Freedom Fighters

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Out-buildings and more robust sheds that housed equipment and workshops spread around the administrative center. A single large building sitting off on its own behind the administrative buildings had security warnings plastered across the concrete walls. From his vantage point, Duardo could see four security cameras scanning the front of the building and the big sliding door. There was even a security guard box next to the door.

  The high-security building housed the silver smelter and refining equipment. It had also stocked the silver ingots before they were shipped.

  During the first wave of the rebellion, the Insurrectos had blown a large hole in the back of the building, which had disabled the smelter. Perhaps the Insurrectos thought they would seize all the silver stocked in the smelter building, only there had been none. The mine had barely begun proper operations. The small amount of processed silver had been transported elsewhere, to prove the mine was operational.

  Duardo had only ever seen the mine on television and in photographs in the news. The mine would have propped up Vistaria’s sluggish economy, so its opening had been followed by the media. Duardo was familiar with the buildings in the admin area.

  The mine itself was two miles away, an open-cut operation that should have been running twenty-four hours a day.

  The fence around the administrative area was so new, no rust or dullness had yet appeared on the chain-link. The barbwire on top would be sharp. The fence hadn’t been there when the media reported on the mine. It was an Insurrecto addition.

  “Will the fence be a problem?” Nick asked.

  Duardo shook his head. “The fence, no. It’s the number of armed guards that concerns me. Look.” He held the glasses out to Nick, who rolled onto his stomach and put them to his face.

  They were lying on the sandy dirt, a kilometer away from the compound, hidden by scrubby weeds and bushes. The bulk of the army was on the beach or the boats, another two kilometers to the south.

  Nick and Duardo had crept forward to assess the situation before launching the attack. General Flores remained behind and they kept contact via cellphones using the new stealth software.

  Nick frowned. “There are a lot of Insurrectos there.” He handed the glasses back. “Far too many to guard a bunch of empty buildings.”

  “They’re using company equipment to excavate the silver,” Duardo said, “although even that isn’t worth this scale of deployment. The only reason I would park that many men in an abandoned compound was if I knew an attack was imminent.” He looked at Nick.

  “They know we’re coming,” Nick breathed and rolled back onto his side. “How?”

  “They may not know for sure,” Duardo said. “Serrano may just be covering his ass. The silver mine is a critical asset. If he loses it, he’ll lose everything. He’s smart enough to know that.”

  “We weren’t expecting this,” Nick said. “Is there any chance our approach to the island was spotted?”

  Duardo wanted to say no. Forcefully. Only, he couldn’t.

  He weighted up what he should say. In fact, he hadn’t agreed with Flores’ frontal assault plan. The bay they were using as a beach head and the route to the mine compound were the most expected routes. “Even if they didn’t know we were coming, they would have been watching the best landing points,” he said, picking his words carefully.

  “Because that’s what you would have done,” Nick concluded. “The Insurrectos have demonstrated they don’t have your imagination. Let’s hope—” He broke off, looking ahead through the scrub at the compound. “I think our hopes were just killed,” he added.

  Duardo eased forward and raised the glasses to his eyes once more. He was forced to turn down the light filter, for strong spotlights had been switched on, bathing the open ground between the administrative buildings and the workshop sheds to the north. From where Duardo and Nick lay, they had a perfect view of the open area.

  Six Insurrectos stood on either side of a closed door, their rifles at the ready. All wore the new gray uniform.

  Duardo could feel his mouth curl down just looking at the gray outfits. A uniform didn’t make an army. The Insurrectos still lacked discipline and training and their chain of command was shaky at best. Serrano didn’t understand how delegation worked. He tried to control everything. The result was a bogged-down communications system. The handful of men Serrano trusted were overworked and stressed.

  The result was this ragged group of misfits holding unmatched armament, wearing uniforms that didn’t fit properly.

  The outer door opened and people emerged.

  “Camera!” Duardo murmured urgently.

  Nick reached for the camera and telephoto lens in the bag lying next to him and brought it up to his eye. Then he swore. “That’s Carmen.”

  Duardo let out his breath. “She’s injured.” Through the night glasses, he could see bandaging over her shoulder. Her arm was in a makeshift sling. She walked slowly, as if her balance was skewed, or her concentration sketchy.

  “Who is that next to her?” Nick asked.

  “I don’t know him,” Duardo said. “Caucasian. Daniel said an American led the outfit Carmen was with.” He reached for the name. “Garrett Blackburn.”

  Nick took more photos as the pair stumbled to the middle of the compound. “The officer behind them,” he said. “That’s the one who executed the American girl on television.”

  Duardo swallowed. “Carlos Ibarra. He must be quite mad to do what he did, then get up the next morning and eat breakfast like ordinary people.”

  Nick refocused the telephoto lens. “I think the strain is getting to him. His hair is white. It wasn’t that way on television.”

  Duardo studied Ibarra through the night glasses. The light amplification mechanism destroyed colors. It was hard to tell what color his hair was…except that it wasn’t black.

  “Something’s happening,” Duardo said, as Ibarra halted behind the prisoners. Garrett was helping Carmen stand. The guards nudged them apart. They were each handed a flat, thin object. The guards stepped back, surrounding them on two sides. The rifles came up, aiming at them.

  Nick drew in a sharp breath. “Mierda! They’re going to execute them!”

  “No, they’re sending a message.” Duardo focused on the boards the prisoners were holding. The writing was rough. The letters were large and thick, so the message could be read from a distance.

  Nick steadied the telephoto lens. “Leave by midnight or we die.”

  Duardo lowered the glasses. “Hostages.” He looked at Nick. “This is a political decision. You might want to discuss it with General Flores. We can withdraw as they demand. Go back to the boats and return to Acapulco. Or we can move ahead as planned.” He hesitated. “Given what we know of Ibarra from the televised execution, I have no doubt he will kill the prisoners if we do.”

  Nick put the camera back on the canvas pack beside him and rested his head on his arm, hiding his eyes. “Fuck!” he breathed. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the sky.

  Duardo agreed with him. It was an impossible decision. No matter what Nick decided, it would have bad consequences. Returning to Acapulco would kill any morale and momentum they had built up in the last few days. It would also kill any cooperation they might get from the United States.

  The other alternative didn’t bear thinking about. If that was the way Nick decided, Duardo would follow through, although he wouldn’t like it.

  The sergeant who’d escorted them to the observation point and now guarded their rear wriggled over on his stomach to where Nick and Duardo rested and held out his cellphone. “Sir, a message from the General.”

  Duardo took the phone and looked down at the glowing screen, keeping it shielded so any sharp shooters Ibarra had watching them wouldn’t have a target to shoot at.

  A text message showed on the screen.

  Return to boats. Fleet returning to Acapulco. Servicio Meteorológico Nacional report category 4 hurricane arriving within 12 hours.—Top Dog


  Top Dog was Flores’ code name, known only to Duardo and Nick, as a way of verifying the message.

  Duardo swore. They had been so busy in the last three days that no one had thought to check a long range weather forecast. They had obsessed over regional sea changes, instead. Now the heat and the stillness that had marked the last week made grizzly sense. The calm before the storm.

  He passed the phone to Nick and rested on his back, too. He put his arm over his eyes, thinking it through. The alternatives were few.

  “We can’t argue with a tropical cyclone,” Nick said. “Flores is right. Ibarra holding Carmen and Garrett adds weight to the decision.”

  “We’ll lose everything,” Duardo said. “Momentum. American gratitude. Morale. Pride. The respect of the media. We can’t turn back now.”

  “You have a plan for holding back a hurricane?” Nick asked mildly. “It’s category 4, Duardo. That’s winds up to a hundred and fifty miles an hour. The storm that killed New Orleans was stronger, but only just.” He put his hand on Duardo’s shoulder. “We’ll ride this out. It doesn’t have to be a defeat. Not yet.”

  Ride it out. It was an English term, for they were using English for privacy. The words lit a chain reaction of cascading ideas. Duardo drew in a slow, deep breath, excitement flaring. He rolled over onto his stomach and pressed his forehead into his fists, breathing hard.

  “Duardo?” Nick asked.

  He looked up. He was smiling. He couldn’t stop. “We don’t ride it out.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We don’t ride the hurricane out at all. We don’t go back to Acapulco. We don’t slink away with our tail between our legs as Ibarra wants us to.” He banged his fists against the dirt for emphasis. “We use the damn thing.”

  Nick frowned. “How?” he asked.

  Duardo told him.

  * * * * *

  Ibarra made them stand under the glare of the spotlights for over an hour. Carmen was certain they would have stood there until dawn, except for a soldier with insignia she didn’t recognize, who hurried over to Ibarra and murmured.

  She couldn’t hear what he was saying, yet as soon as he finished, Ibarra stirred. “Get them back behind a locked door. Get the medic to look at the woman again. I don’t want her expiring before her usefulness does.”

  Carmen hid her smile.

  Four hours ago, she had woken to find herself lying on a blanket laid over bare concrete floor, the chill from the concrete biting into her bones. There were cartons and metal boxes stacked on both sides of her.

  A man in civilian clothing knelt next to her, wrapping a bandage over her shoulder and under her arm. Her shirt had been cut away and two Insurrecto guards standing at her feet ogled her breasts with open hunger.

  Between their legs, Carmen could see Garrett. He sat with his back to the wall, his arm held up high because the handcuff around his wrist was attached to a pipe running across the wall above his head. There was blood on his neck where it had trickled from the wound on the back of his head. The blood looked dry.

  Garrett watched her with a peculiar intensity.

  The medic kneeling over her spoke. “The bullet passed through your shoulder. I’ve stopped the bleeding and stitched both entry and exit wounds. You may find you’re weak for several days. You lost a lot of blood.”

  She swallowed. “Thirsty.”

  The medic looked at the guards. “Find some drinking water.”

  The guards didn’t move. One of them turned his head and spat.

  “Sorry,” the medic told Carmen. “Perhaps later.” He packed up his things, then picked up a black garment from the floor and held it out to her. “Do you want me to help you put it on?”

  Carmen took the garment and rested it over her breasts, hiding them. She shook her head. The movement hurt.

  The medic got to his feet. “Try not to open the stitches.” The dryness of his voice said he didn’t expect her to follow that advice. He left without looking back.

  The two guards stayed where they were. One of them glanced at the other, with a smirk.

  Carmen tried not to interpret the smirk. Instead, she struggled to sit up without using her left arm, which was as flexible as a piece of lumber and as heavy as one. The medic had used local anesthetic. Just flexing her fingers hurt.

  While the guards watched her with growing restlessness, she ignored them and struggled to put the top on. Although she didn’t look at him, she knew Garrett monitored the guards. She could almost feel his tension, from all the way across the small room.

  It was a sleeveless singlet top. It looked as if it would be large enough to cover her properly, even with the bandages. She laid the top on her knees, so the hem was facing her, then picked up one edge and slid it up her left arm, threading her fingers through the armhole as it passed over her hand. When she had it bunched up around her bandaged shoulder, she worked the hem over her head.

  For a few seconds she was blind.

  “Carmen, watch out!” Garrett cried.

  She yanked the top down, pushing her head through. A guard was reaching for her, his fingers inches from her breasts. She rolled back onto her shoulders and brought her foot up. They hadn’t stripped her completely. She was still wearing the heavy steel-toed boots that everyone in the unit wore as a substitute for army boots. With her knee almost to her chest, she rammed her boot into the guard’s exposed crotch with all the strength she could muster.

  He howled and dropped to his knees, his hands cupping his testicles. His face turned a dirty gray. He toppled over onto his side, his knees curled up and his breathing ragged.

  The other guard was caught flat-footed. He fumbled to haul his rifle around to aim at her. Carmen pushed herself up off the blanket and onto her knees. It felt as though the guard was moving slowly. She had all the time in the world to bat the rifle away from her. She reached out her hand and gripped his genitals through his pants and squeezed as hard as she could.

  The guard made a breathless, wheezing sound and dropped the rifle. A pair of handcuffs fell from his pocket as he bent over, his hands covering his crotch. His face was red with pain and fury.

  Carmen pushed at his shoulder and he fell to the ground next to his compadre.

  She pushed her other arm in and through the top and yanked it down over her torso. Then she picked up the handcuffs, grabbed the closest ankle and fastened one end around the bony joint. She dragged the boot over to the other guard and fastened the other end around his ankle.

  “There’s no camera,” Garrett said, speaking English, “although I don’t think these walls are soundproof.”

  “I don’t care.” She stepped over the guards. She couldn’t move fast and by the time she reached Garrett, she was exhausted. She fell to her knees in front of him. “You shouldn’t have tried to reach me.”

  Garrett drew his free arm around her. “You shouldn’t have tried to cover me. You drew their fire.”

  “You should know better.” She gripped his shirt to hold herself up and draw closer.

  His answer was to kiss her. It was hard and brief. “Check the guards. One of them might have a key for the cuffs.” He spoke urgently. “I know you’re weak. I know how you’re hurting, but you need to do it now, before they recover.”

  She nodded. “I just need a minute…”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Now, Carmen. They’re getting stronger with each passing second. You need to dig deep.”

  It’s mental. You know, now, that you’re stronger than you think.

  She swallowed. She was so thirsty! With a growl that pulled from her belly, she pushed herself to her feet and worked her way over to the guards. They were recovering. They both had color in their faces again and they were breathing more easily.

  “I’m wearing steel-toed boots,” Carmen told them. “Try anything and I’ll kick you in the balls. My feet are working just fine.”

  “Skinny bitch,” one cursed thickly.

  She ignored him and dug through the
ir pockets, taking her time. She came up empty-handed and forced herself to her feet. “Whoever designed these uniforms is an idiot,” she said. “There’s only two pockets. Where’s the pocket for ammunition? For a silencer? For food?”

  She picked up a rifle and kicked the other toward Garrett, far out of the guards’ reach, then made her way back to Garrett. She had little energy left and her shoulder was on fire. “No key,” she told him. She stayed on her feet. She wasn’t sure she could get up again if she sat down.

  He nodded. “You need to go.” He said it calmly.

  “Go?”

  “Leave. Get away. Give me that rifle over there. I’ll make sure the guards don’t make a sound. You’re free. You can step through the door and sneak out.”

  “And leave you behind?” The outrageousness of the idea stole her breath. “They’ll kill you when they find I’m gone.”

  “They could have killed us already,” Garrett said coldly. He shifted on the floor, flexing his extended shoulder, trying to ease it. “They need us for something. They won’t kill me if you go, because they’ll lose whatever leverage they think they have with us.”

  Carmen caught her breath as she realized exactly what the leverage was. “I’m not leaving,” she said, trying to speak firmly. Her voice shook. “Not unless I find a way to take you with me.”

  Garrett looked up at her. He swallowed. “You have to go. I have to know you’re out of this, that you’re safe.”

  She lowered herself to her knees, moving stiffly. Now her head was level with his. “Not without you.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Damn it, Escobedo, don’t you get it?” His voice was harsh, even though he kept it low. “I had a hard enough time sitting here watching the guards paw you when they put you in here for the medic to work on. I don’t know what they’re planning for us. I do know that was just the overture. I know it. You know it. I don’t want to live through this. Not again. Not when it’s you.” The harshness has shifted to a hoarse whisper. His eyes were glittering in the low light and he looked away. He was breathing hard.