Page 61 of Freedom Fighters
Nick drew in a sharp breath. “Mierda! They’re going to execute them!”
“No, they’re sending a message.” Duardo focused onthe 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 theboats 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. Itwas 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 likeit.
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 showedon 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 obsessedover 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 weightto the decision.”
“We’ll lose everything,” Duardo said. “Momentum. American gratitude. Morale. Pride. The respect of the media. Wecan’tturn 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. Hecouldn’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. “Weusethe damn thing.”
Nick frowned. “How?” he asked.
Duardo told him.
* * * * *
Ibarra made them stand under the glare of the spotlights forover 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.”
Carmenhid 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 ather feet ogled her breasts with open hunger.
