I eased the van off the Florida Turnpike and onto the Overseas Highway. As we merged into traffic, I told my lovely and talented wife “We’re going to stop for gas.”

No, she said. “Let’s go straight home.”

“Okay, ‘straight home’ means fill it up after we get home and download the kids and the bags. I’m tired, we’ll stop now. It’ll make life easier. For me. Which is what matters.”

In my peripheral vision, I saw her roll her eyes. “Fine, do it your way. It’s always gotta be your way.”

“Good.”

“Just know, this means you’re cut off.”

“Cut off from what?”

“Sex.”

I waited a beat, then, “Well, sex with you, anyway.” I got the outraged squeak I was shooting for, then she reached over and punched me in the arm. Dang. She put some English on that one. Little Maeve unplugged from watching the flatscreen at the fore of the custom van’s pop-top. “Daddy, I have to go to the bathroom.”

“I know, baby. Mommy just told me to pull over one last time before we get home. I’m pulling over right up here.”

“Thanks, Mommy!”

“See that, hon? I made you a freakin’ hero. That’s me; I’m a giver.”

Eye roll.

I pulled the van up to one of the several gas stations that line the southbound side of the Overseas Highway. Last chances to fill up before one hits The Stretch, the thin 18-mile ribbon of road that leads to the Florida Keys. I turned off the customized Dodge van, jumped out of the vehicle, and crossed the front to the passenger side, opening the big side passenger doors. “All right, everybody out of the Mystery Machine!”

Number one son was first out, giving me a high five as he skipped toward the little quickie mart affixed to the gas station. Next out was the oldest girl, at ten years old already too cool to watch the flat screen with the rest of the kids, ear buds running to her iPhone. She gave me a low five and turned to wait to assist her younger brother, a five-year-old bundle of energy who launched himself from the doors into my arms; I swung him around and over my head before I plunked him on the ground.

“Stay with your big sister. Hold her hand and be good for her, or I’ll bring the pain. You copy, Crazy?’

“Roger that, Daddy!” He roared. He grabbed his big sister’s hand and started dragging her into the store.

I whirled and dropped to a knee, holding my hand out and bowing my head, as any good coachman should for a princess. “The luxury bathrooms await, m’lady.” The quiet, cuter-than-a-button seven-year-old took my hand and stepped regally off of the van’s running board. Once she was on the pavement, I stood, bowed again, then handed her off to her mother, who had gotten out the front passenger door while all the ankle-biters were de-boarding.

Kathy held on to the princess’ hand and slung her purse over her shoulder. “You’ve got the baby?” she asked.

“We got a baby?”

That earned me another slug on my arm. Right in the same place. Dang. She walked into the store with the princess. I swung the doors shut, walked around to driver’s side, and started gassing up the vehicle. While I waited on the tank to fill, I made goofy faces at the nine-month-old in the baby seat, strategically placed in the van for just such occasions. Well, and so her mother could see her on the road just by looking over her left shoulder. My faces had the baby squealing and kicking, laughing (and drooling a little too; definitely my kid) with delight. Like everyone, she thought I was hilarious. The gas pump thunked full just as I could hear the tribe beginning to exit the store. I hung up at the pump, made one last googly face at the baby, getting a peal of laughter and a kick out of her for my efforts, and walked back to the passenger side of the van. We were the only customers at the station. The Hardees to our north looked almost empty, too. The vacant lot south of the station held nothing but crumbled pavement, scrub weeds, and an old white van sitting low on a busted suspension. The front window of the van was too tinted to see through, but it looked abandoned. It wasn’t a primo piece like The Mystery Machine. It was a white on primer Ford panel van. It looked like a creeper van, a rape-o-mobile. It was a good thirty to thirty-five meters away. I opened the side doors yelling “Regulators, mount up!” Then I gave the wife a quick smooch on the cheek.

“Get ‘em strapped in, baby, I’ll only be a minute.”

I walked into the store, waved at the Indian guy behind the counter, and hit the head. A quick leak, zip up, and wash up, I headed back out. I looked over at the counter guy and noted his name tag. “Have a great one, Gupta my man!”

“Yes, sir. And to you also.”

I walked outside and froze.

By the front passenger door stood Kathy, my beautiful wife, with a big mean-looking guy holding her by the scruff of the neck. My step hitched as the sight registered, then I continued in a doddering shuffle step toward the big bay doors of the van, taking in the tableau. The guy with his paw on my wife held her with his left hand, in his right he held a Glock 21, pointed at my wife’s head. He was hugely muscled. If he didn’t take steroids I didn’t breathe air. He had the beginnings of dreadlocks, what the Jamaicans call “nubbies,” and was wearing a tight-fitting dark t-shirt over jeans. To the right of him and my wife, there stood another black guy, this guy was big, too, but carrying a lot of fat. He had an under bite, and held a chrome-plated autoloader, looked like a Taurus, down close to his leg. Kathy’s eyes were big and her lips were pressed white. Behind them, the driver’s door of the creeper van was open, a slim, young Hispanic-looking guy in a dark purple button-down shirt stood.

Fatty said, “Give us your damn keys! Now!” while the Angry Man just stood there and glowered. Waves of pure menace poured off the guy.

“Okay,” I said, hand fumbling for my keys in my front right pocket, “just don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt my wife.”

“I said ‘keys,’ now!” barked Fatty.

“Yeah—yes.” My key ring caught on the seam of my pocket as I pulled them out. Almost of their own volition, they flew out of my hands, falling to the ground between me and the others. I looked down at the keys, then drew and put two rounds in Angry Man’s snotbox. I tracked over Kathy’s head—don’t flag the wife—and put two into Fatty’s face, about an inch-and-a-half over his under bite, paused and put one in his heart. I grabbed Kathy and pulled her to me and low. “Down, baby. Down.”

The Hispanic guy turned and started to run away across the vacant lot. I broke my convulsive grip on the pistol, and reaching my right hand under my left pulled open the bay door of the van. “Dyna! Get him!” Seventy-five pounds of landshark German Shepherd exploded out the vehicle and blurred toward the runaway. The side bay door of the creeper van swung out. I saw what looked like pink Chuck Taylor’s step onto the pavement. Then I saw a hand start to clear the door. In it was what looked like a small machine pistol. I couldn’t really tell what it was in the moment and at the distance, looked like either a mini-uzi or one of those crappy Czech Skorpions. I put two into the door, but I could tell they didn’t punch through. A big cargo door like that is just stamped metal, and definitely shouldn’t be considered cover against a 124-grain Winchester 9mm bullet. When the rounds hit the door, though, they made almost the same distinct ping as when I hit steel plate at the range. I tracked down and sent four rounds into the pink tennis shoes, hearing a very feminine shriek for my efforts. A black-haired girl fell away from the door and onto the pavement. She still had the machine pistol in her hand, so I put two rounds into her upper body, which was at an oblique angle to me. As the rounds hit her she shuddered and let go of the weapon, her hand falling a few inches away from her. Thirteen rounds out. I swapped magazines as I looked back over at Dyna, who was tearing up the screaming Hispanic guy.

“Dyna! Cover and guard!” The shepherd immediately stepped away from the now crying and moaning guy. She stood a few feet away from him, staring at him. She had blood dripping from her muzzle, and body language was total “make my day.” Not that seventy-five pounds of German Shepherd Dog isn’t scary enough, Dyna was a particularly terrifying specimen of the breed. She had graduated her SOF Military Working Dog program young, and she’d had such a high operational tempo that her teeth had just about worn out. So the military veterinarians replaced them. They inserted blade implants in her upper and lower jaws and built a new set of teeth around the implants. Titanium teeth. Shiny titanium teeth.

I stepped around Kathy, keeping my weapon oriented on the van. I moved toward it at an angle, trying to keep myself on azimuth with the front passenger corner of the vehicle, giving anyone inside a difficult shot from either the windshield or the passenger side front window. As I got closer to the van, I started to pie around the open bay door. My brain registered what my nose was telling me, smelling urine and feces and vomit to a retch-worthy degree. I got near enough to the black-haired girl on the ground to kick away her weapon. It was a Skorpion. She lay on her side, limp and bleeding.

Now, dilemma. I couldn’t keep my eyes on her and clear the van. I couldn’t stop to check her for more weapons without making myself vulnerable to anybody in the van. Damn. Wearing tight jeans and a white and pink t-shirt, now with blood soaking it, she didn’t look like she was packing any other weapons. Right. You’re going to feel pretty stupid if she shoots you in the back, dummy. I ignored the girl and continued to pie around the open forward half of the swinging cargo doors. Once I had gone all the way to the rear hinges of the rear half of the door, I moved to the side of the van. The driver and front passenger compartments were empty. Then I grabbed the rear door handle, pulled the door open wide, and then began to pie back around the other direction. Damn damn damn. This sucks. I moved slow, and began to feel my heart pounding. My back itched, waiting for the Machine Pistol Princess to stop playing possum, pull a holdout gun, and shoot me in the back. Easy, bro. In and out. Keep breathing two, three, four out two three four. The bench seat behind the driver’s seat was clear. Easy. Easy. The second bench seat was occupied. An olive-skinned man was slumped on the far side of the seat, up against the van wall. This guy had to be the source of the stink. He was breathing heavily, covered in sweat, and the top of his shirt that I could see was drenched and flecked with puke. There was no one else in the van. There looked to be some type of metal bulkhead behind his bench seat.

“Hands. Let me see your hands.” He rolled his eyes toward me and just continued his heavy, croaking pant. “Let me see your hands or I will shoot you right in the head right the now.”

His shaking hands came up slowly, onto the seat back in front of him.

“Okay, good. Good job. Now, keep your hands on that seat, and just sort of slide on out. Let’s get you out of the van.”

“I … I cannot.”

“Look, knucklehead, my life gets a whole lot easier if I just shoot you in the head. So you can either slide out of the van or I shoot you dead right now.”

He gasped and began to slowly move forward. When he was three-fourths of the way to my side of the van, I reached forward and jerked him out, dumping him onto the pavement. Then, still facing the van, I walked backward dragging him until we were about ten feet out, past his girlfriend bleeding on the ground. I couldn’t tell whether she was still breathing. I could see Dyna, still giving the hairy eye-ball to the Hispanic-looking guy on the ground, who was now in the fetal position, making a weird little keening sound. I scanned left, scanned right, and then straightened up out of the shooter’s crouch that it felt like I’d been in for three hours. Hwwwh. Deep breath. I turned my head enough to be able to take in the Mystery Machine. Kathy was still on her hands and knees where I pushed her down. She was staring at me. The two dead guys were motionless. Probably because they were dead. Okay. To keep all the living creepsters in view, I had to do an uncomfortable backwalk shuffle step. I got back as quickly as I could and pulled my wife to her feet.

“Kathy? Kat? You okay?”

“Oh my God.” She sagged into me and shuddered. I put my arm around her and she buried her face in my neck. “Oh, my God.”

“Honey, you’ve got to go.”

“What? What?” She looked up at me, tears leaking freely out her eyes, snot running down her nose. Dang, she’s a cutie even now. “What?”

“You’ve got to get out of here. Right now. Take the Machine and drive the kids home. Take the kids home, Kat.”

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” She was shaking her head like she was trying to burrow into my chest. I tightened my right arm around her, pistol in my left. Good luck shooting anybody now, dummy. I pulled her away from me just a little and stepped back, just a little.

“Honey, you’ve got to. This is going to be a circus show. The kids can’t be here, they need to get home. You need to get the children home.” As hoped, referencing the kids bucked her up. She began nodding. “I have no idea how long this will take, baby. You got to get the kids home. Get them home and safe.” She’d begun nodding. She wiped her eyes and the swiped the back of her hand against her nose. Cutie pie. I stooped down, snagged my keys, and pressed them into her hands. “Okay, baby. You’re the best. Take the kids and get gone. Let’s go. I’ll get you in the car. C’mon, babe, come with me.” I walked her around the front of the Mystery Machine, facing the sick, bleeding and bitten the whole way, and opened the driver’s door. I stepped up on the running board, reached behind the driver’s seat, and pulled the medium-sized backpack up and over. I pulled up my bright red and black Hawaiian shirt up, holstered my Glock in its in-the-waistband holster, dropped the shirt and helped Kat up and into the driver’s seat. I started to shut the door, startled myself with a thought, and swung the door back open. I dropped the backpack, unzipped the main compartment and pulled out the holstered pistol that resides in the pack. I grabbed a tee shirt from the pack as well, unrolled it, and rolled it back up this time containing the pistol. Then I shoved it into the “dump bucket” slot on the side of the driver’s door. That darn thing had never had a use until now. I jumped back up on the running board, gave Kat a quick kiss on the lips and a “get ‘em home, babe” then jumped down and closed the door. I hadn’t heard a peep from the kids; didn’t know if that was good or bad. I thumped on the door and Kathy headed out, swinging the van out onto the Overseas Highway headed south, toward the Stretch and the Keys.

I’d shucked the spare pistol because I was pretty sure that any weapon with me would be confiscated—whether it had been used in the shootout or no. I was also pretty sure that when the police did show up I had hours of inquiry ahead of me. It’s why Kat had to get the kids out of there. I didn’t want them exposed to the scene any more than they had been, and I didn’t want them questioned by total strangers on what they had or hadn’t seen. I exhaled sharply. If things went sideways, they could even be held as guests of the state for a night or two. No way that was happening.

I walked back over to where I had done most of the shooting, whipped out my iPhone, and took a bunch of pictures. Then I ran about 30 seconds of video, capturing the whole scene. Then I sent everything to the cloud so that I’d have my own documentation of the site; cops are great, but having my own, stand-alone record couldn’t hurt. I scooped up the mag I’d dumped and shoved it into the mag-holder on the right side of my belt. Next, I walked over to Sweaty-Shaky and the Machine Pistol Princess. I dropped my bag and opened the drop flap of the front compartment. Among the assorted goodies I had in there (flint and steel, Leatherman tool, about 300 feet of donut-wrapped parachute cord, iodine tablets) there were a bunch of cable zip ties rubber-banded together. Not as good as flex cuffs would’ve been, but they’d suit. I zipped up Sweaty-Shaky, who was on his stomach. A small, foamy puddle bilious yellow gack testified that he’d been heaving up. Next, I rolled the Machine Pistol Princess onto her stomach and zipped her hands behind her back as well. She was breathing. I had some basic first aid supplies in the backpack but didn’t pull anything out or treat any wounds because screw her.

Next, I walked over to Dyna and the Wannabe Runaway. Dyna gave me a glance and single tail wag. We gonna play more with this particular chew toy, Boss? Wannabe was still in the fetal position, hands covering his face, peeking through his fingers at Dyna. I took him from the back, dropping a knee onto his exposed upper side, when he jerked at the impact I grabbed his neck and rotated him onto his belly, again planting my knee, this time mid-spine. I grabbed his left arm and jerked it back. My knee came up and then down, putting my weight onto his arm and on through his back. I pulled his right arm back and zipped him up. Dyna had done a job on his right arm, and his left had a couple of love punctures, too. “Dang, girl. You been repressed or something?”

I pointed at Wannabe and said, “Stay.” Then to Dyna, “C’mon.” We started walking back to the quickie mart. I could hear sirens and had no doubt the po-po were converging on our location. I was surprised they hadn’t shown up sooner; we were in the money zone of Florida City, with all the last chance food, gas, and tchotchke vendors for people headed to the Keys. There was a Wal-mart up the road, so I figured the cops had to be nearby, right? I opened the door for Dyna, and we stepped into the convenience store. “Hey, Gupta, you call 911 yet?”

“Yes, sir. I did. And I am very much hoping they are here very soon, sir.”

I peered over the counter to see Gupta laid out and covering up on the floor. “Me, too, buddy. Hey,” I dug a fiver out of my pocket, “I’m going to grab a Gatorade. Here.” I reached over the counter and down, waving the five around a little. Gupta had to twist a little to see me. He shook his head and said, “Just leave it on the counter, please, sir.”

“You got it, buddy.” I dropped the five on the counter and snagged the drink out of a big, icy bucket of them, and walked with Dyna outside. The sirens were closer. Any minute now. I pulled my Glock-19 out of its holster, dropped the mag, and locked the slide back to the rear. When the chambered round flew out of the ejector port I caught it. Dang, I hope ol’ Gupta has the security cameras up and running and they got that; I only bat about .500 catching those rounds. Too bad no one was there to see it. I laid out the locked-back pistol, the mag, and the recovered mag from my hip. Then I pulled the tactical folder from my left front pocket and put it next to the pistol. Then I dropped the backpack next to the weapons. Then I stepped a good 10 feet away from my kit and pulled my wallet out the cargo pocket of my shorts. I pulled out my driver’s license, Florida Concealed Weapon or Firearm License, and my military combined access card. I sat down with my back against the cinderblock storefront and laid out my IDs to my left. I pointed to a spot about two feet to my right and told Dyna, “Down, right here.” She complied. Finally, I pulled out my iPhone, speed-dialed Crane, put it on speaker, and set the phone down by my IDs. He picked up just as two Florida City and one Homestead police cars came roaring into the gas station’s lot. I put my hands on my head and yelled over—I hoped—the sirens.

“Crane, Florida City, on US 1 southbound, I just shot a bunch of people. Grab Enzo and help me out if you can. Probably best if you stay on the line.” If he replied, I didn’t hear it. Police were exiting vehicles with guns out, yelling instructions at me. A lot of the guidance was contradictory or confusing. Get down? I’m already down, bro. Hands are already up. Hands against the wall? My back’s already against the wall, I’d have to stand up and turn around to put my hands against the wall. Sure don’t see that going real well, right now. It took a minute, but the sirens were shut off, although everyone’s bar lights stayed on. A Homestead officer who had a little cooler head than the others had me stand up slowly, turn around, and put my hands and weight against the wall. I received a pretty decent pat-down, and replied in the negative when asked whether I had anything sharp in my pockets. I was cuffed and then was sat back down. Finally, everyone holstered their weapons. Whew.

A young, muscle-bound, tatted up officer was shuffling through my ID cards. The guy’s extensive ink extended to the side of his neck. That’s just awesome when the cops have the same tats as the gang-bangers. You are not giving civilians warm and fuzzies, bud. He looked up at me from the cards. “So this is you?”

“Officer, I have no statement to make until my attorney is present.”

“No, really. This is you, right? Heh?” At the ‘heh’ he kicked my foot. Dyna gave a very soft “woof.” More of a chuff. A courtesy, if you will.

Tat boy cop—his nameplate said De La Rosa—turned toward Dyna and his hand dropped to his sidearm. “I will shoot that dog if it threatens me.”

“If you shoot my dog, I will take it real personal, Officer.”

He glared at me, and I had a sick feeling he might try to shoot Dyna just to make a point. If he tried to draw, I was going to go dynamic. Things would then go downhill. The older cop who had managed my cuffing interceded. “Knock it off, De La Rosa. Go help string tape.” De La Rosa handed off my ID cards and walked off. The officer, Grady, squatted down next to me, on the far side of me from Dyna. “Sir, we are going to have to restrain or contain your dog. He’s been—“

“She.”

“She’s been good, but I can’t take the risk she’ll bite an officer, and if she does, she’ll have to be put down, no questions asked.”

“If you have someone who can open up that cruiser’s door over there, and you keep the engine running and the AC on, do you have any problems with her waiting it out in the backseat?”

“No, but we still have to get her in. I’m not real thrilled about someone trying to walk her over. Might be able to get a K9 unit over here, but that’ll take some time.”

“If you have someone open the door, I’ll get her in.”

Grady looked at me suspiciously. “I’m not sure I’m real thrilled about you up and moving around either, ‘til we get this mess a little more sorted out.”

“It’s not a problem, Officer Grady. I won’t be moving at all.” Grady eyed me for a moment, then stood and walked over to the cruiser I’d indicated earlier. He swung the rear door open and stepped away. I looked at Dyna, “Dyna, get in the car.” She came to her feet weightlessly and trotted over to the car, jumped up on the back seat, turned to face me, and sat. Officer Grady closed the door. Seeing Dyna in the back of the cruiser, I regretted that I hadn’t had time to clean all the blood off of her muzzle. The police probably wouldn’t’ve been so jumpy if I had.

Over the first minutes of the police response, vehicles had continued to pour into the lot. By the time Officer Grady was letting Dyna into the police cruiser, my prediction to Kat had come true. It was purely a circus show. Then again, I’d never investigated a fatal shooting—at least to collect and preserve evidence for a possible future trial. Ambulances had shown up and the EMTs were working on the Machine Pistol Princess, Shaky-Sweaty, and the Wannabe Runaway. I called out to Officer Grady and he walked over. All things considered, Grady had been a pretty decent guy, thoroughly professional, and hadn’t played any dominance games with me. He was probably just good-copping me so that he could use everything I said against me in a court of law.

“You feel like giving a statement yet?”

“No, sir. I just think you should have a HAZMAT team or whatever kind of search team you’ve got go over that van before your techies start crawling all over it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because there is something seriously wrong with that van. Look at how low it’s sitting. Look at the fact that my rounds didn’t penetrate that crappy cargo door.” I nodded at the EMTs. “Look at Mr. Sweaty-Shaky over there. Could be he ate a bad fish taco. But his buddies look like they put up with him puking and pooping all over himself and the van for a good while. Who does that?”

Grady settled a steady gaze on me, considering. Then he walked away, speaking into the microphone hooked onto his shoulder epaulet. I didn’t notice a whole lot of change in the pattern of activity. But like I said, I don’t know much about crime scene investigations. I had been sitting on the concrete for what had to be thirty minutes. My butt hurt. Having my hands cuffed behind me was starting to make my bad shoulder ache. I had to concentrate on breathing to stay calm and patient. Having a confrontation with a conglomeration of law officers would not be helpful. I kept with the breathing and tried to watch US 1 on the southbound lane, which I had glimpses of between all the various law enforcement vehicles. Eventually, I thought I saw a sleek, hematite colored Audi A7 pull off the road. I wasn’t sure, though, and had to work even harder to maintain my calm. Just plan on at least another hour, I told myself. Then I saw Crane and Enzo headed toward me on foot, weaving between cop cars. Crane walked up to me.

“Sorry. Traffic.” He waved over the nearest police officer and said, “Uncuff him, please.”

Unfortunately, the nearest police officer was De La Rosa. He sauntered over, squinting at Crane and Enzo. I’d’ve thought that De La Rosa would intuitively know that no one without some type of official capacity would make it through the perimeter. And if that someone was well dressed, in civvies and had an air of authority, I would watch my mouth until I knew exactly where this unidentified person stood in relation to me on the reindeer games ladder. De La Rosa, though, appeared to work hard on stupid. “Why’n the hell would I do that?” he asked straightening up and rolling his shoulders back, puffing his lats out and up to the best of his ability, and planting his thumbs in his service belt. He didn’t cause a ripple in Crane’s pond, though.

Crane presented his credentials and stated again in the exact same tone, “Uncuff him, please.” De La Rosa looked at the FBI credentials and maybe blanched a little bit. It was hard to tell. He had a dark complexion. I gave the policeman my best beatific smile and said, “I might need some help standing up.” He exhaled sharply and bent down to take my arm. I rolled up to my feet in one motion, startling him, turned my back to him and leaned forward to give him better access to the cuffs. Hey, he started it. The cuffs came off and De La Rosa said, petulantly, “He stays here until he makes a statement.”

Crane pursed his lips almost imperceptibly and asked, “So, you’re the on-scene supervisor of this site?” De La Rosa blinked. “Why don’t you go get him?” Crane suggested gently. I was too mature to sound off with an “Ooh, burn,” the way the kids do, but it crossed my mind.

De La Rosa walked off, stiff-legged. Crane turned to me. “What happened? And where’s Kathy and the kids?”

I stooped down and picked up my phone. “They should be home, or close, by now.” It had been about 45 minutes since she took off. Knowing Kat, I figured she’d bundle the kids into the house, get them comfortable, and spend some time rocking and feeding little Jenny. Liam and Katie would be able to square away the other two younger ones, under their mother’s watchful eye. I unlocked the phone. It was almost out of juice.

I looked at Crane. “Did you stay on the call? My battery’s almost dead.” He nodded that he’d stayed on the line the whole drive. There were no missed calls, but I did have one new text from my wife. It simply said Here. I felt my guts unclench; I hadn’t even realized they were twisted up. I inhaled as deeply as I could, held it, then exhaled everything. I shook myself. “Okay. Where do we go to make a statement?”

Officer Grady walked over accompanied by a Florida Highway Patrolman. The FHP guy was a sergeant, looked to be taller than 6’3” and was African American. He was totally bald, and looked like he buffed it with a floor spinner to get it that shiny. He was big, dwarfing Crane and Enzo, and he probably weighed about the same as me. Grady opened up the conversation, “Gentlemen, FHP is going to take the lead in running the scene. The state has assets we can’t match. Eventual discussion of who will take the lead in the post-scene investigation will depend on what the evidence turns up.” Grady glanced at Crane, “This could go federal, for all we know. Anyway, this is Patrol Sergeant Mason. As of twenty minutes ago, he’s running the site.”

Mason shook hands with Crane and Enzo, then glanced at me. “My understanding, Mr. McCabe, is that you are refusing to make a statement until you’ve acquired legal counsel, is that correct?”

“Yes, Sergeant. But since— “

Enzo interrupted me, “—But since his legal counsel is here,” Enzo did a sweeping ‘lookitme’ motion with his arms, “he would like to assist you in every way possible. I will jump in only if need be.”

Mason’s look went from Enzo, to me, and back. Enzo had on a Hugo Boss three-button suit and silk shirt, had driven up in a top-shelf Audi, and looked like a model on his way to a photo shoot for some men’s cologne I’d never even heard of. He was slim, elegant, and handsome. His dark, Mediterranean skin made his smile even brighter, highlighting his perfect little chiclets. I was overbuilt, had scar-thickened brows and knuckles, and was wearing a cheap Hawaiian shirt over battered cargo shorts and scuffed up pair of Merrill’s hiking shoes. He looked like his manicure cost more than everything I had on—and throw my wallet in with that, too. Actually, that wasn’t too bold an assumption.

I walked Mason through everything that happened. He scowled when I mentioned sending Kat and the kids home. When I was done, he said, “Well, if the evidence and the proprietor’s security cam bear out what you say, I don’t think you’ll have a problem.” He paused, then said, “That was some proficient pistol work. I know your ID says Army, but where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

Crane jumped in “Major McCabe is a Special Forces officer. He works with my task force to ensure that, between his unit’s overseas activities and our domestic investigations, both our organizations are connecting the dots.” That got a grunted “huh” out of Mason. He started to say something else when an evidence technician ran up, slightly out of breath.

“Sergeant Mason, we got a hit.”

“A ‘hit’ on what, Mr. Childers.”

“A hit on the van. Based on his statements”—head chuck at me— “Officer Grady had us dig out some of the CBRNE equipment we got a grant for from Homeland Security. These new sniffers are awesome; they can pick up a hit in only one part per— “

“Which is it, Mr. Childers?”

“It’s the new SOLeX detector, it—“

“No, what was the hit?” Mason looked unperturbed, but I sensed he was getting impatient. I thought ol’ Childers might be in danger of getting choked out. “Is it chemical, biological—”

“It’s radiological, sir. We’re going to have to bring in heavier equipment to figure out exactly what it is, and how much is there, but parts of that van are hot enough to glow. We’ve pulled everyone back until we figure out what’s going on.”

Crane was on his cell phone before Childers was done speaking. Mason whipped out his phone, speed-dialed, and started talking. Enzo looked a little pale under his olive-hued skin. He nervously fingered his tie while he looked at the van. I clapped him on the back.

“Don’t worry, brother,” I said. “If it was some kind of dirty bomb, they would’ve detonated when I started shooting the snot out of them.” He glanced at me, unconvinced, and then back at the van. “Well, unless it’s on some kind of timer they didn’t know how to override. In which case it could go off at any time.”

“Not helping, Theo.”

I looked down at my phone. It had finally died. I walked back to where I’d been cuffed and held. The Gatorade had stayed there, untouched, the whole time, sweating and laughing at me. I snatched it up and started swigging at it. It had gone lukewarm, but now it was the principle of the thing. I walked back over to Crane. He was off his phone, waiting for Mason to finish his conversation.

“DHS is scrambling EOD teams and some nuke guys,” said Crane.

“FEMA keeps a containment unit right up the road at Homestead Air Base,” I chimed in. “We need to get them and whatever consequence management people and equipment energized and down here. Task Force needs to shake the trees.”

Crane nodded. “You know what I’m worried about, Theo.”

“Yeah, people that do this stuff don’t put all their eggs in one basket. ‘Two makes one, one makes none.’ So, assuming it’s not a bad reading on the equipment, and that the lot I shot up were not all from Amateur Hour at the Apollo, there’s at least one more of whatever’s in the creeper van floating around.”

Crane nodded.

“Get the intel guys to do full backgrounds on these guys. Let’s roust the three that are still alive first thing tomorrow.”

Crane nodded.

“Get Enzo working a proposal tonight to keep these guys away from lawyers for the time being. We can Patriot Act them at least until this van situation is resolved. The collection and exploitation of whatever’s on it will take us through at least tomorrow afternoon. There’s got to be a legal way to keep them on ice until we know what we’re working with and who we’re working against.”

Crane nodded.

“Crane, when you talk to the ASAC tonight, get us on the chase team. You know they’ll stand up a special task force, whether under our umbrella or stand alone. That’s going to be a cluster. But the ASAC’s going to want hunters out on the road; get us on that team. Last thing we need is to sit around some kind of committee when there’s a Big Bad rolling around.”

Crane nodded.

“And, Crane, these guys put a gun to my wife’s head. In front of my kids.  So we shut down the Big Bad and then we sort these guys out. Whoever they are.”

Crane nodded.