finally caught up just as the guy was arriving in front of the exit gate.
Hunt came up behind him and with a lunge grabbed at the duffel, getting a hold on it. âHey! Hold up! What do you think youâre doing?â Hunt pulled at the strap.
The guy held on, whirled, and threw an elbow that Hunt barely ducked away from. But in that one fluid movement, Hunt realized he was dealing with a strong, lightning-fast, and trained fighter. Hunt himself had a black belt in karate and this guy, even hampered by the heavy duffel, was coming on as at least his equal, in any case a force to be reckoned with. Now he had Hunt backing away, and like any experienced fighter he kept coming, dropping the duffel and coming around with a right chop that Hunt knocked away with his forearm. It felt like heâd stopped a tire iron.
Squaring up now, ready to press an attack of his own, Hunt got his first good look at the manâs face, and it stopped him cold. Nearly half of it bore the scars of a serious burn injury, almost as though the skin had been melted away.
It immediately took the fight out of Hunt, though his breath was still coming hard. âWhat the hell are you trying to do?â he rasped out.
The other man spoke with an unnerving calm. âWhat am I trying to do? You just attacked me. I was defending myself.â
âYou were walking out with my duffel.â
âThatâs not your duffel. Itâs mine. And I wasnât walking out anywhere. I was going to buy a newspaperââhe pointedââat this shop right here.â
Meanwhile, three TSA officers had broken through the ranks of onlookers and one of themâHillyer by his name tagâadvanced on them, arms spread out, asserting control. âAll right, everybody. Easy. Easy now. Whatâs going on here?â
âThis guy,â Hunt said, âwas making off with my duffel bag.â
âItâs mine, sir,â the scarred man replied, dead calm.
With his own first look at the manâs face, Hillyer, too, took an extra beat, then came back to Hunt, who said, âThatâs my duffel. You can check it out. Itâs filled with fishing gear. Iâm on my way down to Baja.â
âSo am I,â the scarred man said. He reached into his shirt pocket and held out a boarding pass. âWith your permission, sir,â he said to Hillyer. Going to one knee, he pulled around the identification tag attached to the strap and held it out first to the TSA officer, then to Hunt.
âJoe Trona,â he said. âThatâs me.â He stood and reached behind him and took out his wallet, which also revealed a badge. Hillyer inspected the badge and seemed to read every word on it, twice looking from badge to man. âIâm a police officer and I promise you I did not steal this manâs duffel bag.â
Hillyer unzipped the duffel for a quick look. Hunt saw the neatly arranged reels and spools of fishing line, similar to his own. Hillyer looked at Trona, then to Hunt. âWhen did you last see your own duffel bag, sir?â
âI left it at the bar when I went to the bathroom. The man sitting next to me was watching it. But then when I came out, I saw . . .â He stopped because there was nothing more he could say. âIâm a horseâs ass, Mr. Trona,â he said. âI owe you an apology.â
Trona looked at Hunt but said nothing.
âLetâs go see if your duffelâs still at the bar,â Hillyer said to Hunt. âAs our announcement says, many items of luggage look the same. If itâs still there, letâs not leave it unattended anymore. Howâs that sound?â
JOE TRONA STOOD IN THE shade outside the La Paz terminal, his back to the wall in the infernal Baja heat. His duct-taped quiver of rod cases lay safely along the wall, along with his duffel and a cooler. The van would be there any minute. âThe horseâs ass.â
âHunt
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