Page 69 of Casualties of War
Chapter Fifteen
After a breakfast of spiced coffee—the first he had tasted for years—and a soft tortilla with more spiced meat and vegetables, Adán set off for Pascuallita with an easy heart.
He had spent most of the sleepless night mulling over what he should do.
It was likely that by now the Loyalists would know he was missing. The Insurrectos had grabbed him to force the Loyalists to dosomething. That made telling the Loyalists he wasnotin the hands of the Insurrectos anymore critical. He had to get word to them as soon as possible.
Using an uncloaked cellphone would tell the world—and the Insurrectos—where he was. The loss of his cellphone narrowed his choices. The nearest cloaked communications device was in Pascuallita. If the Insurrectos did own the beaches, then headingback to the sea and stealing a boat to get back to Acapulco would take longer.
Ciaro’s father, Jose, had not liked his choice. “The Insurrectos have locked down Pascuallita. You can’t sneak in there.”
“The house I need to reach is on the west side, right up against the mountain,” Adán told him. “Do you know the Peña house at all?”
“I know it. Every Loyalist does,” Jose replied. “We stay awayfrom itbecauseit is General Peña’s house. You think the Insurrectos won’t be watching it?”
“I have to get there,” Adán replied. “I have to let the Loyalists and Nick Escobedo know I am free. It will make a difference.”
“He could sneak in from the back end,” Ciaro said to his father. “Up into the hills and back down again. The Insurrectos are lazy. They don’t like climbing,” he added, to Adán.
Jose sighed. “Well, I’ve told you what I think. I can only wish you luck.”
“Thanks, I think,” Adán said dryly.
Before Adán left the camp with a compass that Jose supplied and a direction to head in, Ciaro came up to him with an uneven grin and held the Glock out. “You need it,” Ciaro said. “I can always get another one.”
Adán shook his head. “I have no intention of getting into a shooting matchwith the Insurrectos.”
“You think you’re not already deep in this war?” Ciaro asked. His eyes looked old and wise.
Adán sighed and took the gun and shoved it in his windbreaker pocket. It weighed down the pocket, but at least it wasn’t visible. He still looked like a helpless civilian.
That had been four hours ago. Now he was climbing up a hill that was steeper than he thought, his breath whistlingin and out. He had forgotten how fit the average Vistarian was, clambering around on mountainsides for most of their life.
Adán checked the compass and make sure his direction was still true. It was easy, in amongst the trees, to veer off course. He needed to head south west, which cut across the slopes on a diagonal and made his course tough to follow.
He stood for a moment, catching his breath.
Far away, he heard voices. He froze, straining his hearing to pick it up again. Had he imagined it? He waited, his breath held.
The whisper of voices. Only, how far away?
His heart thudded.
Then, a crack of a stick.
“Shit!” came the whisper.
Adán’s heart shot upward. They wereveryclose. He had been so busy scrambling through the trees, he had failed to pay attention to anything around him.
He looked about, seeking a place to hide. For as far as he could see, until the gloom of the canopy-shadow swallowed up details, was a march of tall kapoks and ahuehuete, that Americans called Montezuma cypress. Vines tangled up in the higher branches and leaf litter covered the ground. The canopy was too thick overhead to let much grow down here.
A thicker cypress spread in front of him, betweenhim and the voices. Adán eased his way down the slope to the wide, multi-strand trunk and put his back against it, nestling into a crease. He would listen and wait to see if the voices were heading away from him.
If they came this way, they might pass by without noticing him if he held still. He pulled the gun out of his pocket and held his hand over the butt to muffle the sound of the clip springingfree. He eased the clip out and checked the load. It was a full clip.
He pushed it back home and seated it. He lifted the gun up to his shoulder, as he had done in dozens of Smokey Silva scenes. With a grimace, he dropped the gun down to his thigh and held it there, instead. It felt wrong to let it hang there. It felt as if he wasn’t prepared, only Ciaro had been right—swinging the gun up fromthis position would bring it into firing range faster.
Adán closed his eyes and extended his hearing, straining to locate the voices. They had been male and there was at least two of them.
