Page 80 of The Family Cross

SIRENS WAILING, FIRE TRUCKS and police cars raced toward the FBO from all directions as John Sampson and I moved fast to the fuel truck and Hawk doing his dance.

“We have Rodriguez in sight,” Sampson called to dispatch. “Suspect appears unarmed but tell the backup coming that he is ex–Special Forces.”

“Roger that,” the dispatcher said, and we heard her repeat the warning before Sampson turned the volume down.

A police helicopter appeared high above us. A news chopper followed.

We were within fifty yards of Hawk by then. I heard a strange whistling noise over the rippling sirens and the chug of the helicopters. Rodriguez had a tiny whistle between his lips and was toot-tooting on it as he danced and spun.

“Alejandro Rodriguez!” Sampson roared when we were thirty yards away, both of us with weapons aimed at him.

He seemed oblivious to us and the sirens.

“Hawk!” I yelled. “Down on the ground!”

Rodriguez kept on dancing, so I did the only thing I could think of. I pulled out the small Taser the department had us carry, walked closer, and shot him with it.

The device hit him square in the chest and blew him off the tanker. He hit the tarmac hard, then rolled over onto his knees making violent choking noises, and I realized he’d inhaled the whistle.

Sampson and I both ran to him. I got there first, grabbed him from behind, and performed the Heimlich maneuver. The little whistle popped free, and Hawk gasped for air as we got cuffs on him.

“Suspect in custody,” Sampson said into his radio as I yanked Hawk to his feet.

“What suspect?” Rodriguez slurred in an amused voice. “Li’l ol’ me?”

He broke into gales of laughter and I saw that his eyes were watery red saucers with widely dilated pupils. His breath stank.

“You’re under arrest, Mr. Rodriguez,” I said, and gave him his Miranda warnings, which he found hysterical. “Do you understand your rights?”

“Nope,” he said and giggled. “I’m not understanding jack right now. Total separation from ego.”

“You ate shrooms before work, Hawk?” I said. “Really?”

He chortled. “Maybe a little too much. Hit the whole quarter ounce before punching the time clock. Whoa, man, look at your face. It’s, like, melting. Ha-ha. Melting!”

The ex–Special Forces operator said this last bit like he was imitating the Wicked Witch of the West, then tossed back his head and guffawed, tears streaming down his face.

Sampson had had enough. He grabbed Rodriguez roughly by one elbow, I took him by the other, and we hustled him away.

A fire truck raced past us. Then another.

“Hey, man,” Hawk said, sounding bewildered. “What’s with the smoke and the sirens and the firefighters? The rad colors? So psychedelic. Where’s this coming from?”

“It came from you, jackass,” Sampson growled. “You know exactly what you did.”

“What’d I do?” he asked, looking at me with a befuddled expression.

“Let me see,” I said. “In addition to shooting and then burning four people with avgas over the past few weeks, today you blew up a fuel tanker, destroyed a plane that’s worth millions, damaged a dozen others, and almost killed several people, including us.”

He started laughing again. “Nah, nah, nah,” Hawk said in a singsong voice. “That wasn’t real, man. That was just a hallucination I had. I’m still having it!”

We reached the smoke, which was thicker because firefighters were already hosing down the Caravan and the other planes. John and I covered our mouths, but we let Hawk breathe the foul haze and choke on it.

“Black Hawk down, man.” Rodriguez coughed as we emerged from the smoke. He gazed around with those watery eyes at the sheer scope of the mayhem he’d caused. “We crashed, right? Black Hawk down?”

He looked at each of us in turn, then his eyes fluttered wildly and rolled up into his head, and he sagged in our arms.

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