Thechamberis a reinforced room with a battered table, a target against rock, and two men already inside to play audience. It’s also the kill box they think they’re gonna shut. My skin goes very calm. The kind of calm that lives right before the knife lands.
"Show us," Crooked Nose says, stepping back.
I raise my hands, "Hey, I'm just the delivery pilot, I don't play with those bricks."
I set the bag on the table. The bag is filled with a few of the bricks from the plane. My heart rate does not climb. It descends. Cold. Heavy. Assessing. Preparing.
I start to unzip the bag, pushing it slightly toward Belly. He nods at one of his men, who moves slowly forward. Inside the bag, two bricks come into view. White powder, packed into Ziploc bags, sealed with duct tape. I let the zipper whisper one more inch and pull out the only thing that matters: the .45 that I taped against the bag’s spine where a sloppy search wouldn’t find it.
Things happen fast.
Belly leans forward.
I shoot him in the throat.
The second reaches for his rifle.
I shoot him through the eye.
Coyote shouts outside the door. Crooked Nose fumbles the radio. I put a round through the hinge, and the door kicks open. Crooked Nose lunges; I step in and break hisnose for symmetry. He goes down like a sack of wet grain.
I move.
Out the door. Left, not right. Impatiently, I take off the cumbersome dress—underneath I wear my favorite combat uniform—and the black wig. My scalp feels itchy, but I resist the urge to scratch it. The air feels cooler here, and I allow myself to enjoy it for a second before the sound of boots hammering behind me alerts me. Shots crack. Rock chips spit. I swing around a support beam and get off two blind rounds of muzzle flash. A body drops. There were too many around to count, so I don't.
This time, when I arrive at the cages. I look. And make a beeline for the one occupied by a single inhabitant. I recognize him from the picture, even though he looks older. His cheeks are gaunter, but his eyes are alive.
Metal cuffs hold him to a ring bolt.
"Who are you?" he rasps.
"I’m your exit," I reply, fingers already working the pilfered keys into the lock. It doesn’t fit. Of course it doesn’t. I curse under my breath. "Stand back."
He does. I shoot the cuff. Stone shrieks; metal gives. He staggers and catches himself, stubborn and proud and lighter than he should be.
"Some rescue," he grumbles as shouting swells.
"Complainlater," I reply, handing him the pistol from my thigh holster. "Vent shaft?"
He nods left. "If they didn’t brick it."
He sounds like he still has his wits about him. Good. "We'll find out."
Pleas ring out,¡Sácame de aquí, por favor!—Get me out of here, please! ¡No me dejes, por favor!—Don’t leave me, please! ¡Por Dios, ayúdame! —For God’s sake, help me!
I look at Nico, who shrugs, "Distraction?" He asks.
I nod, liking the way he thinks. Quickly, we shoot a couple of cages open, just as the shouting reaches us and the first bullets zip by. I throw the keys at the first man coming out, let him deal with figuring it out, while Nico and I run bent-low through the dark, breath synchronizing because survival teaches you the same music everywhere. Behind us, Spanish snaps like whips. I catch izquierda, rápido, perra—left, fast, bitch. I smile. I really do need to learn more of this language.
We find the vent, a throat of black, cold air. I drop first, boots scraping rusted rungs. He sounds out of breath—years of imprisonment will do that to you—but I notice strong arms. He's not just been sitting around; he's been working out. Shots are fired wildly into the shaft, pinging off the metal walls.
"Shit."
"You should really work on your rescue skills," Nico needles me. Right as a bullet grazes my shoulder.
By the time we hit the lower gallery, I've managed to wind some of my shirt around the flesh wound.
"Let me see," Nico demands, ripping more shirt into strips to secure my makeshift bandage. He's not insulting me by asking dumb questions or apologizing for hurting me. I like him.
