American Eagle

"You startin’ somethin’," she said, with a sidewise smile over her cafe-au-lait face, "you best slow this heap down."

Phil tweaked his Hispanic lady’s nipple to affirm his interest. "We’re cuttin’ over to 41 just beyond Punta Gorda."

"You still thinking of the Glades?"

"Why not? That’s what they expect."

"Then they’re sure to catch us."

"Big place. Once we’re in, we’re home free."

"Felipe, you didn’t have to shoot the Holandes pareja¾ that was dumb and you are not dumb."

It’s done, babe. We take it from here."

At exit 27, the dusty pickup headed west, leaving Interstate 75 for the anonymity of traffic clogged US 41. Both highways paralleled each other and the coast from Tampa south to the Everglades.

Prospecting for a victim, Phil and his girl had left Samoset, their temporary abode a few miles out of Bradenton, an hour after sunrise. Karl van Luken and his wife, Maria, had the misfortune to meet their fate after turning off the interstate at exit 37. Their destination, Crescent Beach. Like a stalking lion moving in for the kill, Phil Ramsey, who had been following the red Toyota, closed a little as he made the turn. Careful now. Don’t frighten them into running. The beach was five miles ahead. The deserted road angled left through a copse of pines. Twice Ramsey had been on the point of abandoning the speedy Celica. His persistence now was paying off as the quarry halted uncertainly at a crossroad. At this hour, the arena was devoid of spectators. He gunned the old Chevy truck, swerved to a sliding halt across the Celica’s nose and leaped out, 9-mm Beretta in hand. Lucy joined him, her unloaded 25-caliber Colt Pocket Automatic in her left hand. She was deathly afraid of firearms.

Karl, 51, and Maria, 49, faced the barbaric Americans with their hands high.

"You speak English?" Phil asked. "Put down your hands, give the woman your money, travelers checks and credit cards."

This was done with dispatch. An excellent haul¾ two or three thousand in travelers checks, Lucinda reported (the exact count would be made at leisure). A thousand in cash, two American Express cards, one Visa.

Phil was more than satisfied. He had no intention of shooting the couple from Leiden (the man had told him), nor did he want their car. A bullet in two of the tires would immobilize it and them.

"Phil," Lucinda whispered, "the lady has turned her ring."

"Get it."

But Lucinda couldn’t, beyond opening the woman’s hand to disclose a large, brilliant diamond in a lovely filigree setting. The stone was worth ten or twenty thousand dollars, Phil’s trained eye estimated. Even a pawnbroker would part with five Gs.

"It’s stuck, Phil."

"Cover the man, Lucy."

He put his pistol in his waistband and took the woman’s well-fleshed hand. At his yank she screamed, her husband ignored Lucy and her toy pistol and charged Phil.

Phil reacted fast, fending off the older, bigger man, stepping back and then with the renewed charge, shooting him in the chest. The Dutchman dropped like a stone. Maria, who had not been particularly keen on visiting such a notoriously criminally indulgent country in the first place had her worst fears realized. This nondescript couple had just killed her Karl. Now the man advanced on her. Quickly she offered her ring hand. His painful yanks were no more successful than those of his criminal woman. These god damned American swine! But she kept the sentiment to herself.