Chapter Fourteen

Duardo studied the fence through his binoculars. The chain-link ran around the perimeter of the compound and the wind made it ripple and bow. It had been built hastily and he doubted it would last out the storm. He needed it gone now, though, not in twelve hours.

“Jasso?” he asked. There was no need to keep his voice down. The wind roared around them, bending trees and picking up anything loose and hurling it along the ground. It plucked at their fatigues and made their eyes water. And this was the early stages of the storm.

Jasso laid on the ground next to Duardo, his rifle barrel propped on a backpack. He didn’t bother replying. He pushed his thumb up into the air and kept his gaze on the sights. It wasn’t a sniper rifle, for a long sniper rifle would have been impossible to haul up the cliffs. Jasso didn’t seem bothered that he must use a normal rifle. He had trained with the United States Army in an exchange program. They had put the polish on one of the best natural shots in the Vistarian Army and turned him into a superior sniper.

Duardo wondered briefly how much the wind would screw with Jasso’s accuracy, then let the problem drop. Jasso was good enough to compensate.

The guard they had spotted completing a desultory round of the back fence came back into view as he rounded the north corner. This round had taken him even longer to complete than the last two. He hugged the buildings, his shoulders rounded and his cap pulled down low over his eyes. As a guard, he was almost useless. He wasn’t expecting anyone to try anything in this weather and wasn’t looking at anything but his boots.

Duardo bent and patted Jesso’s shoulder lightly.

The rifle bucked. Duardo didn’t hear the shot. The wind silenced it.

The guard crumpled and was still.

Valentin and Trajo broke from their cover behind the salt bushes and ran for the fence. Trajo had bolt cutters in his hand while Valentin carried the meter and wire clippers. Valentin was the closest to an electronics expert among them.

They crossed the twenty yards of open ground in three seconds. Trajo dropped the bolt cutter to the dirt at the foot of the fence, then dipped and picked Valentin up on his shoulders, boosting him so he could reach the coils of barbed wire at the top. Valentin worked quickly, rewiring the alarm circuit to include an extra six feet of wire. He dropped to the ground and Trajo bent and picked up the bolt cutters and snipped the fence, opening it up.

The wind gave an extra hard gust. Trajo gripped the wire, keeping himself on his feet.

Duardo signaled to the rest to move out. They sprinted to the fence, where it sagged and folded up on itself. A two-foot gap had opened.

Following the directions Duardo had laid out earlier, before the wind made hearing too difficult, Jasso moved through the gap and took up guard, his rifle at his shoulder. Rickardo took the other direction, while everyone else wriggled through the fence and shouldered their packs.

Another hard gust plucked at them and Duardo staggered sideways, thrusting out his boot to compensate. He signaled to Emile, then moved over to the side of the building. Being closer to a structure didn’t reduce the power of the wind, but it would delay being spotted if someone came around the corner.

Emile roped them together, putting Adjuno and Trajo at the ends, for they were the heaviest of the team. This time only a few feet of slack ran between each of them.

They took up a stance in a loose semi-circle, facing the wall of the building. It was featureless, unbroken by a window or door, which was often the case with prefabricated buildings like this.

It was Emile and Valentin’s turn. They dropped to their knees close to the side of the building and dug in their backpacks. Duardo pulled the Glock out of his holster and cocked it, watching over his shoulder. Jasso and Rickardo guarded their flanks.

Emile and Valentin worked quickly. This particular prefabricated wall was made of two layers of thinnest plywood, held together with light aluminum studs. Paint on the inside and a spray of stucco on the outside disguised the construction. There was no insulation. It was the cheapest building possible and light enough to be air-freighted to wherever it was needed.

Valentin used a stud-finder to locate the nearest studs. Once he had them located, Emile used the small crowbar he had withdrawn from his thigh pocket to pry up the edges of the sheet of plywood where it ended over the stud. Once it was lifted far enough to get their fingers under it, they both hauled on the edges, peeling the plywood back like orange peel. The sheet may have groaned or cracked, only the wind whipped the sound away.

The wind was a banshee howling, tearing along the open area between the building and the nearest trees and making the loose ends of the chain-link rattle. It muffled Duardo’s hearing and diminished his vision. He might have felt cut off, except the rope tying him to the next man was strangely reassuring.

The sheet of plywood came free and was tossed to one side. The wind picked it up and tumbled it along the ground until it fell flat and lay with one corner lifting, threatening to take off again.

The interior cavity behind the plywood was empty except for wiring running through holes in the metal studs. The interior sheet was an unadorned brown wood, with green stenciled letters declaring the plywood manufacturer’s name.

Duardo stepped forward and pressed his ear against the wood and listened. The wood flexed inward as his weight settled against it. It was possibly even thinner than the exterior layer.

Nothing moved behind the wall that he could hear. That didn’t mean there wasn’t anyone there, although the odds were small. With a big storm approaching, anyone with intelligence would be on the move, finding shelter and gathering water and food.

He stepped back out of the way, taking three slow steps against the wind. Just in the time since they had stepped through the fence, the wind had grown stronger. While Duardo had scoped the inside, Valentin pulled out his wire cutters and crouched down by the side of the gap in the wall, the blades hovering over the wiring. He watched Duardo.

Duardo raised his Glock and wished for a moment he had his SIG assault rifle. Daniel had refused to return it after the White Sands thing. Still, even a Glock would drill through the parchment paper-thin wall. He nodded.

Valentin cut the wires.

* * * * *

Garrett found a metal ruler in a box of office supplies and flexed it, pleased. Carmen watched him move over to the door from her seat on the folded blanket. He had insisted she stay where she was and she was happy to comply. Her shoulder was a solid block of throbbing hurt. Even breathing put pressure on it. Her arm was useless.

Garrett studied the door, running his fingertips over the hinges. It was a simple hollow core door that swung into the room. Because the frame was on the outside, they couldn’t kick the door from its lock. They could kick through the door for it was a flimsy thing, although whoever guarded the door on the other side would hear them long before they finished busting through.

Just like the door, the hinges were normal, too. Garrett worked the thin edge of the ruler into the small gap between the head of the hinge pin and the hinge beneath, sliding the ruler deep. He worked it, bending the ruler up and down and pummeling the opposite edge with the side of his fist.

The pin moved. If it squeaked, Carmen didn’t hear it. The wind screamed outside the building, making her thoughts fuzzy and discordant.

Once the pin extended above the hinge by an inch, Garrett worked it with his fingers, lifting it out of the metal tube the hinge created. The hinge didn’t move.

He dropped to his knees and worked on the bottom hinge the same way. When both pins were lying on the floor next to the doorframe, he got to his feet and came over to where she was sitting.

“I need your help.” He had to lift his voice over the shrieking wind.

She struggled to her feet and Garrett helped her to the door. She looked at him expectantly.

He put his lips close to her ear. “We pull the door out. You deal with whoever is on the other side. If there’s two, I’ll take the second.”

She went over to the box of office supplies where Garrett had found the ruler and rummaged through it. She spotted what she was looking for and hauled it out from the bottom of the box. The paper punch was a heavy duty metal one, with a rubber sole. She gripped it and gave it a swing, glad that her left shoulder had taken the shot. Swinging weight was impossible with that hand, although she was right-handed.

Garrett still worked at the door. This time, though, he slid his fingers underneath the door itself, scraping his knuckles against the concrete floor. Carmen settled herself to one side of him. Now the door had no hinges, that side would open like a normal door, with the lock on the other side acting as a hinge of sorts…unless there was a bolt on that side. She didn’t remember seeing a bolt, just a normal office doorknob, round and bronzed, with a key slot in the middle of it. On this side of the door, the knob used to have a locking button. Someone had jimmied the knob and removed the button.

Garrett got a grip on the bottom of the door and looked up at her. She nodded.

He hauled on the bottom of the door, the tendons in his neck standing out. Carmen watched the side of the door, which didn’t move.

Garrett stood, swearing. It sounded soft, under the noise of the wind. He rubbed at the tips of his fingers, which were mottled, as he studied the hinges. Then he held out his hand. “Give me that for a moment.”

She handed him the paper punch. He weighed it in his hand, still studying the hinges. Then he swung and struck the top one, the rubber base of the punch bouncing off the hinge.

Then he hit the bottom one. The blows were silent. There was too much sound and fury elsewhere to hear the muffled thud the punch must have made.

After three strikes against each hinge, Garrett paused and looked at them again. The curled-over sections that slotted into each other to form the tube that held the pin were mis-aligned by a quarter inch.

Carmen understood what he had been trying to do with the punch. The hinges had been glued together by time, dust, the load of the door itself and the pin holding them. Oil or graphite added to make the hinges work without squeaking or friction would have dried over the years, forming a crust that had to be broken, too. By hitting the hinges with the punch, Garrett had jarred the two sides of the hinges far enough apart they should now move freely.

He gave her the punch and bent to slide his fingers under the door once more. He didn’t kneel this time. Instead, he put his weight on the back of his heels and leaned back, using his body weight to haul at the door.

The hinges gave a little more.

Carmen gripped the punch harder, her heart slamming against her chest. All Garrett’s instructions over the last few weeks were echoing in her brain. Keep your weight spread on both feet, it lets you take off faster. The first person to strike is usually the last, so make sure you’re the first. Breathe deeply before you start. You won’t get a chance to breathe again until later.

She breathed deeply, watching the door pull away from the frame. As soon as it separated, Garrett pushed his fingers around the edge of the door and hauled.

The door moved fitfully, the handle holding it in place giving way a fraction of an inch at a time. Three inches of space showed between the door and the frame now. Surely one of the guards would notice?

Then the lights went out.

“Shit!” Garrett breathed.

Somewhere down the corridor, a muffled crash sounded, loud enough to be heard over the wind.

* * * * *

Adjuno was the heaviest in the team. Duardo had deliberately picked him for his body weight, knowing something like this might be needed. He watched Adjuno step back from the plywood wall and grip the studs to either side, bracing himself. Then he lifted his boot and rammed it against the strained and splintered wood.

Unlike normal wood, the wall didn’t crack down the length of the grain, because there was no grain. Instead, Adjuno put his whole boot through the wall. Then he threw himself at it, ramming the wall with his elbow and full weight. He repeated the action two more times.

The wall didn’t crumble. It tore away from the rivets holding it to the studs and flew across the room to skid up against the wall there.

Almost directly opposite, there was a closed interior door. No light showed under it because they had cut every critical circuit in the building. As Adjuno stepped into the room, Duardo moved up to the gaping hole in the wall and leaned in to look around. A junction box, painted to match the wall, was mounted to the left. It was a small piece of luck.

The room had been a manager’s office. A big desk stood at the far end. There was no other furniture. Dust was thick on every surface.

A small, round hole appeared in the closed door. Something tug at the leg of Duardo’s trousers. It wasn’t the wind. He looked down. There were two neat bullet holes—in and out—passing through the excess material by his ankle.

Someone was shooting through the door, using the same logic they had used to peel open a back door for themselves through the thin building material.

Duardo held up four fingers then pointed them at the door. Then he crept through and to one side, letting everyone else in. The cessation of the powerful wind was a relief. He coughed as the wind pushing through the opening stirred the dust, then tore at the quick release knot tying the rope around his waist. The rope slithered to the floor. Each man did the same as he stepped through, until the rope was coiled on the floor. Duardo left it there and strode over to the door.

“Remember, we’re here for the prisoners!” he reminded them. The prisoners were his assignment. He was to get to them before the Insurrectos did and as stealthily as possible.

He put his eye to the bullet hole in the door. It was dim on the other side, but not completely dark. He could see a passageway lined with doors. There was a much lighter, brighter area at the far end. The blue front doors with their steel mesh reinforced glass were there. That was where the light came from. Even though the day was dark from the heavy cloud cover, it was still brighter than the passage without the overhead fluorescent tubes working.

Six Insurrectos lined the passage. They had their weapons drawn and pointing at the door Duardo leaned against. They watched the door with tense expressions, waiting for the enemy to emerge.

Duardo sighed. There was no way out but through the door. It was their bad luck so many Insurrectos just happened to be standing in the passageway and heard them force their way into the room.

Why had they been standing in the passageway?

He studied the passage again, looking at the seven doorways along the corridor walls. Three of the Insurrectos clustered around a door on the left.

The Insurrecto in the middle of the three threw up his hands, dropped his rifle and with a silent cry, fell backward through the door behind him, disappearing from Duardo’s view.

The others turned to look, startled.

A second guard was hauled back through the door.

Duardo didn’t wait for more. He wrenched at the door knob, feeling the tumblers unlock, then pushed the door wide. “Go! Go!” he hissed.

Gunfire sounded as they ran into the passage. The Insurrectos were gathered around the other open door, all trying to fit through at once.

It was a rout. Duardo picked off three of them himself, going for the knees to disable them. From experience he knew injured Insurrectos were as neutralized as dead ones, especially if the injury was a painful one. They tended to fold mentally when shot, unable to come back fighting the way the soldiers working in Duardo’s unit would.

Jasso and Rickardo, in the front of the phalanx heading down the corridor, took out the last remaining guard. When they reached the Insurrectos, they picked up the weapons, taking them out of reach, then patted the Insurrectos down, looking for more.

Duardo stepped around them, tapped Jasso on the arm and pointed toward the reception area. Then he waved Adjuno and Emile to follow Jasso. The three of them would be enough to clear the front room.

Then Duardo moved into the room.

Valentin and Trajo stood with relaxed stances just inside the room, confronting the four people already in there.

Carmen Escobedo stood next to the tall, blond-haired man who had been with her when Ibarra put them on display, late last night. Both had their hands around the throats of the two Insurrectos they had hauled inside. The man had a rifle resting against his Insurrecto’s temple. The Insurrecto’s face was red with anger. Or shame.

The one Carmen Escobedo held was crumpled on the floor. Blood flowed from a wound over his ear. She held a Browning Hi Power pistol against his head with her injured arm. Duardo was glad the Insurrecto couldn’t see she was barely holding the gun in place.

Duardo tapped his men on the shoulder and they shifted aside, letting him through. “My name is Colonel Peña,” he told them, using English. There was a chance the Insurrectos knew English, although he spoke fast. He looked at the woman. Her face was gray with pain and fatigue. “You are Carmen Escobedo.” He looked at the man. “You are Garrett Blackburn, the leader of the Resistance unit that Carmen has been with for the last seven weeks.”

The man’s clear gray eyes narrowed. “You know who I am. Interesting.”

“Do we know each other?” Carmen asked.

“No,” Duardo told her. “I didn’t make it back to the big house before you left. We are cousins by marriage.”

Her full lips parted in surprise. “You’re Duardo? Minnie’s guy?”

“Indeed, I am.” He gave her a small smile.

There was a soft, flat coughing sound from the passageway. That was Jesso’s silenced pistol.

“We’re taking back the mine,” Duardo said. “If General Flores is on schedule, they should be busting through the fence line about now, to mop up the rest of Ibarra’s men.”

“You were sent to secure our safety, first,” Garrett said. “If you don’t have a fix on your general, then you must have come through the back way…except there is no back way. There are only the front doors.”

“We made a back way.” Duardo shrugged. “You can put those two back on the floor and come with us.”

“To where?” Carmen asked and let go of her captive. He sagged to the ground with a painful wheeze. Quickly, she transferred the Browning to her other hand.

“The smelter,” Duardo told them. “It’s the only building likely to stay standing through the hurricane. Come along.”

“I need to talk to you about that,” Carmen said urgently.

“The building or the hurricane?”

“Neither. Both. Do you remember the hurricane of 2009? The one that took out the north end of the main island?”

Duardo nodded. “I’m from Pascuallita,” he said shortly, then realized why she was recalling that particular storm. “Tidal waves…” he finished.

She nodded.

He looked around the room, remembering the flat, low land that made up most of The Big Rock. He felt exposed and vulnerable, despite the walls.

“Is the smelter the big building with the concrete walls?” Garrett asked.

“Yes.”

“It will survive a wall of water,” Carmen said. “We’re more to the north of the island, here. By the time the wave gets here, it will have lost a lot of power.”

“Then the plan doesn’t change,” Duardo said.

“You might have to step it up a bit,” Garrett told him. “Carmen figures the wave will hit when the eye does.”

That made things urgent. Duardo turned and headed for the door and heard a soft grunt. When he looked over his shoulder, the man who Carmen’s fighter friend had been holding was lying on the ground.

Valentin and Trajo stood aside, waiting for the pair to follow Duardo as commanded.

He walked up the passage to the front doors. Adjuno and Emile had contained the reception area. Five Insurrectos laid on the floor, their hands over the back of their heads. Each team member had a supply of zip ties. The Insurrectos had one each ratcheted tightly around their wrists, holding them in that position. Unless they were fit, it would be impossible for them to get up quickly when tethered that way.

Duardo stayed out of the sightlines through the glass panels in the front door. He moved to the side of them to peer through.

The compound was a chaotic swirl of Insurrectos and Loyalists. General Flores had arrived on schedule. The fence on the other side of the compound was split apart and shoved aside to make a twenty foot gap.

All the Loyalists wore plastic safety goggles to protect their eyes and let them see. They were roped together in pairs and threes and fours, everyone bent forward to fight the power of the wind. They staggered, but the weight and anchor of the man next to them kept them on their feet.

Duardo watched as two Loyalists stepped sideways, the rope between them stretched taut. They took an Insurrecto off his feet with the rope. There were others using their rope as lassos, or as tripping devices, looping them around an Insurrecto’s ankles and pulling him off his feet.

There wasn’t much shooting happening. The wind would destroy everyone’s accuracy.

“Line up!” Duardo called.

Adjuno, the heavyweight, stepped up behind Duardo and clapped his shoulder with his left hand. The others assembled behind him. Duardo looked at Garrett and Carmen. “You, too,” he said flatly. “Somewhere in the middle.” He wanted Jasso on the end.

“What about the Insurrectos still in this building?” the man demanded sharply.

“They can take their chances with the storm,” Duardo said. “We’re making for the only safe building on the island. Leave them be.” He pulled out his Glock again. “Ready?”

Everyone lined up, their non-dominant hand on the shoulder of the person in front, their hand weapons in the other. Carmen Escobedo could not raise her arm. Garrett put her in front of him, then pushed forward to put his hand on Rickardo, who stood in front of Carmen. Carmen held the Browning in her right hand with a competent grip.

Duardo pulled the door open and staggered as the wind pushed at him with horrifying force. No wonder everyone staggered, out there. The wind had picked up since they had stolen into the admin building.

Adjuno’s hand on his shoulder kept Duardo on his feet. He pushed forward, moving out the door at an angle that would take them by the shortest route to the big gray concrete smelter. It was only two hundred yards away, but that two hundred yards would be a challenge, every single step of it.

Duardo could barely see, for the wind stung his eyes, making them water and his vision blur. It wasn’t his job to see. Adjuno used Duardo’s back as shelter, peering over his shoulder as he needed to. His hand on Duardo’s shoulder steered him. Duardo’s job was to cut through the wind and keep the line moving.

Each man in the line moved half-a-step sideways, providing guidance to the one in front.

A few Insurrectos took shots at them. None of the shots came close. Duardo didn’t bother reacting. The only way anyone would to hit them would be if they pointed their gun in another direction. The wind was too strong. It made him put his pistol away and pull his knife from his belt. If the wind scattered rifle fire, then his pistol bullets would be even less effective.

Ahead was a narrow concrete path between two of the admin buildings. The path led to the smelter that rose forty feet high behind the admin buildings. Duardo could barely see the alley. He had studied the layout last night through the night glasses and knew the general direction to head.

Step by slow step, they made their way to the alley. A few Insurrectos tried to attack them and halt them. The line stopped while the two closest to the Insurrectos dealt with them. Twice, Duardo used his knife to fend off an assault, with Adjuno stepping around to help.

The narrow alley between the prefabricated huts seemed to channel and concentrate the wind. The pressure came from behind, sending them stumbling forward as the wind pushed through the narrow aperture, whistling with a keening note that lodged in the brain. It was impossible to hear anything but the wind.

When they emerged into the open area behind the admin buildings, Duardo raised his fist. Everyone came to a halt. Jasso and Emile quartered the area with their rifles, monitoring. Adjuno tapped Duardo’s shoulder and pointed. Duardo looked.

The only road on the island wound past the compound, just on the other side of the fence, following the rail line. A spur from the rail line ran right up to the back of the smelter building. The road and rail line turned away from the compound and ran north to the bridge that gave access to the main island.

A long line of Insurrectos were walking and side-stepping along the road. They were escaping.

Duardo looked at Trajo, bumped his fist against the palm of his hand and let his fingers spread in the air. Trajo nodded, reached into his backpack and pulled out a flare. He lit it and pointed it toward the sky.

The green flare shot up into the bruised gray sky and burst. The bright green sparkling light was dispersed by the wind. It had been spotted, though, for Duardo felt a low rumbling through his feet.

The concrete spans of the bridge to the mainland lifted into the air in a cloud of debris and smoke that was whipped away. Two of the graceful spans collapsed inward and down, sending tons of tarmac, concrete and iron railings into the sea.

The Insurrectos on the road halted, dismayed. Their last avenue of escape had been cut off.

Duardo ignored them and instead bent and pushed forward, his head down. The entrance to the smelter, with its guard box and heavy iron doors, was within sight. To Duardo it appeared as a large, light gray mass among a lot more gray. His vision was shot, his eyes streaming. He pushed forward, Adjuno guiding him.

Then Adjuno dug his fingers into Duardo’s shoulder and stepped up close to him. His gun arm pushed around Duardo and he fired. Duardo saw the flash from the muzzle. The shot was silent. He wiped his eyes and looked.

There were seven Insurrectos standing in the entrance to the smelter, behind the guard box. They were firing yet nothing came close.

Duardo was near enough to discount the wind. He took out three of them with quick shots. Everyone in the line behind him was firing, the wind masking their shots, and the Insurrectos dropped in front of the doorway.

Two of them stepped over their comrades and surged forward, bringing their weapons to bear. The first one threw his gun up into the air, clutching at his chest as he spun as if an invisible hammer had slammed into his shoulder.

Then Jasso stepped forward and took aim. The second was thrown backward off his feet.

That ended the defense of the smelter.

Duardo kept his knife and his Glock in his hands and pushed his way through the ten feet of churning air to the door. He worked with Adjuno to slide the door open, then moved inside and straightened up with a sigh of relief.

He glanced around the dim interior as the rest gathered inside. There was no one else inside the building, although a lot of heavy, complicated equipment was bolted to the floors, reaching up to the roof. The roof was pierced by the smoke stack of the smelter itself. No wonder the Insurrectos had preferred to use the small trial smelter that had been built on the university grounds. It would take a team of engineers to get this thing up and running again.

Behind Duardo, someone rolled the doors shut. The daylight chopped off.

Duardo turned back to the door. “Emile. Jasso. You’re on the doors.” He had to lift his voice above the noise and fury of the wind, which despite the thick concrete walls of the building, still roared. “As our guys get here, let them in. Shoot anyone else that approaches.” He glanced around at the rest of them. “Everyone find somewhere comfortable and camp. We’ll be here for a while.”

“Who blew the bridge?” Garrett demanded. “It looks like every free Loyalist is out there fighting, except you seven.”

“You’re right,” Duardo agreed. “Everyone fit enough to stand up straight is out there. It’s your men who blew the bridge.”

“Who is leading them?” Garrett demanded, his eyes narrowing as he thought it through. It was a good question, a question a good leader would want answered.

“My brother,” Duardo told him. “You know him as Nemesis.”

“Nemesis!” Carmen repeated, surprised.

“Are you related to everyone in Vistaria?” Garrett asked, sounding peeved.

Duardo grinned. “If you take the family trees of Vistarians far enough back, then yes, we’re all related.” He fished his cellphone out of his thigh pocket and dumped his back pack. “I have calls to make, if there’s still a cell network operating.”

He turned away as everyone spread out, looking for the least uncomfortable spot they could find among the concrete and steel.

It would be a long twelve hours.