Billie nodded.
I said, “One… two… three.” We ran about fifty feet. Billie to my right. He stopped in a dead run, quickly grabbed my arm, and pointed directly in front of us. “That’s not the way a vine grows.”
I saw a long, thin vine stretched about two inches above and completely across the path. It was almost camouflaged with the natural undergrowth below it. The only reveal was that the vine grew in a straight line. We dropped down to inspect it. One end of the vine, which was actually twine painted in shades of green and brown, was tied to a small sapling. The twine stretched across the path to another sampling where it made a simple half loop and was lost in the brush.
I knew what it was attached to.
“Don’t move,” I said, looking up to see if there was a gun locked and pointed in our direction.
There was. A shotgun, almost hidden. The opening of the barrel, resembling a large black hole in the universe, and its vortex of spinning buckshot, heat and velocity, was in a position to remove our heads. The gun was concealed beneath honeysuckles, the stock not visible. “Move to your far right, Joe. The spread pattern of double-aught buckshot from the tip of the barrel to where we’re standing is about twelve inches. But let’s take no chances. Move at least ten feet to your right.”
Then we heard the terrifying and unmistakable sound of a pump-action shotgun as a shell is fed into the chamber. “Drop your gun motherfucker! Raise your hands and slowly face me. When I kill a man, I like to look him in the face.”
I dropped the .12 gauge and Billie and I turned around at the same time to look into the feral eyes of Frank Soto.
EIGHTY-ONE
They almost circled us. Six men total. Four looked like they might have been farm workers in any field or orchard in the world. Brown-skinned men. None smiling. All carrying machetes. To Soto’s right stood a giant. I estimated he was at least six-six, skin strawberry-red from the sun, a Viking blond beard flowing from his moon face. His eyes were blue flames ignited behind two slits of pinched skin and fat. He wore a T-shirt with cut-off sleeves. His chest was solid, an iron shield under the stretched cotton. He held a semi-automatic rifle, which looked like a toy in his big hands.
There was a seventh man. He stepped from the concealment of stacked pot plants and walked to us. Even before he came close, I knew that I was watching Izzy Gonzales approaching. He juggled a .45 caliber pistol in his right hand. A gold wedding band and matching gold watch on his left. Then he came near enough for me to see the faint acne scars on his face. Despite the scars, he had a swarthy, handsome look and moved with the bravado of a matador, daring and taunting. He said, “You two have some pretty big cojones to walk in here. But the element of surprise was not yours to be had, eh?” He grinned.
I said, “That’s because Ranger Ed alerted you.”
He smiled, and then turned his head to me, reminiscent of a parrot, a bead of sunlight in one eye, heat spilling from the other. He waved the pistol recklessly and looked around to his men. “Ranger Ed, he has been a most useful person. Give that cocksucker a raise!”
I watched him glance to his far right. I cut my eyes in that direction and saw a weatherproof video camera secured to the side of a pine tree. A cord ran down the tree to a car battery and something locked in a metal box. A satellite dish, no bigger than a large pizza, pointed to the blue sky.
I opened my arms, gesturing and taking a small step backward at the same time. Billie followed my lead. “I know who you are, Gonzales. Your face has been all over television lately. As a matter of fact, I doubt that you could walk in any airport in America and get a flight back to your Uncle Pablo’s hacienda. You’d be picked up.”
His nostrils flared and he stepped closer, eyes red and dilated. “If my uncle was standing here, he’d have those men cut off your head and take it down to the river so the gators could play water polo with it ‘till your head got the size of a golf ball. So you think I would be arrested? For what, huh? You believe that old fucker, the one they arrested on triple murder charges is gonna testify he saw me do anything? He’d have to resurrect himself like Jesus Christ to do that, comprenda? I know about you, dude. Ranger Ed filled me in. You’re Sean O’Brien, an ex cop who’s shackin’ with the mama of the gal I smoked. So you got a hard on for me, Izzy Gonzales, a simple businessman, trying to be left alone to run his business without interference. We fulfill a vast need. Now, you and your friend here are making it most difficult for me. No one’s gonna fuck up my business.”
“You brought the heat when you put a bullet in Mark, Molly and Nicole.”
“Dude, you give me too much credit where it is not due, okay? I didn’t waste that bitch.” He looked over his shoulder at Soto. Billie and I took another step backwards. I glanced down and saw the green and yellow twine less than a foot behind us. Two more feet and we’d have Gonzales in range of the hidden shotgun. He laughed and said, “That was Frank’s gal, the one with the butterfly wings. After he finished fuckin’ her, Tiny over there got a turn, and later on Ranger Ed wanted his turn. But there was a little problem, butterfly babe was still alive. Now Ranger Ed is one sick fuck.” He looked at Soto. “Tell these gringos, Soto. Tell them how Eddie gets his rocks off.”
Soto grinned, touched his dark glasses and said, “He fucks dead girls.”
I glanced at Billie. In the split second that our eyes locked, I knew he was in sync with what I was about to do. And I hoped he was fast enough not to get caught in the crossfire. “Gonzales, we know you enjoy killing innocent girls, people like Molly Monroe who was only in this forest to release endangered butterflies. You didn’t have the balls to get close enough to look her in the eye when you shot her with a rifle. You’re a punk and a coward trying to impress your psychotic uncle.”
His eyes opened wider, his head rotating back to me similar to a lizard. He stepped forward and boasted, “When I kill you, O’Brien, I’ll be close enough to spit in your eyes. Like a fuckin’ cobra! Blind you with speed. You and your Indian brother are about to be dead brothers.”
He came toward us and raised the .45. I could smell the burnt odor of smoked marijuana on his clothes, nostrils red from coke. Billie touched the hilt of his knife. Gonzalez taunted, “Pull on that blade. You won’t get it outta the leather before I take your head off.”
His eyes were on Billie long enough. I dropped to the ground, at the same instant using my left foot to trip the stretched twine. Gonzales moved his gun toward me. A half second too late. Billie jumped to his right. The shotgun blast deafening. The impact tore through Gonzales’ neck and face. Other shots fired. One ripped into my backpack. Billie’s right arm was a blur. His knife hit the giant in the sternum. I rolled up with my Glock in my hands and tried to aim through the shotgun smoke at Soto. I fired two shots in Soto’s direction. A man wielding a machete charged me. I shot him in the chest, his body falling hard two feet in front of my head. I heard running, shots firing.
When the smoke cleared, Soto was gone.
EIGHTY-TWO
Soto and the rest of the Mexican workers had vanished in the mix of smoke and dirt kicked up from the gunshots. I slowly stood and looked at Joe Billie who was still sprawled on the ground. “You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, but you’ve been hit.”
I felt the warmth of my own blood seeping inside my shirt and flowing through the hair on my chest. A burning pain radiated from my shoulder into my upper chest and right arm. One of Soto’s bullets had gone completely through my shoulder. I moved my hand and arm, and then rotated the injured shoulder. It was painful but functional. I didn’t think the round hit a bone. I was lucky. Not so for Izzy Gonzales.