Laura nodded. "There's only this one skinny pillow and the blanket. I'll mold them under the sheet.
Maybe for an instant they'll think we're on the bed, asleep."
We did that and stood back to look at our handiwork. "Not very good," I said, "but hopefully it'll work.
Which side of the door would you like?"
I ended up on the side of the lock, Laura behind the door. She'd taken off the heavy porcelain toilet lid and held it against her chest.
"They must know that we won't be sitting here idle," she said. "They'll expect us to try something. It's even possible that they're watching us even now."
I'd thought the same thing. I got up and went over that small room, inch by inch. I didn't see anything that remotely resembled a camera lens or a peephole. I sat back down. "I sure to God hope that Sherlock and Savich are all right."
"Maybe Sherlock's sitting by the door as we speak, a toilet lid hugged to her chest."
We waited. For a very long time. We slept. We awoke early the next morning. My watch read about 6:30 A.M.
We took turns using the toilet and washing up. At exactly seven o'clock, we heard them coming.
Chapter Twenty-One
A key turned in the lock. The door slowly opened. But no one said a word, no one moved in. A canister of gas rolled through the doorway. I jumped to my feet, grabbed the thing up, and threw it in the toilet. I flushed it. Smoke gushed out of the bowl. I slammed down the toilet seat. Thankfully it contained most of the smoke. I'd inhaled only a bit. I didn't feel a thing.
I heard a man laugh. I turned to look at the two men who stood watching me from the doorway.
"/Asi se hace!" one of them said. He had a deep bass voice. He was a short, wiry, dark man, dressed in army fatigues, like his partner. He said in strongly accented English this time, "Si, that was well done. We knew you would be waiting for us. And now you have finished. Move." He waved the AK-47 toward me. "The woman is still sleeping? You wore her out, eh?"
I took a step, watching the men. The man with the bass voice raised his weapon, but he didn't say anything more because Laura rose up, whipped around the side of the door, and smashed him in the face with the porcelain toilet lid.
The other man leaped through the doorway, his eyes on Laura, his AK-47 up, ready to fire.
I yelled and ran straight at him. He whipped the gun around, only to moan and fall hard to the floor when Laura hit him hard on his temple with the porcelain toilet lid.
The first man tried to struggle up. Laura calmly leaned over and smashed him hard again with the toilet lid. Then she kicked both of them hard in the ribs.
"Close the door quick," I said. I grabbed the larger man under his arms and began dragging him inside the room. Laura grabbed the other guy.
I picked up one of the AK-47s and looked out the door. There was a long narrow corridor on either side of the room. No one else was in sight.
"We need their clothes," I said.
Five minutes later, we were buttoning our camouflage pants and lacing up our combat boots. Laura had ripped the sleeves off my white shirt to stuff in the toes of her boots. She stamped her feet a couple of times and smiled at me. "Good fit now. I'm glad one of the men was bigger. The fatigues nearly fit you."
It took us longer to tie up the men. Laura stripped them both to their skin and tied one of each of their legs to the rings in the floor where she'd been shackled. She rose and dusted her hands and looked at me.
"Okay, let's get out of here. Savich and Sherlock have got to be somewhere close by."
We locked the door and turned to the left, for no other reason than I am left-handed and that was the way I'd turned first. We each had a full magazine in the AK-47s and another magazine from each man's belt.
I was armed and dangerous, feeling more pissed than prudent. Laura had tucked her hair up beneath the army camouflage cap. From a distance of ten feet, I guess she could pass for a man for at least a few seconds.
"The stupid goons," she whispered, "dressed up like army militia."
"Don't complain. It might help us if we get out of here." My boots were hurting my feet already. I was going to get blisters.
We heard booted feet tramping toward us. There was a door on our right, the third one along this side of the corridor. I opened it as quietly as I could and we slipped inside. We listened. Then we heard a noise, just the clearing of a throat.
Both of us whipped around to see an old man sitting at a small table in the corner, tucked away in shadows, just beneath a narrow, high window, eating a bowl of soup. He was bald and his face was scored with lines, the color of brown leather. He had a long dirty-gray beard. He was wearing an old dark brown wool robe, a rope tied around his waist.
He was staring at us, a tortilla halfway to his mouth. I whispered in Spanish for him not to move, "Quedate, Father. Don't even twitch your beard."
I looked up at Laura. She was standing pressed to the door, still listening, her fingers pressed against her lips for quiet. The boots marched by. No one stopped. The priest didn't move.
"Who are you?" he asked me in Spanish in a deep and ancient voice.
"We're American federal agents. They drugged us and brought us here as prisoners. They're going to kill us if they get ahold of us again. We're trying to get away. Are you a prisoner too, Father?"
He shook his head. "No, I come to the compound once a week to minister to all the people. When I arrive, one of the women gives me breakfast." His words rolled into one another, nearly slurring. It was hard for me to understand him. But I understood enough.
"What day is it?"
He had to repeat it twice before I understood. Thursday. We'd lost a day.
"Where are we, Father?"
He looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "You're just outside of Dos Brazos."
More boots were marching this way. They were slowing. We were trapped. The one narrow window wouldn't let a skinny kid through it. The old man looked at us, then said slowly, "There's no more time.
Both of you, get under the bed, quickly. I will deal with the men."
If he betrayed us, we had less of a chance pinned under the narrow sagging bed in the far corner. We had no choice. Laura and I scooted under it. At least the stringy blanket fell over the bed nearly to the floor. We fit, barely. I was nearly lying on the AK-47, Laura pressed against my back, her weapon pressed against my spine.
The door opened, no knock. I saw at least three pairs of boots. I heard a man with a shrill voice say in Spanish, "Father, have you been here long?"
"Si. I am still eating my breakfast."
"You haven't heard anything, no people, no running?"
"Just you, senor, and your men. Que haces? What is the matter? Is there a fire?"
"Oh no, nothing like that. Some people-a man and a woman-we were holding them for the policia.
They've gotten away. Don't worry, Father. We'll find them."
The priest didn't say anything. Was he giving them a sign? No. The men turned and marched back out the door. Then, suddenly, one of them said, "Father Orlando, the woman Hestia told me that her son is in great pain. She wants you to see him now. Can you come? My men will escort you to keep you safe from the foreign man and woman."
"I will come," said the priest. He was wearing old Birkenstock sandals, no socks. His feet were as worn and scarred as a tree trunk.
The door finally closed. We slowly moved out from under the bed.
"That was close," Laura said, wiping herself down. I stared toward the small table. There were three soft tortillas just lying there. I was still hungry. I grabbed them up, rolled them, gave Laura a big bite, and stuffed the rest in my mouth.
"I'm starting to feel human again."