'We're in place, Mr. Boss-man sir,' she says to Brady.
'Roger that. Cutting loose.'
'Cutting loose' means that they're going to start chewing up the front lawn with machine-gun fire like there's no tomorrow, followed by tossing out flash-bang grenades as they fire tear gas canisters in through the front windows.
'Time for some hat-hair,' Kirby says, giving me a wink. We slip on the masks. They're SWAT issue, with a wide line-ofsight and plenty of peripheral vision, but they're still gas masks. My forehead starts to sweat right away.
'Commencing,' Brady says.
I thought it had been noisy before. That was nothing compared to the sound assault that signals Brady's team is indeed 'cutting loose.'
The sound of two fifty-caliber machine guns fills the air with thunder. Not long after that, the flash-bangs begin to roar, one after the other, not stopping. We hear the crash of shattering glass. Kirby kicks the door open and we're inside. I can't smell anything but the rubber of my mask, but the house is full of smoke and vapor. Cabrera is firing away with an automatic weapon and the roar of it is immense inside the home. There's no way he could hear anything above that.
Kirby moves forward, her gun out now. I follow, weapon ready as well. We creep toward the sound of his gunfire. The flash-bangs continue to explode. We move through the kitchen and reach the doorway that leads to the living room and the front of the house. We each take a side of the doorway and peer around.
Will you look at that? I think. Pure carnage.
Cabrera is outlined in light. He's crouched and firing up at an angle, toward the chopper, I know. His back is to us and his body shakes every now and then when he fires his weapon--an M16, I now see. He's surrounded by broken glass from the windows.
The plan at this point had been unelegant but simple. As Kirby had put it: 'Try and tackle that sucker.'
I look at Kirby, and she looks back at me. I see her eyes squint in a smile and I nod.
We don't have much time. It won't take long for Cabrera to wonder why Brady's team are such bad shots. He'll smell a trap. Kirby bolts out, running toward Cabrera. I breathe deep, once, inside my mask, and follow. Cabrera's instincts kick in and he whips around with the M16, eyes wide, mouth grim. Kirby doesn't slow, moving into him rather than away, forcing the weapon up as it discharges, tracing bulletholes in the ceiling. I have my gun up and am moving back and forth, looking for a shot as the two of them struggle with each other.
My voice is muffled by the mask, drowned out by all the manmade thunder. Kirby's other hand brings up her gun. Cabrera abandons the M16
and chops one hand down on her wrist, while the other goes for her throat. She blocks the throat blow, but loses her weapon. Cabrera's eyes are red-rimmed by the tear gas, and he's coughing, but he continues to fight.
'Fuck,' I mutter, then 'Fuck!' I shout, bobbing and weaving, my heart pounding, my head pounding, my hands still dry. Kirby goes for his balls with a swift kick. He turns his leg in, taking it on the thigh, and manages to slam the butt of his palm into her cheek. She stumbles backward as her face whips to the side. Time freezes.
Finally!
The stumble has given me a clear shot, so I shoot him in the shoulder.
He grunts and drops to a knee. Kirby moves in and slams him in the face with her fist once, twice, three times, and then she's behind him as he struggles to stay on his feet, and she's got him in a choke hold.
He scrabbles at her arms. It's too late. His eyes roll up in his head. She lets go, pushing him forward so that he falls onto his stomach. She whips out a set of zip-ties and secures his wrists. And just like that, it's over.
'Ceasefire, boys,' Kirby says, the mask giving her voice an echoey sound. 'He's down.'
My hands begin to sweat.
58
GUSTAVO CABRERA IS SITTING ON A CHAIR, GAZING AT US. HIS shoulder has been tended to. His hands are secured in his lap now, rather than behind him. He should be more worried. Instead, he looks like a man at peace. His eyes have been treated for the gas and they're staring at Alan. Assessing.
Alan takes this amiably. Cool as a cucumber, but it's deceptive, because when it comes to interrogations, Alan is a shark. All lion, hold the lamb. He cocks his head, assessing Cabrera right back. Waiting.
'I will confess,' Cabrera says. 'I will tell you everything. I will gratefully tell you where the hostages can be found.'
His voice is soft, lyrical, and vaguely reverent. Alan taps a finger to his lips, thinking. He stands in a sudden motion. He leans forward and points a huge finger at Cabrera. When he speaks, his voice is large and loud and accusative.
'Mr. Cabrera, we know you're not the man we're after!'
The happiness in Cabrera's eyes is replaced with alarm. His mouth opens in surprise, closes, opens again. It takes him a moment to get himself under control. His lips compress into a determined line. His eyes are sad. Still peaceful, though.
'I am sorry. I do not know what you mean.'
Alan barks out a laugh. It sounds vaguely insane and definitely menacing. Scary. I'd be worried if I didn't know it was all an act. He sits back down as suddenly as he'd stood and hunches forward. Relaxed now, just two guys having a talk. He smiles and wags a finger at Cabrera in a 'you old dog' kind of way. A 'don't kid a kidder' kind of way. 'Now, sir. I have a witness. We know it's not you. There's no question about this. The only question is: Why are you really working with this man?' Alan's voice is low and smooth, steady as syrup going onto pancakes. Then: 'Hey! I'm talking to you!' Loud again, a shout. Cabrera jumps. Looks away. Alan's seesaw between extremes is unsettling him. He's developed a twitch in his cheek.
'He's been a victim of torture,' Alan had told me prior to beginning Cabrera's interview. 'Torture is basically about reward and punishment and establishment of intimacy. The torturer will scream at you and call you hateful things and burn you with cigarettes, then he'll personally apply the ointment to the burns and become all solicitous and soothing. The victim ends up wanting one thing more than anything else.'
'The guy with the ointment and the nice voice.'
'Right. We're not going to burn Cabrera with cigarettes, but moving back and forth between rage and kindness should be enough to rattle him pretty good.'
Roger that, I think. Cabrera was starting to sweat.
'Mr. Cabrera. We know you were supposed to die here. What if I were to tell you that we'd be willing to fake your death? To make the rest of the world think you were shot while we were attempting to apprehend you?' Alan is continuing with his normal voice now. He's established dominance and instilled fear. Cabrera is looking back at him, a hopeful, speculative, complicated look.
'If you help us,' Alan continues, 'we'll carry you out of here in a body bag.' He leans back. 'If you don't cooperate, and let us help you, then I'll march you out of here in front of the cameras, and he'll know that you're still alive.'
No reply. But I can see the conflict in him.
He stares at Alan for a moment, searching. He drops his gaze to the floor between us. His whole body slumps. The twitch in his cheek disappears.
'I don't care about myself. Can you understand that?'
His voice is humble, calm. It's difficult to reconcile the gentleness in front of me with the hardness I saw as he burst into the FBI lobby, guns blazing. Which one is his true face?
Both, perhaps.
'I understand the concept,' Alan says. 'I don't understand it as it applies to you. Enlighten me.'
Another searching look. Longer, this time.
'I am going to die, eventually. This is my fault, no one else's. A weakness for women, an unwillingness to be safe.' A shrug. 'I get what I deserve with the HIV. But I tell myself, at times, perhaps it was not entirely my own fault. I was . . . harmed when I was a young boy.'
