The guards saw us coming now. One of them—a guy who looked no older than I was—gestured at us with a cigarette. He spoke a few words to another guard standing in front of him. This other guard was standing with his back toward us. He was clearly the leader here—I could tell by the stripes on the shoulder of his uniform and the bright green beret pulled sharply to one side on his dark black hair. The young guard was telling him we were coming . . .
The leader turned to look our way.
I heard someone make a noise: a small choked noise of fear. It was a second before I realized that the sound had come out of my own mouth.
Because I saw that the leader—the man in the beret— was Lieutenant Franco—the rebel who had arrested us outside the city.
And I was sure he was going to recognize us.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I figured Palmer would stop marching us toward the checkpoint. I figured he would turn us around, lead us another way. But there was no other way, no other exit. We had to get out to that courtyard if we were going to leave the prison. So we had no choice: we kept moving forward, Mendoza in the lead, Palmer at his shoulder, me in the rear with our “prisoners” up ahead.
Lieutenant Franco turned to face us. The pudgy little man in the jaunty green beret put his hands behind his back, waiting as we came toward him. He looked stern, suspicious, and threatening.
Palmer murmured in Mendoza’s ear one last time. At once, Mendoza started giving orders, waving his hand in a very dismissive way. He was obviously telling Lieutenant Franco to get out of the way and let us through, trying to bluff our way past him before Franco realized who exactly it was in those fatigues.
For a minute, I thought it actually might work. Mendoza was so convincing, I thought Franco might just jump at his orders and step aside. But no such luck. Franco, after all, was a “lieutenant.” He wasn’t going to be pushed around. He waited right where he was until we had almost reached him. Then quietly, with a great show of self-assurance, he lifted his open hand like a cop stopping traffic.
“Alto, por favor,” he said quietly.
Mendoza stopped. He had no choice. There were no less than six gunmen standing behind Franco, ready to back him up. He couldn’t just push through them to the door.
But he gave it a try. Well, of course he did. He knew if any shooting started, Palmer would make sure he took the first bullet. So he put on a very impatient sneer and unleashed a series of harsh commands into Lieutenant Franco’s face, waving one hand this way and that as he did.
But Franco couldn’t be budged. His arrogant superior expression remained in place and so did he. He sniffed at Mendoza’s orders, his thin mustache twitching. And when Mendoza finished, he responded quietly but certainly. I didn’t understand the words, but I was pretty sure I knew what they meant: I am in charge of this checkpoint and no one gets through without my say-so.
Mendoza threw up one hand, as if to say: Look at the idiots I have to deal with. He gestured toward us: Go on and look at them if you want.
And that’s exactly what Lieutenant Franco did.
I held my breath as he put his hands behind his back and walked around to get a better look at the “prisoners.” He studied Jim first. Then he moved on to Meredith, gazing down at her along the line of his nose like a connoisseur examining a work of art. Finally he reached Nicki. My heart pounded as he paused in front of her. He took her chin in one of his hands. She tried to pull back, but he held her hard. He forced her face to the side so he could get a better look at the raging bruise on her cheek.
Then he chuckled. “Perhaps you have learned a lesson, eh?” he said, with a leering smile.
I expected Nicki to cry or tremble, at least. But she didn’t say anything. In fact, she looked directly into Franco’s eyes— so directly that, after a moment, the “lieutenant” seemed to feel uncomfortable. In any case, he let her go and turned away.
As he did, his eyes went over me.
Up till that moment, he hadn’t looked at me—or at Palmer either. Why would he? He was there to check on the prisoners, not the guards. Even now, he didn’t exactly examine me or anything. His gaze just happened to pass over my face as he was turning.
I saw something flash in his eyes and I thought, He remembers me! But he didn’t—not exactly. I think something caught in his brain, something he couldn’t quite pinpoint . . .
He didn’t bother to take a second look and figure it out. He just gave a quick wave of his hand to Mendoza, as if to say, Off you go.
And off we went.
A sigh of relief flooded out of me as we started moving again. We went past the security check, under the watchful eyes of the guards. We kept moving to the front door.
Escape.
Mendoza pushed through the doors, Palmer following close behind him. Another second and we went out too—out of that hellhole of buried dungeons—into the open air of the courtyard.
Even surrounded by the walls, even surrounded by barbed wire, even watched by the gunmen in their high towers, I was glad to see the sky above me again, glad to feel the air and the heat of the sun. I wanted to lift my face and feel the touch of freedom . . .
But I couldn’t. Not yet.
Mendoza had begun shouting orders again. Guards were running at his command. I looked and saw a row of trucks parked against one wall. Most of them were pickups. One or two were army troop carriers, their rear beds hidden under green canvas. We were moving toward them, and Mendoza was gesturing at the front gates.
I could hardly believe it: I saw the gates begin to open.
Escape.
We kept moving toward the trucks. A guard ran up to Mendoza, handed him a set of keys. Palmer spoke in Mendoza’s ear. Mendoza reluctantly handed the keys over to him. Palmer looked over his shoulder at me. He pointed to one of the pickups.
I nodded. I nudged Jim in the back with my rifle as if I were shoving a prisoner along. When he looked back at me, Nicki and Meredith looked back too. I gestured with my head toward the pickup. We started moving in the truck’s direction. We were only a few steps away. I glanced over to the front gates. They were still swinging wide. They were almost open all the way.
Escape.
Somehow, I thought—miraculously—we are actually going to pull this off. We are actually going to walk right out of here.
I thought that—and the next moment, the shouting started.
I turned and saw Lieutenant Franco. He was rushing out the prison door. Screaming at the guards in the courtyard, pointing frantically at the gates, pointing frantically at us.
“Alto! Alto!”
Stop. Stop.
He had remembered us.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
We had come so far, gotten so close—and all at once our chance of escape was gone. More guards came pushing past Franco out the door, guns lifted and at the ready. Guards who were already in the courtyard started to turn our way. In a moment, we were surrounded with no way out. We had no choice but to surrender.
Palmer opened fire.
I jumped at the noise. I thought it was the guards shooting at us. But no, I turned and saw Palmer. He had grabbed Mendoza by the collar. He was holding him in front of him like a shield with one hand. With his other hand, he was gripping his machine gun and letting loose short bursts of lead, first in one direction, then the next.
It did the trick. The guards scattered. They had recklessly come running out into the open to get us. Palmer had a clear shot at them—and they couldn’t shoot back without hitting Mendoza.
So they ran. And Palmer kept firing. And I started firing. I kept Jim and Nicki and Meredith behind me, shielding them with my body. I imitated Palmer, loosing a burst in one direction, then a burst in another.
One of the running guards screamed and clutched his leg and fell. Another threw up his hands, dropped his gun, and pitched face-forward to the ground. The others were ducking for cover behind anything they could find—trash cans, old barrels, open doors, a couple of jeep
s on the courtyard’s far side.
I kept firing, trying to keep them all pinned down.
But Palmer shouted, “Kid!”
I turned. Palmer let go of Mendoza and tossed the truck keys at me.
I snatched the keys out of the air. But even as I did, Mendoza seized his chance. He started running toward where Franco stood in the prison doorway.
Palmer trained his gun on Mendoza but he never had the chance to take a shot. Because as soon as Mendoza was out of the way, the other guards started firing at us from behind their shelters.
The earth around me erupted as bullets flew into the dirt right in front of me. I caught sight of a guard peeking out from behind a barrel, aiming my way. I shot wildly in his direction and he disappeared, ducking down under cover.
“The truck!” Palmer shouted at us. “Get in the truck!”
I glanced over my shoulder and saw Jim and Nicki and Meredith already running as fast as they could toward the pickup.
But I kept myself turned toward the courtyard. I backed slowly toward the truck. I kept firing—first at one guard, then at another—trying to keep them pinned down, trying to keep them from getting off a good shot at us. The guards would pop out from behind their cover—a jeep, a trash can, a barrel . . . They would take a wild shot and I would force them down again. It flashed through my mind that they were like characters in a video shooting gallery. But I knew now that this was no game. I knew it was life or death, them or us.
A guard poked his head out from behind a door. Pointed his gun my way, pulled the trigger. I heard the rat-tat-tat and in the same instant, I heard bullets singing by my ear.
I fired back. The guard ducked away again. Another guard popped up from behind a barrel. I fired at him, forcing him down.
I kept firing—and Palmer kept firing beside me—as we both backed away toward the truck.
I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned. It was the two great gates of the prison. They were slowly swinging shut.
I knew what that meant: we had only seconds to get out of there. Once those doors closed, there would be no way out.
“Palmer! The doors!” I shouted.
He didn’t look. He didn’t have to. He already knew.
“Go!” he shouted back.
The guards kept popping up, kept firing. I swept my gun over them, pulled the trigger, forcing them down. And then the gun went still and silent in my hand. The magazine was empty. I was out of bullets.
I didn’t hesitate. I turned and ran.
I was only steps from the truck now. I saw Nicki and Meredith and Jim in the bed, crouched down behind the metal walls. I leapt to the cab, pulled open the door. As I did, I heard a blast behind me and a hole appeared in the inside of the door about three inches away from me. With a shout of fear, I jumped into the cab.
My hand was shaking crazily, but somehow I managed to get the key in the ignition, managed to switch on the engine. It roared to life.
The passenger door flew open and Palmer jumped in.
“Drive!” he said.
I put the car in gear. But there was no one left outside to hold the guards off, and I heard Nicki scream in the truck bed as the gunmen in the courtyard broke cover and set off a fresh barrage. Palmer stuck his weapon out the window and fired back.
I hit the gas.
The pickup jerked backward. I swung the wheel. Slapped the gear stick. Hit the gas again—and the truck jolted forward. Again, I wrenched the wheel. Gunfire sounded over the engine’s roar. The window by my ear cracked as a bullet shot through it, lanced past my face, and embedded itself in the dashboard. Palmer let off another long burst of fire out his window. Then he dropped back inside.
“Out of bullets!” he said.
Now I had the pickup’s front fender pointed at the prison gates. The gates were still swinging toward each other, swinging closed. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to fit the truck through the gap—and every second the gap was getting smaller.
I jammed my foot down on the gas, pressing it all the way to the floor, pinning it down.
The truck was already accelerating, but now it blasted forward, hurling me back against the seat. Outside, I heard the gunfire get heavier, faster. The guards must have realized we were out of bullets, realized we couldn’t pin them down anymore. They must have raced out into the open after us, firing as they came. I heard a series of slugs pound into the pickup’s body. I felt a stutter go through the truck’s racing frame.
And now, even worse, the guards in the high towers started firing down at us too. Palmer gave an angry shout as a bullet came straight through the roof into the seat-well beside him. I prayed wildly for the lives of the girls and Jim in the open bed behind me.
All of this took no more than a few seconds. And up ahead I saw the gates, the closing gates, filling the windshield, growing larger and larger as the opening between them grew smaller and smaller. On the other side of the gates, outside the prison, I glimpsed the palm-lined avenue, the shacks of the slums. But already it seemed to me that the outside world was barred to us, that the truck couldn’t possibly make the passage, that it was just going to slam into the edges of the closing gates.
A sort of wildfire of emotion gripped me. I understood that everything would be decided in the next several seconds: freedom or capture, escape or imprisonment, torture, and death. My life—my friends’ lives—so much at stake— everything at stake on a single chance, our last chance. It was sort of like that moment before the firing squad, that moment when I thought I was going to die: in those final seconds before we reached the gates, everything seemed brighter, more precious, more real.
The world raced by the windows. The gunfire grew so steady it seemed like one long blast, answering the blast of the engine. The truck raced toward the closing gates. The gap between the gates grew narrower.
Palmer started shouting—no words, just the wild emotion coming out of him in a roar. I was shouting too. I couldn’t help myself. The gap between the gates was all I could see out the windshield. And I could see it was far too narrow now. We were going to crash for sure.
And then: impact. The edges of the closing gates ripped into the sides of the truck. There was a brutal jolt and the sound of tearing metal as both side mirrors snapped off and flew away.
But while the truck shuddered, it never stopped. It burst through the narrow passage into the avenue beyond.
We were out of the prison.
At that moment, a deafening siren went off. A prison alarm. The whole city must have heard it. I knew at once that rebel gunmen from every section of town would soon be heading our way.
And over the siren: Gunfire. The engine. My own shouting. Palmer’s shouts.
Then suddenly, a man . . .
There was a man—a hunched old man walking in the street in front of me! He froze, turning his head toward me, staring at me. I saw his eyes wide with terror, his mouth wide with surprise as the truck barreled toward him.
“Watch out!” Palmer yelled.
I swung the wheel. The truck’s fender went wide of the old man—but now a palm tree loomed in front of me, yards from my face. I swung the wheel again. I saw bullets hitting the pavement, bursts of dust and gravel flying into the air.
Palmer shouted: “Turn! Turn!”
I didn’t see any place to turn, but I did what he said, hauling the wheel over as far as I could. The tree was gone. A shed appeared in the windshield. A woman clutching her baby was huddled under the tin roof, staring at me, staring at the oncoming truck. She didn’t even have time to cry out in fear.
But the truck kept wheeling round, wheeled past her—and then I saw what Palmer saw: there was a narrow alley right beside her shed.
I muscled the wheel over even farther. The shed and the screaming woman went by the window as the truck bounced over a pile of garbage and charged into the passage between two buildings.
The alley wasn’t wide. I felt the buildings pressing close on either side of me. I kept
my eyes glued to the road, fighting to keep the truck centered so we wouldn’t sideswipe the walls.
Palmer was shouting over the siren: “Left! Left! Left!”
We burst out the other side of the alley onto another street, a narrow street with crumbling apartment buildings crowding close. I swung the wheel left.
The truck came around the corner at unbelievable speed, two tires threatening to lift into the air so that I thought we might flip over and come crashing to the earth.
But the truck righted. I pointed it down the road. I had no idea where to go or what was happening. All I could do was drive and hope that Palmer had a plan.
But Palmer let loose a cry of fury and frustration.
And I looked up ahead, down the street, and saw the troop truck rushing toward us. The siren had brought reinforcements. They were racing to the prison. The street was too narrow to get around them.
There was no way past.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Hit the brakes!” Palmer shouted.
I hit them—hard—without thinking.
The truck went into an insane sideways skid. Even over the siren, I heard someone scream behind me as the bed fishtailed and the wheels lifted and the tires let out a hoarse scream of their own as their rubber burned and smoked.
Even before the pickup came to a full stop, Palmer was out the passenger door, shouting, “Go, go, go!”
I looked out the window and saw the troop truck barreling toward us. It was still about a block away and coming on fast.
I grabbed the handle of the driver’s door and threw my shoulder against it. It flew open and I tumbled out into the street.
I looked around—confused, disoriented, the siren blowing the thoughts right out of me. Where were we? What were we doing? Were Meredith and Nicki and Jim all right? Had they been shot by the guards in the tower? Were they hurt? Had they been killed?
And where was Palmer?
I saw him. He was at the door of one of the old apartment buildings. Lifting his foot . . .
He kicked out and the door flew open. He charged through it—and, with a wave of relief, I saw Nicki and Meredith come out from behind the truck and charge in after him with Jim right behind them. They were alive. They were all right.
If We Survive Page 20
