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 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.