doorway, she could see that Frankie was on the steps to the RV but crouched low because of the gunshots. Maybe the woman would seek cover inside the trailer and light a cigarette later to calm herself. Revenge wasn’t a priority in Tula’s mind now, though.

  Her eyes moved to the razor Frankie had dropped. The box cutter had landed only inches from Harris Squires’s right hand. The giant no longer reminded the girl of Hercules or polished stone. Only a few hours ago, the veins of his body had resembled blue rivers, tracing the contours of his biceps, the muscles of his chest and calves.

  Now the rivers had been drained. The giant appeared shrunken inside his own skin, a mountain of pale, dead flesh, although the man’s chest continued to move.

  Tula watched Squires’s chest lift and fall, his breathing shallow. As she stared at him, the girl focused all of her attention on the man’s unconscious skull, seeking the spirit that lived inside.

  Open your eyes. God will save us. Open your eyes. You are the strongest man I have ever met, open your eyes . . .

  For more than a minute, Tula repeated those phrases, but then was stopped by more gunshots, then a Woofing detonation that shook the floor beneath her. It was a firestorm explosion so close that it sucked air from the room, replacing it with heat so intense that it felt like needles on the girl’s face and arms.

  Through the doorway, Tula saw a wave of fire rolling toward her, the flames so wild and high that the RV was screened from view.

  Had the trailer exploded?

  The fate of the redhead seemed unimportant now, and Tula threw her head back, screaming, “Jehanne? Jehanne!” then strained to use her teeth on the tape that bound her wrists. The table to which her hands were tied moved a few inches with each effort, but the angle was impossible.

  As the girl convulsed her body, trying to tear herself free, the memory of her father’s last moments came into her mind, an image so stark, so sobering, that it caused Tula to stop screaming long enough to hear a voice calling to her. When she tilted her head to listen, the voice summoned her again, a soft voice, barely audible.

  Tula became motionless, head up, eyes wide, listening for what she expected to be the Maiden offering advice . . . or, at the very least, comfort.

  Instead, she heard a man’s voice beside her say, “Sis . . . Sis! Shut your mouth long enough to answer me. Are those assholes gone?”

  Tula turned to see Harris Squires looking at her, his eyes two dull slits. On his face was an inexplicable smile that gave the girl hope even though she knew it was because the man was in shock, probably delirious, he was so near death.

  Tula began crying, she couldn’t help herself, and talking too fast as she replied, “Harris! I am so sorry they hurt you. But you’ll get better. I will take care of you myself. I will take you home to the mountains and make sure no one ever hurts you again. I promise!”

  No ... the giant wasn’t delirious. He was alert enough to look toward the door, see the fire, then say, “Shit! This place will go up like a bomb. I’ve got to get you out of here!”

  That possibility stayed with the man for a second, but then he realized the hopelessness of what was happening. Squire’s face contorted, then he slammed his head back and began to sob. “Did you see what those sons of bitches did to me?” he moaned. “I fought and fought, but I couldn’t stop them. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m no good to anyone now.”

  Tula yelled, “Harris, stop it, you’re wrong!” to snap the man out of his misery. Then she used her head to motion toward the box cutter, telling him, “We have a knife, Harris! If I can pull myself close enough, maybe you can cut the tape on my wrists.”

  Squires opened his eyes as the girl added, “Don’t leave me again, Harris. Stay strong, please. God will help us—but we have to help ourselves first.”

  The giant appeared to be fighting unconsciousness, his voice barely audible as he replied, “My guardian angel, I forgot.” Then, gaining focus, he asked, “What knife?”

  Because of all the blood on the floor, Tula wondered how the man found the strength to open his fingers and take the box cutter into his huge right hand.

  Inch by inch, Tula dragged the table closer to the giant. He held the razor, fighting unconsciousness as he waited. Two minutes passed, then four minutes. From the doorway, the girl could hear the roaring energy of combustion as the fire drew closer, feeding itself on gasoline fumes and grass. Soon heat and smoke made it difficult to bre
ath, but the girl continued to fight the weight of the table.

  Squires watched her, struggling to remain focused after losing so much blood. Every minute or so, he would awaken himself by telling Tula, “Don’t give up! Just a couple more!” These were phrases he had spoken so many times in weight rooms while spotting partners that he repeated the words by rote.

  Even so, the giant’s determination was an inspiration to Tula, but his terrible wounds also caused the girl’s heart to ache.

  When Tula realized the roof of the wooden shack had caught fire, she began to lose hope. She was dizzy from breathing smoke and her arms ached. For a few seconds, the girl paused to rest, and also to gauge the distance remaining before Squires might be able to cut the tape on her left wrist.

  Two feet . . . a little less. The wooden building was burning so ferociously, though, it might as well have been two miles.

  Tula closed her eyes and summoned the Maiden, resigned now that she and her warrior giant were probably going to burn to death. No . . . the smoke would kill them first, the girl reminded herself. In books she had read about Joan of Arc, witnesses all agreed that the saint had died from smoke inhalation before flames despoiled her flesh.

  In a way, Tula found the recollection comforting, but she wasn’t ready to give up. Before yanking at the table once again, she spoke to her patron saint. A request.

  Give us time. Just a few more minutes. If not, please grant me just one wish. Spare this good man from more suffering and pain.

  FIFTEEN

  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 visibl
e 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.