If We Survive

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I figured Palmer would stop marching us toward the checkpoint. I figured he would turn us around, lead us another way. But there was no other way, no other exit. We had to get out to that courtyard if we were going to leave the prison. So we had no choice: we kept moving forward, Mendoza in the lead, Palmer at his shoulder, me in the rear with our “prisoners” up ahead.

Lieutenant Franco turned to face us. The pudgy little man in the jaunty green beret put his hands behind his back, waiting as we came toward him. He looked stern, suspicious, and threatening.

Palmer murmured in Mendoza’s ear one last time. At once, Mendoza started giving orders, waving his hand in a very dismissive way. He was obviously telling Lieutenant Franco to get out of the way and let us through, trying to bluff our way past him before Franco realized who exactly it was in those fatigues.

For a minute, I thought it actually might work. Mendoza was so convincing, I thought Franco might just jump at his orders and step aside. But no such luck. Franco, after all, was a “lieutenant.” He wasn’t going to be pushed around. He waited right where he was until we had almost reached him. Then quietly, with a great show of self-assurance, he lifted his open hand like a cop stopping traffic.

“Alto, por favor,” he said quietly.

Mendoza stopped. He had no choice. There were no less than six gunmen standing behind Franco, ready to back him up. He couldn’t just push through them to the door.

But he gave it a try. Well, of course he did. He knew if any shooting started, Palmer would make sure he took the first bullet. So he put on a very impatient sneer and unleashed a series of harsh commands into Lieutenant Franco’s face, waving one hand this way and that as he did.

But Franco couldn’t be budged. His arrogant superior expression remained in place and so did he. He sniffed at Mendoza’s orders, his thin mustache twitching. And when Mendoza finished, he responded quietly but certainly. I didn’t understand the words, but I was pretty sure I knew what they meant: I am in charge of this checkpoint and no one gets through without my say-so.

Mendoza threw up one hand, as if to say: Look at the idiots I have to deal with. He gestured toward us: Go on and look at them if you want.

And that’s exactly what Lieutenant Franco did.

I held my breath as he put his hands behind his back and walked around to get a better look at the “prisoners.” He studied Jim first. Then he moved on to Meredith, gazing down at her along the line of his nose like a connoisseur examining a work of art. Finally he reached Nicki. My heart pounded as he paused in front of her. He took her chin in one of his hands. She tried to pull back, but he held her hard. He forced her face to the side so he could get a better look at the raging bruise on her cheek.

Then he chuckled. “Perhaps you have learned a lesson, eh?” he said, with a leering smile.

I expected Nicki to cry or tremble, at least. But she didn’t say anything. In fact, she looked directly into Franco’s eyes— so directly that, after a moment, the “lieutenant” seemed to feel uncomfortable. In any case, he let her go and turned away.

As he did, his eyes went over me.

Up till that moment, he hadn’t looked at me—or at Palmer either. Why would he? He was there to check on the prisoners, not the guards. Even now, he didn’t exactly examine me or anything. His gaze just happened to pass over my face as he was turning.

I saw something flash in his eyes and I thought, He remembers me! But he didn’t—not exactly. I think something caught in his brain, something he couldn’t quite pinpoint…

He didn’t bother to take a second look and figure it out. He just gave a quick wave of his hand to Mendoza, as if to say, Off you go.

And off we went.

A sigh of relief flooded out of me as we started moving again. We went past the security check, under the watchful eyes of the guards. We kept moving to the front door.

Escape.

Mendoza pushed through the doors, Palmer following close behind him. Another second and we went out too—out of that hellhole of buried dungeons—into the open air of the courtyard.

Even surrounded by the walls, even surrounded by barbed wire, even watched by the gunmen in their high towers, I was glad to see the sky above me again, glad to feel the air and the heat of the sun. I wanted to lift my face and feel the touch of freedom…

But I couldn’t. Not yet.

Mendoza had begun shouting orders again. Guards were running at his command. I looked and saw a row of trucks parked against one wall. Most of them were pickups. One or two were army troop carriers, their rear beds hidden under green canvas. We were moving toward them, and Mendoza was gesturing at the front gates.

I could hardly believe it: I saw the gates begin to open.

Escape.

We kept moving toward the trucks. A guard ran up to Mendoza, handed him a set of keys. Palmer spoke in Mendoza’s ear. Mendoza reluctantly handed the keys over to him. Palmer looked over his shoulder at me. He pointed to one of the pickups.

I nodded. I nudged Jim in the back with my rifle as if I were shoving a prisoner along. When he looked back at me, Nicki and Meredith looked back too. I gestured with my head toward the pickup. We started moving in the truck’s direction. We were only a few steps away. I glanced over to the front gates. They were still swinging wide. They were almost open all the way.

Escape.

Somehow, I thought—miraculously—we are actually going to pull this off. We are actually going to walk right out of here.

I thought that—and the next moment, the shouting started.

I turned and saw Lieutenant Franco. He was rushing out the prison door. Screaming at the guards in the courtyard, pointing frantically at the gates, pointing frantically at us.

“Alto! Alto!”

Stop. Stop.

He had remembered us.