Hard Edge

by Pamela Clare

  It had worked, but the lost time had cost them. Even if they had run like hell and made it into the building, there was no guarantee they’d have made it to the rooftop far enough ahead of the enemy forces to make it onto the helicopter. And if that helo hadn’t lifted off when it had, they might all have been killed.

  No, there wasn’t anything he could have done differently. But now her life was in his hands.

  Pull the trigger.

  That wasn’t what he’d expected her to say. There’d been no fear on her face, only deep trust in him and a sharp determination to survive.

  He wouldn’t let her down.

  He set the alarm on his watch, closed his eyes, let himself drift.

  The vibration from his watch brought him wide awake. It was oh-five-hundred. Outside, the streets were quiet once more.

  Had the bastards moved on?

  Sister Maria slept still, her lips slightly parted, her face relaxed.

  He hated to wake her, but they needed to get out of here before someone discovered them. “Sister, wake up. It’s time to go.”

  Her eyes flew open, and she sat bolt upright. “What…?”

  “Easy, Sister. It’s okay. We just need to get out of here before someone finds us.”

  She nodded, straightened her veil, pulling herself together faster than he had expected. “I’m ready.”

  “I’m not.” He stood, stretched, reached for his rifle. “I’m going to head up and take a look, make sure those bastards … er… are gone. Sorry, Sister.”

  He needed to clean up his mouth.

  “Please, don’t worry about it. If you apologize every time you swear, I have a feeling you’ll be apologizing all the time.”

  He couldn’t help but grin. “You’re probably right about that. Stay here. Don’t come out no matter what you hear, okay?”

  She met his gaze, nodded. “I understand.”

  He moved the chair, opened the door, and moved silently up the stairs and down the hallway to look outside.

  The street was quiet with just early morning traffic. There was no sign of enemy forces. The body of the man he’d killed was gone.

  The coast was clear—for now.

  In the apartments around them, people were waking, getting ready for their day.

  He needed to get Sister María far away from here.

  He returned to the basement to find her on her feet and waiting for him. “The streets are clear.”

  “What are you going to do with your gear? You can’t go out like that.”

  No, he couldn’t.

  He unstrapped his chest rig and body armor and dropped them to the floor and then unbuttoned his ACU shirt, stripping down to his T-shirt. “How is that?”

  She looked him over. “Lots of guys wear camo, so I suppose the pants are fine.”

  He shoved his military gear into his backpack.

  “If they search you, they’ll find that stuff.”

  “That’s a risk I have to take.” He broke down his M4 and crammed it inside the backpack, too.

  “We have one advantage,” Sister Maria said. “They don’t know we’re still here in Venezuela. They think everyone was on that helicopter. They won’t be looking for us.”

  He didn’t want to scare her, but he was pretty certain there’d been witnesses to last night’s drama in the street. “Let’s hope not.”

  He checked his pistol and slid it into its concealed holster inside his pocket.

  Somewhere above them, a door opened and closed.

  “Time to go.” He led her up the stairs and out into the cool of morning, guiding her around the corner and away from the warehouse.

  “Where are we going exactly?” she whispered.

  “Colombia.”

  Luis Rafael Sánchez Mantilla wanted someone to pay. He got up from his chair by the pool and walked back toward the veranda to pour himself a drink, phone to his ear. “How did the fucking gringos know where the hostages were? Someone in my organization betrayed me.”

  Luis had gotten the humiliating news first thing this morning and had shouted himself hoarse, cursing at the inept bastards who worked for him. He’d been bested by US commandos, who had invaded his country, killed his men, and escaped with his hostages while their government pretended to negotiate a ransom.

  Malparidos! Mamagüevos! Bastards! Cocksuckers!

  Ten million US dollars gone and shit on his face.

  The president, his cocksucker of a brother-in-law, would hear of this, and he would laugh at Luis. He would call him stupid for taking hostages and trying to squeeze the US government. But this wasn’t Luis’ fault. He was surrounded by fucking idiots.

  “There are some who saw the nun, Jefe. Pitón let her go outside. People saw her buying things at a market and recognized her.”

  What had Pitón been thinking when he’d abducted the Sister in the first place? That hadn’t been part of the plan. Then the stupid bastard had let her walk in the streets?

  If Pitón weren’t already dead, Luis would’ve had him torn to pieces.

  “But there is more, Don Luis.”

  “Out with it, Mono.” Luis held his phone against his ear with his shoulder and poured himself a glass of whiskey.

  “Pitón’s body was found in the street, not in the warehouse. Some people who live nearby saw him running away with the nun. A commando chased him and killed him just before we arrived. Thanks to us, the soldier didn’t make it back inside the warehouse. He didn’t make it onto that helicopter. He took the nun and hid in one of the buildings.”

  Luis set the bottle aside, drink forgotten. “Are you certain?”

  “Sí, Jefe. We searched the building and found a door to the maintenance room that had been broken open. There was no one there, but he is here in the city somewhere.”

  This…

  This changed everything.

  If Luis could capture this bastard, if he could prove that the US had operatives on Venezuelan soil....

  His brother-in-law would be indebted to him for giving him the biggest public-relations coup of his time in office. Luis would demand an important ministerial appointment or a military rank as his reward for turning the soldier over for interrogation.

  Of course, Luis would take his pound of flesh from this commando bastard first.

  “Is the nun still with him?” She might be easier to identify.

  “No one saw them leave the building, so we cannot be sure.”

  “Who knows about this?”

  “About the commando? No one outside of your Guachimanes, Jefe.”

  “Keep this secret for now. Put police checkpoints on all the roads in and out of the city. Search every taxi, bus, and car that tries to leave. Cover the airport in Caracas, too.”

  “Sí, Jefe.” There was hesitation in Mono’s voice. “No one saw his face.”

  There were days when Luis wondered if he was the only one in his operation with a fucking brain. “He’s a gringo. Check everyone’s identification. He won’t have an ID card, or, if he does, it will be fake. He probably won’t speak Spanish. Detain any man traveling alone with a nun. Bring any gringos you find to me.”

  “What about the nun?”

  Luis wondered if she would try to protect the gringo out of gratitude for rescuing her. “When you find her, bring her here. And, Mono, she must not be harmed. We have no quarrel with her. I’ll see her returned safely to the mission.”

  “Sí, Jefe.”

  8

  It was more difficult making their way through the city than Gabriela had imagined. The streets were crawling with Guachimanes, recognizable by their black uniforms and their rifles. It didn’t take CIA training to figure out that someone had witnessed the fight in the street last night. Sánchez knew they were here.

  The rumble of a truck engine.

  Dylan drew her into an alley, the two of them ducking down behind a large steel trash bin. The truck, another troop transport, stopped at the corner, a dozen men leaping to the ground, their b
oots echoing up and down the street.

  “It’s getting too hot out here.” Dylan had his pistol in hand. “We need to get off the street, Hermana.”

  They spoke only Spanish, as the sound of English would make them stand out.

  “That’s not going to be easy.”

  They had skirted the edge of town to get here, sticking mostly to stretches of park and forest, trying to reach the Carretera Panamericana—the Panamerican Highway—that would take them to Colombia. But this part of town was mostly apartment buildings.

  The thud of heavy boots on asphalt grew closer.

  “Hide in the trash bin, Sister. Quickly! I’ll give you a boost.”

  She grabbed the edges of the heavy steel container, strong hands lifting her from behind, steadying her as she hoisted herself over the top and dropped into a waist-deep sea of garbage. The reek was awful—rotten fish, dog poop, cigarettes. Still, she didn’t complain. She’d take bad smells over being caught any day.

  Dylan dropped his pack over the edge and climbed in beside her, throwing a piece of discarded plastic over her, closing the lid, and retreating behind several full garbage bags. “Stay hidden no matter what happens. Don’t worry about the rats.”

  “Rats?” She couldn’t see in the dark, but she could hear them. “Shit!”

  Boots. Men’s voices.

  Lying in the putrid darkness, she heard Dylan check his pistol, and her pulse picked up. She fought her fear, focused on listening.

  “Perez, check behind the trash bin.”

  Perez, whoever he was, would surely look inside the bin, too. Had they hidden themselves well enough?

  Footsteps drew near, stopped.

  Then a shaft of daylight spilled in—and Gabriela’s heart seemed to stop.

  “Dios mío, it stinks!” The lid closed again, footsteps heading the other way now.

  “Easy, Hermana.” Dylan’s voice was a reassuring whisper. “He’s leaving.”

  They waited for what felt like an eternity before Dylan got to his feet and lifted the lid to peek outside.

  “They’re gone.” He shouldered his pack, opened the bin, and climbed out, reaching back to help Gabriela. “We need to find somewhere to—”

  “Señor. Hermana.” A boy who couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old motioned to them from a back door down the alley. “¡Vengan! Los soldados los están buscando. Mi madre puede esconderlos.” Come! Soldiers are looking for you. My mother can hide you.

  Dylan cursed under his breath, hiding his pistol with his body until it was back in its holster. “Hey, friend.” Dylan walked closer. “Is your mother here?”

  A window just above Gabriela went up, and a woman with short hair stuck her head out, an angry expression on her face. She let loose on Dylan, scolding him in angry Spanish. “Why are you hiding this poor Sister in the garbage, you idiot? Quit talking, and come inside before someone recognizes her!”

  “Dylan.” Gabriela whispered his name in warning, doing her best in the few seconds she had to rein in her adrenaline and assess the situation.

  There was surely a reward for Dylan’s capture. For families facing hardship, that money would be hard to turn down. Was this a trap?

  It was the boy’s guileless eyes that convinced her, soft brown eyes that held no hint of deception.

  She looked up at the woman in the window. “Gracias, señora.”

  Thank you, ma’am.

  Dylan held the door for Gabriela, the child looking up at her as if she were a saint come to life.

  She smiled. “What is your name?”

  “Yadiel.”

  “Thank you for finding us, Yadiel.”

  The boy gave her a shy smile that put dimples in his cheeks.

  Yadiel’s mother hurried past them to close and lock the door. “I saw you jump into the garbage from my window. Those soldiers are searching for a man traveling with a nun. I recognized your face from the television, Hermana. Yadiel, close the curtains. I don’t want anyone to see our guests.”

  “This is dangerous for you, ma’am.” Dylan clearly had the same fear that Gabriela did. “If those men find out we were here—”

  “Those devils.” The woman’s face twisted with anger. “You don’t have to tell me that. They killed my husband eighteen months ago.”

  Gabriela crossed herself. “I’m so sorry. May God grant his soul repose.”

  Grief flashed in the woman’s eyes and disappeared again. “I’m Laura. Let’s see what we can do to keep the same thing from happening to you.”

  While Sister María spoke with Laura and Yadiel, Dylan memorized the location of doors and windows in case they needed to get out in a hurry, his gaze taking in the details of Laura’s apartment. The tidy kitchen. A framed photo of a dark-haired man sitting beside a tiny sculpture of the Virgin Mary. The crucifix on the wall. A row of worn shoes on a mat by the front door.

  “I don’t have much to eat, but what I have I’m happy to share.” Laura gestured to the round kitchen table. “Please sit. Can I make you some tea? I don’t have coffee.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I know how hard it is to find food.” Sister María sat at the table. “I wouldn’t want to deprive you or your son of—”

  “It would be a blessing to me to help you, Hermana.”

  “You’ve already done that.”

  Dylan positioned himself in the doorway to the kitchen where he could keep an eye on both entrances. He didn’t want to disrespect Laura by doubting her. Still, he needed to ask. “Why did you help us? If they discover what you’ve done, you and your son could pay the price.”

  Laura’s expression sharpened. She set a kettle of water on the stove to boil, the silence stretching. “We have already paid the price. We went to a protest about the food shortages. The Guachimanes fired into the crowd, killing people who just wanted to feed their families. My husband died on the street in front of us.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Sister María beat Dylan to offering condolences, empathy shining in those sweet brown eyes. “Would you like for me to pray for him?”

  The anger on Laura’s face transformed into grief. “You would do that?”

  “Of course.”

  Laura led her to the living room with the photo of her husband and lit a small votive candle. “He was a good husband and father. He was a school teacher. He voted for the president. He believed they would make life better for all of us.”

  “He’s not the only one who believed that.” Sister María said gently.

  She knelt, crossed herself, then folded her hands and began to pray in silence, her face luminous. When she had finished, she asked Laura if she would like to pray the Ave Maria with her. Laura knelt beside her, drew Yadiel against her, tears trickling down her cheeks, and joined Sister María. Dylan found himself praying along, the words he’d memorized as a child coming without effort.

  When the prayer was over, Laura wiped her tears away. “Gracias, Hermana.”

  In the kitchen, the kettle whistled.

  They drank cups of hot tea together, Laura reminiscing about her husband and happier days.

  Yadiel wrinkled his nose, his gaze on Sister María. “Why do you smell so bad, Hermana?”

  “Yadiel!” Clearly embarrassed, Laura apologized. “How could you say such a thing? She had to hide in the garbage. That’s why. I’m so sorry, Hermana.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. You’re right, Yadiel. I do smell bad. I haven’t been able to wash for a week, and I had to hide in the trash.”

  Laura stood. “Come, Hermana. You can take a hot shower here.”

  Sister María looked at her with longing on her face. “That’s very kind of you. Are you sure?”

  “Of course! This way.” Laura led Sister María toward the back of the house, little Yadiel tagging along behind. “We do at least have hot water and soap.”

  Dylan peeked out at the street from behind the curtains, saw the men in black uniforms piling back into the truck.

&
nbsp; This had been a close call, and it wasn’t likely to get easier. The Colombian border was only a twelve-hour drive away. At this rate, it would take them till Christmas to get there.

  You should have gotten her onto the damned helo.

  “Is it true what they’re saying?” Laura stood behind him. “Are you a US soldier?”

  Dylan wrestled with how to answer. Yadiel wasn’t with her, so he decided to tell her the truth. “No, I’m not a soldier. I used to be in the US Navy. Now I work for a private military company. I came with others to rescue the hostages, and one of the sicarios tried to run off with Sister María. He pointed a gun at her head.”

  “Is he the one who hurt her? Her face is bruised—and her lip.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Good.”

  “Not good enough. I wasn’t able to get Sister María onto the helicopter. I need to get her out of the country.”

  Laura crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s not going to be easy. Everyone is searching for a man traveling with a nun. Her picture is everywhere.”

  Dylan had been afraid of this. “Is there any way that we could buy some clothing from you—something Sister María can wear that will help her to blend in. I can pay you. She’s too easy to identify in that habit.”

  Laura nodded. “Yes, I can help you with that, but there’s no need to pay me.”

  “How about a bag of coffee beans?” He’d saved two, along with some Cuban cigarettes, for his Tía Julia back home in Arecibo.

  For the first time in the hour since he’d met her, Laura smiled.

  It felt so good to be clean, hot water, soap, and shampoo washing away some of the stress and exhaustion of the past week.

  Gabriela combed her wet hair and studied her reflection in the mirror. The bruises on her cheek were darker now, her lip still a little swollen. There was a bruise on her right breast, too. She didn’t know where she’d gotten that—probably from Pitón slamming her in the chest with his shoulder.