God knows why the press used to rave about the elegance of the Palace. The place was a museum, an ancient relic of a colonial past Vistaria needed to shrug off if it was to move into the twenty-first century.
Irritated, Serrano moved down the corridor. The doors were shut, most of them with the new electronic key plates Torrini had installed. He’d had at least one good idea, Serrano admitted. He fished his own pass out of his pocket and moved over to the door to Ibarra’s suite and passed it over the lock plate.
The door chirped and unlocked. Serrano pulled out his gun and moved inside.
Escobedo’s woman, the blonde Serrano had thought was fully occupied in the hospitality suite downstairs, was bent over the desk in front of all the screens. Her chin jerked up and her eyes widened.
It had been twenty years since Serrano had played pelota, which required extraordinary reaction speeds. He had put on weight since then, too, although his reactions had not blunted at all.
He lunged forward and grabbed the woman’s wrist, spun her around and hauled her wrist up the center of her back.
She tried to speak, then stopped when he rested the muzzle of his pistol against her temple.
*
DUARDO HAD TO SUPPRESS HIS smile. Aguado appeared to be having the time of his life, even though he was squashed into the belly of the Blackhawk with dozens of men. It was standing room only. Few of them had to hold a strap because everyone else dogged them upright.
Aguado had snagged a spot by the open door. As he hung from the strap with both hands, he leaned through the door and watched the countryside roll beneath the helicopter, only two hundred feet below.
Traveling level with them were the other two Blackhawks, also stuffed to the gullet.
Aguado smiled and pointed at the ground beneath them. “Wave hello!” he cried, as he lifted his left hand and spread his fingers.
They were passing over the bulk of Serrano’s army. Duardo had taken the spot on the other side of the door, for he intended to be the first one to step onto enemy territory when they landed. He could see the ground clearly. He watched the heads of soldiers snap up and track the two hundred mile an hour progress of the Blackhawks as they shot overhead. The helicopters were too high to be certain, although Duardo wanted to think the expression he could see on the Insurrectos’ faces was consternation. Dismay would be better.
He straightened up and resettled his helmet, watching Aguado wave like a little kid at the Insurrectos below.
“You shouldn’t gloat, Rafa,” Duardo chided him. “Three choppers worth of men isn’t nearly enough to take the Palace. We’ll have to fight for every inch.”
“But we are fighting, no?” Aguado asked.
Duardo conceded that point. “Yes, we’re fighting back,” he assured him. He glanced down at the ground zipping by beneath them and frowned. The road and the ground to either side of it was full of people, most of them on foot. Civilians.
Aguado’s smile faded as he saw them, too.
Duardo fished his phone from his pocket and held it out for Aguado to see.
2 hours, 43 minutes.
Get out of la Colinas!
Aguado nodded. “You really think it’s a dirty bomb?” he asked, his voice only just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the engine and the rotors. Every man around them would hear because they were packed in so closely.
“There’s reason to think it might be,” Duardo said. There was no point in sugarcoating this for the men. They deserved to know. It might just make them better fighters, to know a drone was about to drop Cobalt 60 on their heads.
Besides, everyone had the damn countdown on their phones, now.
Duardo lifted his voice higher, so more men would overhear. “Serrano took this country in just over twenty-four hours. I’ll take it back in less than two.”
Aguado straightened. “La Colinas, just ahead,” he said. “Brace yourselves!” he called out, as everyone checked and cocked their weapons, including Duardo.
*
CRISTIÁN UNDERSTOOD LOCKE HAD APPOINTED himself Cristián’s guardian—or perhaps Parris had ordered him to do it. When Locke shadowed Cristián through the trees, as the rest of the group split up, Cristián didn’t voice an objection. The man wouldn’t leave his side, period.
Cristián found himself a nice straight bole of a cypress, four feet wide and probably over a hundred years old. He put his shoulder against it and looked around. From here, he could see the sinuous outward curves of the road as it moved in and out around the base of trees, meandering south.
The road had surprised Yardley, although there were hundreds of unofficial tracks snaking across the island, giving Vistarians access to whatever place they needed to go. Most of the major highways and sealed roads had been built on top of the busier tracks, widening them and straightening the worst of the curves.
More crunching and the sibilant hiss of a whisper, about fifty yards away. Under the canopy, sibilants traveled as if they had been spoken into a megaphone.
“Amateurs,” Locke said, from behind Cristián. He didn’t whisper. He murmured.
Cristián glimpsed the flicker of movement on the out-curve of the road and stiffened. Surely he had imagined—
The flicker came again. He glimpsed black hair, black jeans. Flat-soled sneakers.
Chloe.
Cristián gripped the tree as coldness spilled through him. It was pure fear and for a moment, he couldn’t pull a coherent thought together.
“Ah, shit,” Locke breathed. “She’s gonna pull them away from us. Brave, stupid girl.” He put his back to the tree and let out a heavy breath.
Cristián realized he was leaning against the tree. His legs were shaking. “What do we do?”
Locke looked at him. “Nothing,” he said flatly. “It’s her choice. It might actually work.”
Cristián stared at him. There were no words to express the horror Locke’s response built in him.
Locke shrugged. “She’s a non-entity in their minds. She’ll tell them she’s a tourist who stumbled onto the island and they’ll either lock her up or throw her back to the mainland. Either way, they stop looking for us.” Locke’s gaze was steady. “It means they don’t get their hands on you, which is a very good thing. You’ve got too much information in your head.”
“They could kill her,” Cristián said. His throat ached with each word.
Locke considered. “They might,” he said at last.
Fresh horror, boiling hot and scalding, rushed through his limbs. Cristián curled his hands into fists, to hide their shaking.
“It was her choice,” Locke repeated. His gaze drilled into Cristián’s eyes. “She’s doing it for you. You know that, right?”
High pitched buzzing sounded in his brain. Cristián couldn’t bring his thoughts together. All he could think of was the need to do something to stop this from happening.
Locke was relaxed against the tree, his heavy caliber pistol dangling from his hand, the rifle hanging from his shoulder.
Cristián snatched the pistol and sprinted for the road.
He pumped the pistol, checking the load as he ran. Duardo was an irritating big brother, yet he had drilled them all in how to load and check the load on weapons, just in case they needed it one day.
Today, Cristián needed it.
Locke was not chasing him, the way Cristián had expected him to. Instead, a soft two-note whistle sounded. Locke was raising the alarm.
Cristián ran faster than he’d ever run. Chloe had been strolling. He should be able to catch up to her if he gave it his all for a few moments. He would never compete with her speed over the middle-distance, but he wasn’t a sloth, either.
He leaned into the curve, his feet pounding the dirt, the pistol hanging from his hand. Around the curve, the road opened up, running straight for an amazing thirty yards before disappearing around another curve.
The image slammed into Cristián’s brain—Chloe with her hands up, two Insurrectos standi
ng in front of her, one with a rifle swinging around to point at her.
Cristián lifted the gun and fired, not at the one with the rifle, because Chloe was in front of him. He fired at the shorter one and was amazed to see him drop.
The taller one swung the rifle to point at Cristián instead.
He threw himself forward into a Parkour roll, the soft dirt absorbing a lot of the impact. His impetus brought him back up onto one knee, the other foot jammed into the dirt, stopping his roll. He would never in a million years be able to repeat the roll deliberately.
By the time he was upright again, Chloe had thrown herself on top of the short one and was fighting him for the rifle.
The tall one was still trying to adjust his aim when Cristián fired, aiming for the middle of his face.
The Insurrecto fell backward.
Cristián leaned forward and caught the rifle as it fell.
The short one hadn’t been hit by his first shot. He’d dropped to the ground instinctively. Now he struggled under Chloe’s full weight. She had her knees on his back. He had to be short of breath under that pressure.
Cristián got to his feet, moved over and shot him in the temple.
Around them, the forest was ringing with shouts and cries and the sound of running feet. Cristián shoved the pistol into the back of his jeans, grabbed Chloe under the arm and hauled her to her feet. He pulled her over to the nearest big tree and put her back against the bark. He covered her and checked the rifle. It was loaded and cocked.
He lifted it, trained it on the road and waited, listening.
Chloe reached around him. He thought she was trying to hold him, until she plucked the pistol out of his belt. She was breathing hard. Her arm as she pointed the pistol in the other direction, covering his left flank, was perfectly steady.
If there were to be any later moments, he would find one and explain to her how much he admired her strength in this moment.
17.
THE WOMEN PUSHED INTO THE little sunroom, stumbling down the three steps and over to the doors onto the deck at the top of the stairs down to the beach. Téra followed behind them, the rifle under her arm. Her heart screamed. She trembled from head to foot, but a hot, angry core drove her. If anyone tried to stop them, she would scrag them with her teeth, if she had to.
As she stepped onto the second step into the sunroom, the cluster of women at the doors got them open and streamed out.
Téra took the last step.
A hand shot out and grabbed her throat. The thick fingers squeezed, cutting of her breath. She couldn’t scream or warn any of the women who all had their backs to them. No one had thought to check the corners of the room.
Not even Téra.
Zapatero pulled her off the step and took the rifle from her nerveless fingers. He studied her curiously.
Beyond the door, the women screamed, throwing up their hands. Two Insurrectos marched up the last of the stairs from the beach, their rifles raised, herding the women back toward the doors.
Téra’s vision blurred as tears built.
She listened to the panic in their voices as the ladies were all driven back into the sunroom. They clung to each other, babbling.
Zapatero pushed Téra toward them, freeing her throat, as the other two Insurrectos came inside.
“Colonel! Louis and Jose are dead!” the one wearing sergeant’s stripes cried. “We can’t find anyone else. The outer perimeter is gone!”
Téra rubbed her throat.
Zapatero frowned. “You’re sure?” he asked his men.
They both nodded.
“Then who is left to guard the house?” Zapatero demanded.
They looked at each other.
“Just us, Colonel,” the sergeant said.
“Then why are you not guarding the house?” Zapatero shouted.
Their mouths dropped open. Before they could recover enough to respond, Zapatero lifted the rifle and shot the corporal in the chest.
He crumpled to the floor as the women screamed again.
The private’s eyes got very large. He fumbled with his rifle, as Zapatero swung his to aim at the private. Before either of them could fire, though, a third gun bellowed. Glass tinkled. Red sprouted at the side of the private’s neck and he dropped to the ground, his rifle clattering beside him.
The women pressed backward, out of the way. Téra didn’t move. She couldn’t. She stared at the broken window. Rubén stood on the deck, his left hand holding his crutch, the right-hand crutch leaning against his side. He held a Magnum in his hand, and it was pointing at Zapatero.
Zapatero lifted the rifle up and out from his side, the other hand held high.
Téra grabbed the rifle from him and turned it to point at him.
“Open the door for me,” Rubén called through the fractured window pane.
A dozen willing hands opened the door for him. He worked his way inside and over the two bodies, to where Téra stood with the rifle on Zapatero.
The colonel didn’t seem to be distressed. He watched Rubén, a small smile playing around his mouth. “You figured it out, then. Good.”
Rubén looked at Téra. “Keep the rifle on him for now. I don’t have a spare hand.”
She nodded.
Rubén considered Zapatero. “One guard, young enough to start at shadows, and a simple lock? I figured it out, yes. It was you who dealt with your team? I’ve found bodies everywhere on my way around the house.”
Zapatero shrugged. “They were all brainwashed and couldn’t see the truth.”
“What truth?” Minnie demanded, moving to stand beside Téra.
Zapatero glanced at his raised hands. “Can I lower them?”
“No,” Rubén and Téra said together.
“What truth, Colonel?” Minnie repeated.
“I was second in command at Pascuallita base,” Zapatero said. “Serrano pulled me out of there with instructions to come here and kill everyone in the house. Women, children, convalescing soldiers. Anyone with a pulse.”
Téra’s belly cramped.
Zapatero looked at Rubén, as if it was him he was trying to convince. “That isn’t war. It isn’t how war is supposed to be,” he said. “I lost my taste for Serrano’s brand of war when he told me his plans to abduct the family of Loyalists and extort them into doing what he wanted. This, though…it soured my stomach.”
“So you came over anyway,” Téra murmured.
“I warned the Peña boy more of Serrano’s thugs were coming for his family, before we left. I’m glad I did. On the boat ride over to here, the men Serrano had assigned to me were describing the different ways they planned to do the work,” Zapatero said. “Most of them were just old enough to shave, yet their souls were already blackened by Serrano’s values. That was when I knew I would not do it.” Zapatero dropped his hands. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
Rubén considered him. “You let everyone think I was working with you.”
“I had to, to keep suspicion from me,” Zapatero said. “While I was moving around the house, taking care of them, they focused on keeping the unreliable double-agent contained.” He shrugged.
Rubén lurched forward. “You let Téra think I was an Insurrecto spy.” His punch was a heavy one, with his whole bodyweight behind it and Zapatero staggered back. His head rapped against the wall behind him, and his knees buckled. He sank to the floor, his hand to his jaw.
“Asshole,” Rubén breathed. “Where is Adán Caballero?”
“In the kitchen,” Zapatero said, his voice muffled. “Cuffed to the range.”
Rubén reached into his pocket and pulled out a handcuff key and held it out behind him. “Someone release him.”
The women grabbed the key and ran up the stairs, heading for the kitchen.
Rubén took Téra’s rifle and held it out. “Four of you take the Colonel down to the cellar. Lock him in the furnace room and guard the door. We’ll figure out what to do with him later.”
Four wome
n came forward. One took the gun and put it under her arm with a competent air and pointed it at Zapatero.
He rose sluggishly to his feet. “Which way?” he asked the lady with the gun.
She jerked the gun toward the interior of the house and he moved up the steps. He had his hands up again.
The other three surrounded him, herding him.
“The rest of you,” Rubén told the room, “except Minnie, because she shouldn’t lift heavy things. Please take the bodies and put them on the gravel out the front of the house. We’ll deal with them later.”
The women bent over the two bodies. Between them, they carried the bodies through the glass doors and onto the deck, then up to the path which ran down the side of the house to the front.
It left Minnie standing alone. She raised her brow. “And do you have orders for me, Captain?”
“You might turn your back for a moment,” he told her.
Minnie smiled and turned.
Rubén put the crutches aside and drew Téra into his arms. “You broke out,” he murmured.
“I was pissed as hell. I wanted to kill you, Rubén.”
He held her face. “Good.”
“Good?” She clutched at him, astonished.
“Last time you thought you’d been betrayed, you collapsed in on yourself. This time, you didn’t. You got angry instead and vented it. I have hope for you, Téra.” His smile was warm.
Téra drew in a breath which fizzed on the way down. “Me, too,” she breathed and kissed him, because he was taking too long to get to it.
*
DUARDO HAD SETTLED ON A strategy before the Blackhawks left Freonegro pass. The pilots brought the choppers down in the big town square, instead of at the top of the Avenue of Nations in front of the Palace. There were always too many people outside the Palace gates.
There were still too many civilians in the town square, too. The pilots lowered the helicopters a foot at a time, giving them plenty of time to get out of the way. The birds settled on the flat stone cobbles before Duardo realized they were fully down.
He grabbed a headset and said into it, “Stop the rotors, too. We don’t want a civilian getting caught by them.” Even though the rotors were well above human height, he wanted no harm to come to these people. They had been through enough.
V-Day Page 17