Page 8 - Hunter - The Vigil

Vince fi shed the walkie-talkie from his pocket. “Anything going on in back?” he asked.
“Negative,” Jack replied at once.
“Can you see an unblocked rear entrance from where you’re at?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Dean replied.
Vince thought over his options. “Move up and cover it,” he said. “Andrea, back him up.”
Waters straightened, peering over the edge of the driver’s seat. “What in the hell is all
that?” he asked.
Vince leaned forward between the seats. More men climbed out of one of the Suburbans; smaller,
leaner men with cases tucked under their arms, hustling quickly through the open door between the
beckoning thugs. Others were opening the back of both Suburbans and pulling out numerous small,
plastic coolers and bags of crushed ice.
Faint yellow light clicked to life beyond the open door and seeped around the edges of the
plywood covering the lower windows. The thugs moved with practiced effi ciency, hustling their
strange cargo inside. Then the passenger doors on the last Suburban popped open again, and out
stepped two men in dark business suits and expensive overcoats. One of the men looked to be the
boss, judging from the way the thugs circled about his heels. The other man was clearly nervous,
glancing worriedly up and down the darkened street. He held a polished metal suitcase in one
gloved hand, clutching it closely against his side as though his life depended on it. Vince
watched the boss take the second man by the arm and lead him through the opened door. Four of
the thugs remained outside as the steel door slammed shut; they lit up cigarettes and watched
for signs of trouble.
Waters appraised the activity. “Looks like a pretty professional crew,” he observed. “And
they’ve done this kind of thing before.”
Vince nodded and fi xed Raimundo with a stare. “You ready to change your story?”
“For the last time, I don’t know anything about this, man! You ever hear of Russians with
connections in Mexico? Where are they getting these people?”
“Maybe they’re getting a cut from coyotes down in Texas and are shipping them up here,” Vince
replied. “I don’t give a shit where they came from; I want to know who’s handling them and where
they’re going from here.”
“You saw the dude with the case,” Waters said. “Looked like some kind of buy to me. Maybe
they’re selling the illegals to somebody else. Some kind of slavery or prostitution ring,
maybe?”
“If it is, it ain’t happening here,” Raimundo insisted. “These people ain’t turning up on the
streets, man. I swear on my mother’s grave.”
Vince shook his head. Things weren’t adding up. If Raimundo was telling the truth, then the
illegals had to be going somewhere. Truckloads of people didn’t just vanish off the face of the
earth.
And then there was the matter of those coolers, and all those bags of ice.
Vince’s eyes suddenly widened. “Oh, shit,” he whispered, realizing what was going on — and then
he heard the screech of tires from further up the street and the roar of a powerful engine.
“What the hell?” Waters said, as a dark red Land Rover sped into view and bore down on the
waiting Suburbans. The four thugs outside the warehouse scattered, shouting and brandishing
pistols, and Vince heard the blast of a shotgun from the Land Rover’s passenger side. One of the
sentries spun and fell, and then the narrow street echoed with the staccato roar of gunfi re.
“Get down!” Gabreski cried as men with pistols and shotguns stumbled from the Land Rover and
blasted away at the thugs. A stray round starred the van’s windshield, and another punched a
hole in its side. Tires screeched, and Vince heard an agonized scream. The rattle of pistol fi re
suddenly ebbed; there was another loud shotgun blast, and then nothing.
Gabreski’s radio chirped. “Vince! What the hell is going on?” Andrea shouted over the
radio.
Vince rose cautiously and peered over the seat. The warehouse’s steel door was wide open, and
people were stumbling out. He could just hear their terrifi ed screams, followed by the fl ash and
pop of gunfi re within.
Waters had his gun in his hand. He looked to Gabreski. “What do we do?” he asked.
The question surprised Vince. “What the fuck do you think we do?” he said. He raised the
walkie-talkie. “Move in!” he called, then turned and yanked the cargo door open.
Vince hit the ground running, pistol held low and ready. Two silhouettes raced past him across
the lot, screaming something in Spanish. More fi gures fl ed like deer down the dimly lit street. The
Suburbans were gone; Gabreski saw one of the thugs spread-eagled on the street, his face covered
in blood. Steam rose in a white plume from the Land Rover’s punctured radiator. The engine was
still idling, but the SUV was empty.