The men released her and she dropped to the floor. She landed on her back with her arms splayed and her knees raised. Slowly, her bent legs rolled to the right. María didn’t hurt; she knew that the pain would come later. But she felt utterly spent, the way she did when she bicycled up a hill and had no strength left in her limbs. Yet as weak as she was she forced herself to open her eyes and look at the men. She wanted to see where they wore their guns.
They were all right-handed. That would make things easier.
The soldiers stepped into the hallway, splitting up her cigarettes. They shut the door and turned off the light. She knew this drilclass="underline" break the body and then leave the shocked, disoriented mind a few minutes alone to contemplate mortality.
Instead, she forced her trembling hand down the front of her jeans. She found the cigarette and she drew it out. She rolled onto her side and peeled the paper away to get at the match. It was a trick she’d come up with years before when she worked undercover. Being frisked usually cost her her cigarettes. This way she got to keep a match. In a bind, fire was an ideal offensive weapon.
Her eyes were adjusted to the dark and she looked around. There was a group of music stands in the corner. She looked overhead and saw what she’d expected to see: a pair of sprinklers. There was one by the door in front and the other by the door that led to the dining room.
Perfect.
She crawled over to the stands. Her limbs were still shaking. She promised that she wouldn’t ask much of them; only the strength to get her through the next hour or so.
When she reached the corner she got to her knees and then stood. She was wobbly but able to remain on her feet. Her jaw was beginning to ache and she was glad for that: the pain kept her alert. She staggered toward the door, set the stand down, and removed her sweater. She took off her denim shirt, put the sweater back on, then dropped the shirt a few feet from the door.
Once, when she had gone undercover to expose police abuses in Barcelona, María was arrested with a group of hookers. She had used her hidden match to melt the soles of her shoes. The smell brought the guards as they were about to rape a woman in a cell down the corridor. She literally arrested one of them with his pants down. This time she needed more than the stench of burning rubber. She needed something that would catch their eye.
She set the stand beside the door then knelt beside the shirt. Carefully, she struck the match against the bottom of her shoe. It occurred to her how useful shoe bottoms had been this morning. The match flared. She shielded it as she moved it toward the shirt. She touched it to the collar and the garment began to smoulder. A moment later it erupted in flame.
María crept back to the music stand. Struggling to her feet, she picked up the stand and leaned against the wall beside the door. She was breathing heavily to fight down the rising nausea caused by the blows to her belly. This wasn’t the first time María had been punched. She’d been hit by rioters, junkies, an angry motorist, and once — only once — by a jealous lover. She’d struck most of them back; she’d sent her lover to the hospital. But this was the first time she’d been held and beaten. The indignity of the attack and the cowardice of the attackers tasted worse than the blood that formed a shallow pool in her cheeks.
Flames consumed the shirt quickly. A thick column of dark, gray smoke rose behind the door. But the smoke wasn’t going high enough, fast enough. So María stretched the music stand out and jostled the burning pile. There was a soft hiss. Fiery shards and dark, red-rimmed ash flew from the shirt in all directions. They winked out after a moment and drifted to the ground. But the smoke from the stirred shirt swirled higher and higher.
Now it was high enough. An instant later an alarm went off, followed by the two sprinklers.
As soon as the water sprayed down, María stuck the music stand back in the shirt. She pushed it around like a mop. The shirt came apart in small pieces and she spread the ash over the floor.
She heard footsteps and moved back beside the door — on the right side. She was still holding the stand. The footsteps stopped.
“You two wait here,” said one of the men, “in case she tries to get out.”
Good, María thought. One soldier was coming in alone. That would make this easier. The door flew out and the soldier ran in. As he did he slid on the wet ash and landed on his back, hard. María immediately raised the music stand above her head. She drove the short, metal tripod legs into his face and he screamed. His fall and shriek were a blur of action. They obviously surprised the soldiers in the corridor and caused them to hesitate.
That was the beauty of elite soldiers, she thought. They were young, fit, and nowhere near as experienced as ragged old warriors.
Their hesitation was all María needed. She tossed the music stand away and let her weak legs have their way: she literally fell over, face first, onto the soldier. She landed across his waist.
Across the holster.
María knew that the two men in the hallway wouldn’t shoot her. Not yet. As the fire bell clanged and water rained down on María, the two soldiers rushed forward. At the same time, swearing viciously and vowing to rape her, the hurt soldier tried to push María off. She let him. As she rolled over, she slid the 9mm pistol from his holster. She released the safety and without hesitation fired a shot into his knee. He screeched and blood splattered her face. But María didn’t seem to notice as she got up on one knee, aimed low at the other two soldiers, and fired. The pistol coughed twice and blood splashed outward from their knees. The men cried out and crumpled in the doorway.
As water continued to sprinkle down on her, María stuck the pistol in her waistband. Then she waddled over on her knees and relieved the writhing soldiers of their weapons. The knee wounds pleased her. There wouldn’t be a day in the lives of these men that they didn’t think of her. The pain and disability would be a constant reminder of their brutality.
She pulled off the soldiers’ neckties and quickly bound their wrists. Then she stuffed unburned sections of her shirt into their mouths. The bonds and gags weren’t as secure as she’d have liked, but there wasn’t a lot of time. She used the jamb to help her stand. As soon as she was sure her legs would hold her, she started shuffling quickly down the hall in the opposite direction from which she’d come. The corridor enclosed the main floor in the center of the palace. Continuing in this direction would bring her back to the Hall of Halberdiers and the throne room.
As she released the safeties of the two pistols in her hands, she vowed that this time she would have her audience with Amadori.
TWENTY-NINE
Luis García de la Vega strode into the commissary. With him was his father, retired General Manolo de la Vega of the Spanish Air Force. Because Luis couldn’t be sure who on his staff might be sympathetic to the rebel faction, he wanted someone behind him he knew he could rely on. As he’d told McCaskey, he and his tall, white-haired father rarely agreed on political issues. Manolo leaned to the left, Luis to the right.