Salty Sky (29 page)

FRANCISCO COULDN’T SEE
his Swiss watch in the dark. When the house’s alarm went off, he reached in his pocket and started the timer on his phone. He would give his men five minutes from the time the alarm went off before leaving. They would not rush, and they would not overstay. They did not even question him on what they would do but continued searching the property.

Each time he checked the timer, briefly exposing himself to light, he moved. He moved from tree to tree. He did this without thinking. He was a predator who never forgot that he, too, could be the prey.

CALE THOUGHT THAT
,
to a late night dispatcher, the truth might come off a wee bit fanciful.
Hey, this is Cale Coleman, and it’s the darndest thing, but there are three hit men at my house…. Yes, hit men…. They traveled all the way from Colombia, dadgummit, just to give me a painful death…. No
,
not Columbia, South Carolina. Colombia, South America…. You think you could send some fellas out to arrest them?

There was an upside to envisioning every interaction before it occurred. He knew he couldn’t wait for the security dispatch to call. The deputy responding would be half asleep, assuming the storm blew a door open. This would shorten the deputy’s career trajectory. Cale got his mental story straight for the call.

“9-1-1, what is the nature of your emergency?”

“I need the police.” Without pause, he gave and repeated the address.

“Sir, are you whispering? Please speak up. There is a dog barking in the background. It is very hard to hear you. Why do you need the police, sir?”

Why was he whispering? Hadn’t this lady had sensitivity training? Unlike his visitors, Cale let bygones be bygones. Slightly louder, he pleasantly continued, “Three men have broken into my house. I am down by the water in my shed. They don’t know I’m here. I can see the men. They are carrying guns.”

He hadn’t seen any guns but assumed they had them. He wanted to convey urgency and caution without resorting to South American hit men stories, which, in fairness, was so 1980s Miami.

The dispatcher dispatched officers. Cale gave her the description of the intruders’ car. She typed it in. He mentioned that the alarm company would call dispatch too. “Make sure those officers know this isn’t a routine alarm.”

She wanted to keep him on the line, the training finally kicking in. “Sir, can you see the perpetrators?”

What percentage of callers knew the word “perpetrator”
he wanted to ask, but let it pass.

He picked his head back up, looked through the window, and saw the larger and smaller men gathered by the back door gesticulating. Escobar was now somewhere out of sight. Cale heard the security
company demand the intruders identify themselves. The larger man responded by pulling out a pistol and firing a bullet into the speaker, giving the alarm an echoing quality. He then fired another into the back door’s window, which was just plumb mean. Did he have any idea how hard it was to get glass cut the day after a hurricane?

“Sir, are those gunshots I hear? Sir?”

“Shhh. Yes, those are gunshots.”

The men swiveled around, hoping to see Cale hiding or fleeing. He mentally suggested they run their hands through the pyracanthas and make sure he wasn’t hiding in the bushes.

The larger man entered the house. The smaller, quicker one who’d unscrewed the light bulb started into the backyard. He moved forward in quick, uneven steps. Three quick steps then a crouch. Two quick steps, crouched low, then he stood up, and moved sideways. The man didn’t follow the stepping stones, but moved on and off them, soaking his shoes. The uneven cadence made him a difficult target.

The smaller man briefly moved out of sight as he went behind the hedge. Cale saw him emerge in the outdoor kitchen. The man briefly grabbed a large filleting knife before setting it down on the counter. He then looked to the dock and shed. He began his approach, again moving in spurts that betrayed no pattern as to his next movement.

Cale told the dispatcher, “I need to set the phone down. Please don’t make a sound until I come back on, as they are coming closer to me now.”

He set the phone down. Without taking his eyes off the approaching visitor, he reached down for the compound bow with his right arm and fumbled for the arrow beside it with his left. For the first shot, he thought the bow would be better. The other two guys wouldn’t see the flash of flame that would reveal his location. It also felt more primeval, more fear inducing than the gunfire they were so used to. He knew the larger man was in the house. He wished he’d kept track of Escobar.

ALBERTO REAPPEARED FROM
the front of the house. He held a few keepsakes in his hands, and, by his mannerisms, Francisco could tell Coleman had not been in the house.

Everything indicated Coleman had been home recently. Perhaps he was still nearby.

CALE BROUGHT BOTH
the bow and the arrow up to his shoulder. He notched the arrow and broke the bow back into an armed position. If the man approaching got within twenty-five feet, he would release. Cale found the spot in the path the man was roughly following that he judged to be twenty-five feet, so he wouldn’t pull too early. He didn’t think the single-pane window would alter the arrow’s flight, but he’d never tested that theory before.

Given his target’s unpredictable path, he needed a close shot that would not miss. This man was either formally trained or had lived a very dangerous life—a worthy adversary to ambush, although Cale would have preferred a buffoon in case he missed.

Consciously, Cale slowed his breath and felt something like contentment wash over him. He followed the man’s progress, looking for a rhythm to the movement, but found none. The moment was at hand.

FRANCISCO TRIED TO
scan the property but found the post-rain humidity was making his goggles difficult to see through. He pulled them down, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness.

He looked for Alberto, who was in the driveway facing the front yard—still doing his job but clearly ready to leave.

He looked at the Cuban making his way toward the water. His night vision goggles now hung around his neck as well. The Cuban’s movements were both stealthy and fearless. He had not yet pulled his gun from his pocket. Francisco was not certain where he carried it. Something about the Cuban’s competence made Francisco want to join him in the hunt. He took two steps forward before feeling his left hand vibrate: their five minutes were up.

WHEN THE MAN
was still fifty feet off, Cale heard Escobar’s whistle. The approaching man instinctively took a few steps backward but continued facing forward before taking a quick glance toward the whistle. Cale envisioned Escobar motioning for him to return. Cale watched the small man’s eyes do a double take on the boat floating in the water. He then took a series of rapid crouched steps forward again. Cale heard a second whistle. This time the man followed the command, changed direction, and headed to the driveway. Cale watched the three men load and depart in the vehicle without turning on the headlights.

Cale put the weapon down, picked up the phone, and in a normal voice said, “OK, they are in the car and just turned south out of my driveway. If your guys see a black Suburban, please don’t stop them. Just trail them until you get backup, and be very careful.”

Should he mention they all spoke Spanish? This could help them know they had the right black Suburban at a stop, but it might confuse the situation. How would he explain how he knew they spoke Spanish?

Decompressing from the adrenaline rush, he realized how much he wished they’d come to the shed and gotten it over with one way or the other. As long as they were in the United States, would he wince every time he started his car? Feel compelled to hide? It was hard to
run a business that way. Would the Feds put him in witness protection? His kids, grandkids, and sons-in-law couldn’t all go underground.

If the police caught them, what would happen? At best, they’d have them on breaking and entering and a little destruction of property—probably not enough to get their passports confiscated. Maybe if they were caught with their firearms.

County deputies showed up with lights and sirens. Cale filed a report. They inspected the damage. It was minimal. Annoying. They hadn’t caught them. If they hadn’t yet, they wouldn’t. The search was over. No reason to bring up his suspicion that these were infamous international narcotraffickers. The guys at the sheriff’s office got that all the time.

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