Field of Fire Read online

  She leveled her blue eyes at him. “He is a part of my case.”

  “And I let him escape.”

  She held her stare.

  He revisited, knowing the potential risk. He had enough to feel guilty about to last him the rest of his life. Allowing something to happen to this pretty girl wouldn’t help his sleep patterns.

  She continued to stare.

  He looked at her and said, “Okay, get in the car. We’ll come back afterward for yours.” He waited longer than he had expected or wanted for her to drop off her purse and lock up the new Lumina.

  As she popped into his car, she said, “This is exciting.”

  “What?”

  “Real police work.”

  He was silent at the comment.

  “I mean, I’ve been working on this case, interviewing people and searching records, but not actually going to a bar to look for a dangerous felon.”

  “‘Dangerous felon’?”

  “Yeah, Salez is wanted for a felony. He sold guns. Plus, he escaped. You can charge him with that too. That’s a five-year minimum.”

  “That should be the least of his concerns when I find him.”

  “Oohh. You gonna rough ’im up?” She almost squealed. “I’ve never gotten to see that. Street justice. Must be satisfying.”

  The way she said it, like it was a game, made him realize that while he was in the service and seeing the world she was in some Ivy League school drinking beer at parties. She had no experience.

  He cruised through the quiet town of Belle Glade looking for the Twistee Treat’s signature ice-cream cone roof. She said it was in a plaza across the street. The town didn’t have much happening on a weekday night. The main industries were the state prison and the farms. Duarte guessed that working either job didn’t leave a lot of energy to get out at night.

  Caren said, “How do you know your way around out here?”

  “We cover Belle Glade from our office.”

  “So you’re out here on surveillance and arrests.”

  “Mostly checking gun stores and checking with the Belle Glade PD on things.”

  “Which do you like more, ATF or the army?”

  He shrugged.

  “You don’t care?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m an ATF agent, not a soldier.”

  He almost passed the Twistee Treat because it was closed and dark. But the pointy cone roof drew his eye. He turned into the plaza across the deserted main road and saw eight cars parked at one end of the sprawling empty lot. He turned that way. The Belle Glade Sports Club was in the corner of the plaza. Duarte pulled past it but couldn’t see inside. He checked the cars but nothing looked familiar. Besides, Salez’s Mustang had been blown to bits. To be safe, he parked on the side of the plaza away from any cars. There were two piles of construction materials like boards and bricks. It looked like a renovation rather than an extension to the worn-out shopping center.

  “Why didn’t we park out front?”

  “In case.”

  “In case of what?”

  “In case we need to be parked here.” He figured that might keep her thinking about the answer for a while. He opened the door.

  “Where’s your gun?” asked Caren.

  He pointed to the locked glove compartment.

  “Don’t you wear it?”

  “Not all the time.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t like guns.”

  She gave him a puzzled look.

  “Besides,” he added, “if I had a gun, I might not get the chance to hit someone.”

  She followed him in the bar, this time stayed back a little.

  Duarte entered the deceptively large bar slowly, trying not to look like a cop, checking everyone out.

  Ten steps inside, Caren said, “You look like a cop, checking everyone out.”

  He took the comment, and marched on to the bar and found a stool.

  Caren pulled a stool closer to him and sat down so she was right against his side.

  He looked at her without a word.

  “Just trying to make it look like we’re a couple.”

  He kept staring.

  “Okay, and I’m a little scared.”

  “I don’t see him,” said Duarte as he scanned the room again. There were five Hispanic guys playing pool. Three rednecks throwing darts at the far end of the room and a couple watching a basketball game on a big-screen TV.

  The bartender scurried around to his new customers. “What can I get you?”

  Caren looked up at the bottles on the shelf over the bar. “Mich Ultra.”

  The bartender looked at Duarte.

  “Coke.”

  “Straight or with a mixer?” cracked the bartender.

  “Just a Coke, please.”

  Caren smiled. “Let me guess. You don’t drink on duty.”

  “No, I don’t, but I don’t really drink anytime.”

  “Do you smoke?”

  “Never.”

  “What kind of ATF agent are you if you don’t drink, don’t smoke and don’t like guns?”

  He shrugged.

  “You’re a tough one to figure out.”

  He had tuned her out when he noticed one man shooting pool, about thirty, who looked familiar. Duarte might have seen the man while watching the camp two days ago. Hispanic, he had a flat, broken nose. The man spoke loudly like he was the leader of the group. Duarte focused on the man and his friends, trying to pick up any clues as to whether they’d be willing to talk to him, or if they might even cause him some trouble. The flat-nosed guy clearly called the most attention to himself. A large man, with a thick, dark mustache, also seemed to garner respect.

  Caren continued to jabber, but he didn’t bother to try and enter the conversation until she said, “What? What are you looking at?”

  “I’m gonna talk to those guys around the pool table. You wanna take the table next to them and we’ll see what we can find out?”

  Caren didn’t answer, but Duarte started to move anyway.

  They grabbed their drinks as the bartender set them down.

  “That’ll be six seventy-five.”

  Duarte stared at him then dug in his pocket. He flipped through the ten on the outside of his money clip and pulled a five and two ones and left them on the bar.

  He grabbed two pool cues and joined her at the empty table next to the group of loud men.

  It took about twenty seconds for one of the men to look at Caren and wink, then smile, revealing a rough set of teeth with gaps and cracks like an old moss-covered brick wall.

  Another man, the guy with the flat nose, said, “You wanna play with us, baby?” Then he looked at Duarte for a reaction.

  Caren shook her head.

  Duarte heard the man make a comment in Spanish to his friends and they all laughed.

  Duarte focused on racking the balls, but his eyes darted up to the men every few seconds.

  Caren broke, sending one ball into a corner pocket. She tried to change positions to shoot from another angle, but a chubby man with long hair refused to move.

  Caren said, “Excuse me.” And got no reaction. She looked at Duarte.

  He shrugged.

  Instead of moving, Caren bumped the man so he had to move. This brought a roar of laughter from the group.

  The fat guy said, “Your woman got to move men herself?”

  Duarte ignored the angry fat man.

  “You hear me? What you got to say?”

  Duarte looked at the man with a flat stare. “She’s not my woman.”

  That brought laughter too. The fat man said, “She a guy dressed up? He look pretty good if he is.”

  Duarte shrugged and leaned down to make a shot.

  Caren came closer. “You gonna let him talk like that?”

  “Apparently.”

  She stared at him.

  Duarte said, “I’m curious. There’s five of them and one of me. What would you suggest?”

  “I don’t
know. Something.”

  “A gesture. Maybe a punch before I’m assailed?”

  “Then let’s leave.”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “You never give up real estate once it’s taken.”

  “Huh?”

  “Army saying. Basically, don’t retreat.”

  “Whatever. I’m going to visit the ladies’ room.”

  Duarte saw all five of the men watch Caren on her march to the restrooms. It appeared to Duarte like she enjoyed the attention and was playing it up. It didn’t matter.

  The younger, fit man, with the flat nose, called across to Duarte. “Hey, man. Why don’t you leave her here with us? We’ll get her home safe.” They all chuckled.

  “Her choice, not mine.”

  They stared at him as the tone changed. Duarte felt the friendly chatter just die away. The same man said, “What’re you doin’ in here, man?”

  “Looking for a friend of mine.”

  “You got no friends here, man.”

  Duarte scanned the five faces that now lined up in front of him.

  “Guess I’ll look somewhere else.”

  “You act like you should check La Canberra.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Bar, over near Clewiston.”

  Duarte waited, then asked, “Why?”

  “It’s a bar for faggots. You’d fit in.” They burst into laughter again.

  Duarte nodded. He didn’t care about gay or straight. He was a graduate of “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” and it seemed to work. These guys had to work on better insults.

  The man with the flat nose said, “Whatever you need to do, you need to leave here to do it.”

  Duarte lined up another shot and wondered what was keeping Caren.

  Two of the men stepped forward.

  Duarte turned, the pool cue loose in his right hand. He fought to suppress a smile and even tried to look intimidated.

  Then the bartender barked, “That’s it. You guys have caused enough shit here tonight.”

  The five men all turned and looked like kids that a parent just yelled at.

  “Hit the road before I call the cops.”

  Two of them headed toward the door, the others hesitated as they focused on Duarte.

  The bartender yelled: “Now.”

  That got them all moving. The way they filed out the door, it looked like they had been through the drill before.

  The bartender said, “I’m sorry, mister. Them spics is always causing problems.”

  Duarte looked up and for the first time tonight felt a stab of insult. He rarely reacted to slurs, but for some reason this one bothered him.

  “I’m Latin too.”

  The bartender looked shocked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean nothin’. I mean, you look white, is all.”

  Caren came out of the bathroom and walked across the empty bar.

  “Wow, where’d everyone go?”

  “I scared them off.”

  Caren just snickered.

  They shot a few more balls and finished their drinks, then headed toward the front door. Duarte looked over his shoulder at the bartender, but the old redneck couldn’t meet his stare.

  Caren said, “That was a dead end.”

  Duarte kept quiet as they rounded the corner to the car and saw the five men standing there, one of them with a two-by-four about five feet long. “Maybe not,” Duarte said to Caren as he calmly kept on track for the car. Caren hung back as he threaded between the young guy with the flat nose who had insulted him and the older fat guy. He reached in his pocket for the keys. He had parked on the side of the building so maybe he could avoid a confrontation like this. He thought they wouldn’t notice a non-local car over here. But now that he had tried to avoid the confrontation, he intended to do whatever was necessary to protect Caren and himself. Besides, he trained most of his life for combat and had few opportunities to use it anymore.

  Flat nose said, “Where you think you’re goin’?”

  “Home.”

  “What makes you think you’ll get past us?”

  Now Duarte smiled a little. “Just a hunch.”

  Flat nose, who was now holding the two-by-four, leaned on the long plank, resting it on the ground and letting it come up to his eyebrows.

  “I think you can leave, but the girl has to stay.”

  Duarte thought about trying to jump in the car and grab his pistol. But then he figured that would be overkill. These morons had not sized up the enemy well. If he played his cards right and left one or two conscious, he could probably get some info out of them. His concern was Caren’s reaction to his methods.

  Duarte said, “So I can leave?”

  Caren called from the edge of the plaza, “Alex, you’re not serious.”

  “We’ll see.” He looked at the guy with the board. “If you answer a question or two, we might all be better off.”

  “What question?”

  “Do you know Berto Salez?”

  They all looked at each other.

  “Why?”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “Yeah, I know him.”

  “Where is he?”

  The guy smiled. “That’s enough questions. Now you need to leave. You can pick up your girlfriend at the Motel 6 in the morning.”

  Duarte stayed even-toned, and said, “Nah, she better come with me.” He looked up at Caren. “Let’s go.”

  Caren hesitated.

  Flat nose said, “She ain’t leavin’, and now neither are you.” He stood with the board in front of him.

  Duarte decided he had given it his best shot to leave without trouble. Now he decided he had to act, and he didn’t telegraph a move. He lifted his left leg and delivered a hard side kick to the two-by-four. The force of the kick sent the upper part of the board into the man’s face, splattering blood on his partner next to him. He stumbled back, his already-flat nose invisible under all the blood. Then the guy dropped to the ground.

  Duarte took advantage of the momentary shock and stepped toward the next-closest man: the fat guy. He faked a low round kick to the man’s knee. When the fat man lowered his hands to block it, he recocked his leg and smacked him in the head with another round kick. The fat man bounced off Duarte’s Taurus and slid to the ground.

  That left three. Duarte had noticed that the next loudest of the group, a thin man about fifty-five, had been tentative and hung back near Caren, away from any harm. He now blocked the man out of his head as he concentrated on the two men advancing on him from the rear of his car. He sidestepped the first man and grabbed him by the shirt. As the man spun back, Duarte launched a devastating elbow square into his face. This took the fight out of him but Duarte held on and used him as shield against the other man. Once he realized he was holding up an unconscious attacker, Duarte dropped him like a bag of coal. He faced the only man who wanted in the fight. With his partner out cold at Duarte’s feet, the man hesitated, but Duarte had given all the slack he was going to give. He stepped over the man on the ground, threw a simple punch into the man’s chest and, as he attempted to block it, Duarte hooked his left hand and caught the man directly on the chin. Now three men were down and motionless, and the flat-nosed guy with the two-by-four was whimpering in a pool of his own blood. Duarte looked to where the last man had been standing and didn’t see him. Instead, he heard him.

  “Hey, pendejo,” came the man’s voice.

  Duarte looked toward it and saw the older man with a knife up near Caren Larson’s face. He had not intended to put her in any danger. Now his fun had turned serious.

  “Don’t make me cut her.”

  Duarte said, “Okay, I agree, don’t cut her.”

  This took the man by surprise.

  Caren, to her credit, didn’t look panicked, even though Duarte would bet this was the first time she had ever had a knife to her throat.

  Duarte said, “Look, what do you want? The fight’s over. Get lost.”

 
The man started to ease away from Caren immediately. As he loosened his grip and she stepped away, Caren spun to face the man and threw a hard, low kick directly into his groin. He dropped the knife and vomited even as he hit the hard cement.

  Caren let out a half smile, didn’t say anything, then rushed to Duarte, who simply guided her toward the car. He turned to find the flat-nosed guy who had started all the shit. He squatted over him and pried his hands away from his shattered nose.

  Duarte said, “Can you hear me?” He waited then shouted, “Hey, can you hear me?”

  The man nodded. “Yeah, yeah, you broke my nose.”

  Duarte took the man’s two fingers of his right hand and pulled them apart into a sickening angle. The man screamed again.

  “Now I broke your fingers too.” He got the man to quiet down and look at him. “You understand that I don’t care, right?”

  The man just kept crying.

  “It’s not any fun to be bullied, is it?”

  The man shook his head furiously.

  “You won’t do it again, will you?”

  “No, nooo,” he cried, turning the last no into several syllables in a lilting, musical style.

  “Now I need some answers.”

  The man stopped screaming and looked at Duarte. “To what?”

  “Berto Salez. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know, man.”

  Duarte took the man’s right ring finger in both hands and snapped it like a chicken bone.

  The response was surprisingly subdued but obvious as he flinched, then tightened his entire body, waiting for the pain.

  “What do you know?”

  The man gasped and said, “He’s scared. He told me he was in deep shit.”

  “What kind of shit? With the law?”

  “No. Something else.” He took in some air and let out a cry. “I don’t know. I swear to fucking God, I don’t know.”

  “How can I be certain?” He picked up the man’s left hand.

  “No, please, don’t.”

  Duarte waited. In fact, he had no intention of hurting the man further. He didn’t enjoy torture, only combat. He just needed to find out the information. If it taught the man a lesson on bullying people, that was just a bonus.