Forgive Me(71)

It made sense. There had to be an air supply, otherwise Tasha would have suffocated. Bryce figured the light source was blocked—it was so damn dark down there. “Which way is that vent? Do you know?”

“I don’t know,” Nadine said. Her tears were flowing freely. “Ricardo had the only flashlight. I shouldn’t have gotten in your way. I just panicked. I’m sorry. I screwed everything up.”

“Is Casper upstairs or is he down in the hole?”

“Casper couldn’t fit through the vent. He was going to try and hide. We had just woken up Buggy when you came downstairs. Did anyone get shot because of me?” Nadine’s body slumped forward from an invisible weight resting on her shoulders.

“It’s okay. Honest,” Bryce said, giving her a little hug of encouragement. With her hands cuffed, she couldn’t hug back.

“Frank, radio our command. Tell them to watch the alley.” Bryce said this as he handed Frank his M-4 and Little Pig.

“Where you going?” Frank asked.

“Buggy is our guy. I’m going to get him.” Bryce had a flashlight and his Glock. He figured that would be enough. Just to be safe, he tossed a flashbang into the hole. A loud explosion erupted from down below, somewhat muted on account of the thickness of the concrete. Buggy would have endured the full effect, and the blinding flash may have temporarily disabled him.

Bryce climbed down into the hole. He breathed in steamy, hot, poorly-ventilated, stale air that his lungs couldn’t clean.

Floor to ceiling the space was a tight squeeze. If he arched his back even slightly, he’d scrape it against the rough-hewn cement above. He crawled forward on his hands and knees, shimmying as though he were slipping below razor wire in some Army obstacle course. His dirt-filled mouth acted like a gritty sponge, sucking up all the moisture. The flashbang had kicked up loose soil and contributed, not insignifacntly, to the dirty, smoky mayhem. Removing his Glock from its holster, Bryce’s throat tightened. If he started to cough, he wasn’t sure he could stop. The impenetrable darkness ignited a mild case of claustrophobia. It wasn’t a paralyzing fear, but the unpleasantness stayed with him like a persistent ache.

Bryce’s biggest concern was that Buggy would find the vent, get out, and get himself a hostage. Spinning on his belly, Bryce shone his flashlight in a sweeping circle. No sign of Buggy, but Bryce saw some structural support columns made of cinderblock Buggy could be hiding behind. Bryce inched forward. Clouds of dust billowed off the dirt floor, launching motes that danced lazily in his flashlight’s jouncing beam. Bryce’s throat tightened still more. Dirt and dust continued to seep into his lungs anyway. He held his ground and listened. Was it a breath? It sounded close by. Bryce whirled toward the noise, his flashlight beam trailing.

Nothing.

“Buggy, let’s not do this.” Bryce listened, but the only sound was his heartbeat thundering in his chest.

A bright flash erupted and lit the crawlspace like a bolt of lightning. A simultaneous bang preceded the familiar smell of gunpowder. A bullet whizzed near Bryce’s shoulder and sank into the dark.

Bryce understood his flashlight was the problem. He cut the beam and rolled. Jagged stones dug into his skin. It was worth the pain to distance himself from the hatch opening and the secondary light source. Three more shots rang out. The noise was going to be harder on Buggy than on Bryce, who wore ear protection.

From above Frank called, “Bryce, are you okay?”

Bryce figured Frank didn’t need to go down there and get shot. He chanced giving away his position to respond. “Stay back. I got this,” he yelled as he rolled some more.

Another shot rang out. Had Bryce not been moving, the fourth bullet Buggy fired might have found its target. Instead, the projectile sank into the shadows like the others. But Bryce now had a general idea where to find Buggy, and he crawled in that direction.

In the darkness, Bryce heard movement, sounds of scampering as Buggy took up a new position. Bryce thought he might get lucky, but Buggy was smart enough to move away from the light seeping down from the open hatch. Bryce had to decide if he wanted to go after Buggy or make his way out and wait for reinforcements. Exiting would make him an easy target.

By going down there, Bryce essentially had committed, so he decided to go get his man. He slid forward on his belly. His tactical gear pressed unpleasantly against his chest. Jagged rocks dug into his knees and elbows. He’d been down there all of four minutes and all he wanted to do was get out.

“You’re going to have do things you don’t want to do to get your man,” Bryce’s favorite instructor at the training center had once told him. “Tracking isn’t just following footprints. Any clown can do that. What makes a marshal exceptional is an innate ability to read each clue, to understand the nuances, the essence of the movement, so picture in your mind these movements and imagine them as if they were your own.”

No surprise his instructor’s words came back to him at that particular moment. Without his flashlight, without light from the hatch, Bryce’s only option was to imagine Buggy’s movements. What would he do in a similar situation? How would he think?

Fear.

It was the first word that came to Bryce’s mind. Buggy would be utterly terrified. He wasn’t a killer. He was a dealer. So why did he shoot? Fear. A cornered animal was a most dangerous one.

He’ll move toward the wall, Bryce thought. Search for that vent.