Page 69 of V-Day
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 HISsmile. 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 wearefighting, 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,everyonehad 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 APPOINTEDhimself 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.
