Cut and Run by Donn Cortez Page B

terrain she was drifting over wasn’t underwater; while there were many pools and streams, gleaming in the early-morning light, it was mostly mangroves and cypress below her. Of course, if the gun had gotten stuck in a tree she might never notice it…
    She sighed, and kept chucking transponders over the edge at regular intervals.
    The flight was over far too soon. They’d managed to stay more or less on course, though, touching down mere feet from the side of the road where Breakwash had ended up.
    â€œThanks for the lift,” said Calleigh, climbing out of the basket. She could see her Hummer, right where she’d parked it earlier.
    â€œYou accomplish what you wanted?” Fellows asked.
    â€œOh, that was just preparation. Now comes the real work—and it’s going to take me all day.”
    Two Miami-Dade Range Rovers pulled up, discharging groups of yawning police cadets clutching duffel bags and paper cups of coffee. “Fortunately,” said Calleigh, “I’ll have help.”
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    Calleigh used one handheld unit, a cadet named Rosemary Montoyez another. Both of them had rolls of thin, bright pink plastic tape; one end was attached to a stake at its starting point, and the tape was paid out until they reached the first of the transponders. The transponder was picked up, the tape tied to a stake where it was found, and the process started all over again as they headed for the next signal. The other cadets walked behind them, spread out between the two bright pink lines, each sweeping a metal detector in a slow arc.
    It wasn’t a perfect system, Calleigh knew. The gun could easily lie to either side of her estimation of the balloon’s footprint, or have gotten stuck in underbrush; the cadets were under instructions to pay close attention to such possibilities, but even so she was counting a great deal on luck.
    Calleigh hated relying on luck. It made her irritable , and the rising heat of the day and the insect population—which seemed to treat her and her team as an all-you-can-eat buffet specially catered for their benefit—didn’t help matters. Every inch of ground they covered made things worse; instead of feeling like they were accomplishing something, all Calleigh could think about was the fact that they might have already missed what they were searching for and were now getting farther away from it with every step. Her normally cheerful demeanor rapidly eroded to a simmering, intense silence that the cadets quickly learned to not disturb unless absolutely necessary.
    And then, Calleigh abruptly found herself face-to-face with an armed man.
    He stepped out of the brush directly in front of her, holding a shotgun in both hands. He was Hispanic, in his early twenties, and dressed in camouflage pants and a black hooded sweatshirt. The look on his face said he hadn’t been expecting her any more than she’d been expecting him.
    Calleigh’s hand automatically went to the pistol on her hip. “Sir? I’m a Miami-Dade police officer. Please lower your weapon.”
    For a second she thought he was going to do the opposite, bring the gun to bear on her before she could clear her holster, but the moment passed. He made a visible effort to relax, pointing the barrel of the gun at the ground and raising his other hand in greeting.
    â€œHola,” he said. “Caught me by surprise—thought I was all alone out here.” At that moment a large bloodhound came crashing out of the brush, running up to stop at the man’s legs. “Except for Hugo, here.”
    Calleigh didn’t draw her weapon, but she kept her hand on the grip. “And you are?”
    â€œUh, Bolivar. Fredo Bolivar.”
    Calleigh could hear the cadets approaching behind her, and relaxed a little. “What are you doing out here, Mister Bolivar?”
    â€œJust a little duck hunting. I’ve got a license.”
    â€œCan I see it, please?”
    He dug