“Snowmobiles,” Tomás said. “Heading to the fishing pier. Probably a Zodiac to cross into Canada, then God only knows where.”

“A Zodiac? Up against ice floes and freighters?” Cowling said. “That’s some crazy shit.”

“Look around, hotshot,” Tomás growled. “We ain’t exactly dealing with very stable geniuses here.”

“Stay here, Leo,” I said. “DPD’s gonna want to see one of their own on scene when they get here. Tell ’em what’s going on.”

“Mothafucka, I barely know what’s goin’ on!”

“We either giddyup and go now,” Tomás said, “or they’re gone.”

“You know how to ride a snowmobile?” I asked Tomás. He gave me a look as if I’d just asked if he knew how to scratch his own ass.

There are very few straight lines of entrance and egress on Belle Isle, especially in the winter with mountains of plowed snow and roads closed for repaving. Nothing new for Belle Isle’s occasional winter photographer, bird-watcher, iron-man jogger or dog walker. But when you’re full throttle on a 165-horsepower snowmobile in pursuit of killers, the last thing you care about is the scenic route. I was in hot pursuit of revenge.

Three snowmobiles screamed to the northeast, following the curve of the narrow canal, probably on their way to the snow-covered soccer field and handball courts. They’d likely cut south across Woodside Drive to the fishing pier. At least that’s where I’d moor a couple of Zodiac inflatable boats.

I signaled to Tomás, and he followed my lead south.

Brake lights.

Sixty yards away at the two-o’clock position.

Rooster tail of snow. One of the snowmobiles turned sharply and accelerated to meet Tomás and me.

A line of automatic rifle fire hammering into the snow six feet to my left.

Tomás and I skidded to a halt, nose to nose, and opened up our semi-automatic rifles.

The shooter took a hit. Lost control of his snowmobile. Crashed into a high drift of snow. Went airborne between Tomás and me. Tomás unpinned a flash-bang grenade and tossed it onto the pinwheeling snowmobile overhead . . .

Boom.

“Was that really necessary?” I yelled to Tomás as the shooter’s body and the fireball wreckage tumbled away from us.

“No,” he said in Spanish. “But it was sure as hell fun!”

Sometimes, you have to seriously wonder about the sanity of family and friends.

A DPD helicopter locked us in its spotlight.

I signaled to the pilot that it wasn’t Tomás and me that he should be interested in—it was five guys boarding inflatable boats he should shine a light on. The fact that Tomás and I were holding semi-automatic rifles and not firing at him should have been a big clue we weren’t the bad guys. Unfortunately, some folks are, as my father used to say, “slow on the uptake.”