Took me just fifteen minutes to make the ridgeline. Closer, but steeper than I’d guessed. The soft glow still came from beyond it. When I reached the top I took a knee, breathing deep and steady. Looked out at the date palms — acres of them — tall and droop-topped and elegant in the moonlight. Spacious rows for easy harvest. Medjools. I knew them from Iraq.
In the middle of the palms was an agricultural compound that looked more Mexican or Middle Eastern than Southern Californian. Low-slung, boxy buildings in a loose circle around a packed-dirt campus. Built decades ago for the heat. The main house was a white two-story stack of rectangles, large and sprawling and flat-roofed. It looked added-onto over time. There was a packing house and a large corrugated metal hangar from which floodlights blanched the grounds in bright, buggy light. And a stately red barn with white trim, American-style. Three long bunkhouses stood on one side of the barn, facing one another in a horseshoe. On the other side stretched a row of eight squat cottages — white plaster, flat roofs, and hard edges. Various metal sheds for equipment and tools. A helipad.
Through the night-vision glasses I saw that not one but three silver SNR Security vehicles were parked in front of the main house, along with two late-model pickup trucks and two GM sedans. Parked within the bunkhouse commons were more passenger cars and vans and trucks. Eight in all. And three more outside the imposing metal hangar, the vehicles dusty in the downlights.
I heard the bees again, buzzing in the west and above me. Turned and lifted my binoculars skyward but saw nothing. Drones are hard to see at night. The breeze kicked up and covered the sound.
Tall ladders leaned against the walls almost everywhere I looked. The grounds were littered with wicker baskets, wound ropes, wooden boxes and bins. I glassed the palms and saw that some of the fruit was still wrapped in bags against rain, sun, birds, and bugs until harvest. Many of the dates had already been picked.
Suddenly, the roll-up door of the big metal hangar noisily clattered up and three all-terrain vehicles squeezed under it into the bright barnyard. Then three more. The dust swirled and the roll-up clanged to a stop and the ATVs circled and whined. The drivers wore silver helmets. They sped between the rows of the date palms, spread six abreast, as if practiced. When they hit the desert their headlights bounced more wildly and their engines groaned louder as they headed straight at me.
No way to outrun them, but I tried anyway. I was less than halfway back to my truck when the ATVs skidded into position around me. Headlights bore into my eyes, exhaust puffing into the night. Four in front of me and two behind.
The closest driver raised his hand and six engines went silent. Silver helmet and goggles. An M4 slung over his shoulder. His buddies exactly the same, except they had their guns pointed at me.
He lifted his visor. “Drop the pack.”
I did.
“Who are you?”
“Roland.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Bird-watching.”
“How goes it?”
“The sun went down and I got lost.”
“So you climbed our fence.”
“Panic does funny things.”
“Are you armed?”
“Yes.”
“Toss it. Carefully.”
I brought the gun from my backside, set it down on the pack.
“Are you the law?”
“I pay my tickets.”
“If you can be honest with me, I might be able to help you. What kind of birds are you looking for out here?”
“Just one. Daley Rideout. I’ll pay good money if there’s been a sighting.”
An indecipherable moment. Silence and a gust of breeze. The sound of the drone close overhead. My interviewer slowly unslung the rifle off his shoulder and pointed it at me. Remained seated. Raised a hand, head-high. The others dismounted their ATVs and drove their weapons into scabbards affixed to the roll bars. All of them looking at me. Young faces. Confident and knowing. Eagerness in their eyes behind the goggles.
“Roland,” he said. “Get ready to suffer.”
The five swarmed. I caught the first one with a left uppercut to the stomach, and down he went. Drilled another with a right cross to his solar plexus, and he went down, too. Three to go.
I swiveled left, fists up and chin tucked, but two men climbed my blind side and clamped my arms as the one in front pummeled away. The leader flew in on the headlight beams, jamming me high on the forehead with his rifle butt. It was the weight from behind that brought me down. Into boots and grunts and more boots and the metal stench of blood. I threw them off and struggled up as a smaller man swirled in, punching and kicking, a martial blur against which I launched a straight left jab that caught the bottom of his helmet instead of the throat I was hoping for. Felt my hand go wrong. You cannot win a fight against six determined men wearing helmets. Blood in my eyes and the crack of blows I couldn’t see coming. Rising whoops and snarls. Wondering if they’d stomp me out. Someone tackled me at the knees and I was down, really taking it now, trying to lift my face from the ground, sucking the sand in with my breath as the kicks landed. Saw the combat boots right in front of me. They did a little hop, then one of them came at me like a freight train from a tunnel. Same boots as ours in Fallujah. Funny the things you notice before the world gives you up.
Stars above, jumping in my eyes. Slow bump of my shoulders on sand. Arms and back and butt dragging, boots off the ground and legs taut. Grumble of engines pulling me.
Can’t be real. Close your eyes and it will go away.
Real. Very real. Bright lights. Motor hum and the slide of metal. The thick railings. Wall or gate. Yes. I believe I saw a gate earlier. Feel my back on harder ground, then the painful bounce of my head over what I guess is the gate track. Feet plop to the ground, legs contract. Above me sway the branches of a greasewood plant. I see the flank of a truck. My truck. My Ford. Roland Ford.
He kneels over me. A buddy or a ref or a corpsman or a priest. Helmet and goggles still on. Eyes blue and calm, floodlights streaming from behind him.
“Answer a few questions and you’ll be free to hop on down the road. How does that sound?”
Move my head.
“What business do you have with Daley Rideout?”
A croak: “To find.”
“Your basic, hardworking PI.” He holds my wallet up for me to see, drops it on my chest. He has a snarling lion tattooed on his palm. “Who hired you to find the girl?”
I shake my head no. Crunch of ground. “No.”
“Come on, PI. You’ve already half died in the line of duty. The crazy sister? Just nod that hard head of yours if I’m right.”
I nod. Half dead is still half alive. And willing to stay that way.
He stares down at me. Twenty-something. Thirty. Pale, thick pink lips, the top one upturned by the goggles. Good teeth. White shirt with blood. Mine.
“Your partner killed the crazed Negro gentleman in Imperial Beach,” he says.
I vaguely remember that. Back when I was someone else.
“I followed the story,” he says. “And all the others like it. Your partner did the right thing and you threw him under the bus. One of your own. Making you just one more shit-lib.”
Slaps me across the face, hard. Feels like a mallet. The wallet slides off my chest.
“But back to Penelope. She’s reported Daley missing, I assume? Filed all the reports?”
Another sandy, crunching nod. I want to wipe the taut dried blood off my face, but it’s too far to reach. Can feel the burn of an eyebrow gash. A split lip. An open forehead where the gun butt hit. Sand in all of it. Going to be a tough cleanup. Don’t want to be there for that one.
“When I talk to my superiors, can I say that we’ll never see you here again, Mr. Ford?”