Color of Blood(99)

The sound of the running engines camouflaged his steps. The two drivers were in single file, offset by ten yards. The leader had picked up the backpack and was rifling through its contents; the driver farther back, closest to Dennis, simply waited behind him. Both men wore desert khakis, red logo-less baseball caps turned backward, and swept-back sunglasses, just like the men in the Suburbans the day before. Sticking downward in long holsters on both vehicles were sighted rifles.

Dennis crept up quickly directly behind the closest driver and hit him on the side of his head with the tire iron. He used as much force as he could leverage and was lucky to have a running start. The man fell onto the red soil as if someone had removed the batteries from a toy, his hat rolling away and his sunglasses smashing from the impact of his face with the ground.

Dennis looked up, relieved to see the lead driver dutifully rifling through the backpack. The noise of the two idling ATVs whined while Dennis handcuffed the unconscious agent’s hands behind his back. He reached down, grabbed the rifle out of its holster, and flung it backward into the desert.

Dennis picked up a small walkie-talkie that had fallen out of the downed driver’s top pocket and put it in his pocket. He turned off the ATV and took the keys.

The lead driver had tossed the backpack items onto the ground, except for the camera, which he tried to turn on to review pictures. Dennis tiptoed at a run and was ten feet away when the lead agent turned and raised the camera over his head in a look-what-I-found gesture.

Startled to see Dennis behind him, he fell sideways onto the ground on the other side of the four-wheeler. Dennis was too far away to strike, so he dropped the tire iron and took his pistol out.

The agent stood quickly and reached for the rifle while he stared Dennis down. Dennis fired once, creating a puff of soil next to the agent’s right foot. The plastic pistol’s discharge sounded puny and inconsequential. The agent let the rifle fall back into its holster.

Even Dennis had to admit the scene was surreal: three men and two ATVs were clustered awkwardly in the midst of a moonscape. Something warned Dennis that they should not be here; none of them. This was not a place for high-powered rifles, worn-out investigators, slick state-of-the-art glossy red All-Terrain Vehicles, their loud internal combustion engines rudely interrupting the desert silence.

Dennis flicked the pistol barrel to his right, gesturing for the agent to step away from the ATV. The man took a single step sideways; Dennis flicked the pistol again, this time more fiercely. The man took three steps farther away.

Dennis glanced to his left to see if Jimmy was returning. Shit, it suddenly occurred to him, what if Jimmy had no intention of coming back? I wouldn’t blame him for just driving to Darwin and selling the goddamn car, he thought. Why should he give a shit that stupid white men are driving around the outback trying to kill other stupid white men?

Dennis inched over to the far side of the agent’s ATV, turned off the engine, removed the key, and put it in his pocket.

“Give me the radio,” he said.

The man pulled it out of his top pocket and tossed it to Dennis, who caught it with his left and quickly jammed it into his pocket.

Dennis moved the pistol to his left hand and yanked the rifle out of its holster. He turned it upside down and jammed the barrel several inches into the soft red soil. The rifle leaned against the body of the ATV with the shoulder stock facing upward.

The agent made a small step forward, and Dennis raised the pistol. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “I’m really, really pissed off right now.”

Using his right knee, Dennis pressed the upended rifle against the ATV, reached down, and pulled back the bolt. A live round ejected to the ground. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a folding knife that he thumbed open until it locked. In one quick motion he stabbed the knife down into the open end of the barrel that was exposed by the open bolt. The knife jammed into the barrel, and Dennis raised his right hand and pounded the butt of the knife with his open palm as hard as he could.

“Hey,” the agent yelled as he grasped what was happening.

With the blade jammed tightly into the open barrel, Dennis grabbed the knife handle and ripped it violently at a ninety-degree angle. The blade point snapped off inside the barrel.

“Fuck you,” the agent said.

Dennis kicked the disabled rifle onto the ground.

A quick glance showed the other agent was still lying face down with his hands handcuffed behind his back.

“Take off your boots,” Dennis said.

“What?” the agent said.

“Take off your goddamn boots,” Dennis said. “Sit down and take them off.”

The man sat down and proceeded to untie the laces of his combat boots. He sat back on his haunches, his boots in front of him, white cotton socks stained red underneath from the soil.

“Take off your socks,” Dennis said, brushing a fly away from his face.

The agent sighed and pulled off the socks, pushing them down into each boot.

“Stand up and start walking,” Dennis said.

“You’re kidding,” the man said.

“Not kidding. Get going.” Dennis stood on one side of the ATV while the agent stood up on the other side of the vehicle.

“I can’t walk in my bare feet,” the man said. “It’s too hot. I’ll burn my soles. I can barely stand right now.”

“My heart bleeds for you,” Dennis said. “You’re lucky the worst thing that’s going to happen is sore feet. I should shoot you and your pal here and leave you out here to rot.”