Maybe he could sleep on the plane. When Pol and Ironman and Wizard get back, everyone gets on a plane north, finds a place to hide out while they splash the newspapers with this story!
What a story. Jefferson looked at Senor Rivera. A proud, hard-working man. His grandfather a ladinopeddler. Traveled around selling things. His father a shopkeeper, kept his little store open dawn to midnight to pay his son's way through college. Senor Rivera made it big. Lawyer, mayor of his town. Made the mistake of thinking the government really wanted land reform, to stop the Communist revolution by letting the farm workers and sharecroppers buy the land they had worked all their lives. An idealist. Land reform is the law, therefore he types up the forms and passes out the titles.
One bullet for him.
The senora and the girls. Four bullets for them.
Maybe even a bullet or two for me, thought Jefferson. Oh, boy. And I pay for it.
Horror-images flashed inside Jefferson's head. Stop thinking about that!
Tapping his feet on the linoleum and humming an old Puerto Rican song his mother sang years before, Jefferson stroked the shotgun. The cold steel comforted him.
They can kill me, but they can't hack me. At least, not while I'm alive. They won't do to me like they did to Senor Rivera's son.
Gouge out his eyes, hack up his body, carve off his balls and choke him to death with them. Choking to death on his own flesh.
The images came out of the darkness at Jefferson and he startled awake. Senor Rivera shook the young man. His face floated in the darkness as the Salvadoran whispered, "You slept…"
"Ah, thanks. No good… can't sleep. No way. Not until we know…"
"Morning will come soon. Then we go to another place."
Jefferson shook his head. "No, sir. By morning it's over. One way or another."
"Perhaps."
Glancing at his watch, Jefferson saw that only forty-five minutes had passed since Prescott knocked on the door of the other room.
Talk about the long night of the soul.
Knocking broke the silence. The reporter bolted to his feet. His sneakers silent on the linoleum, he crept to the door. He had to listen for voices. If his friends had returned, if they had already eliminated the Guerreros Blancos, they would return to an empty room — because a minute after Blancanales had escorted Prescott downstairs, Jefferson, in a flash of inspiration, had run down to the desk clerk. If Prescott knew the address and room number of the Riveras, the Blancosdid also. Twenty dollars bought another room for the Riveras. With a bed. And without the stinking carpet.
Don't want the Team to come back and find us all gone. A paranoid nightmare!
Putting his ear against the door, Jefferson listened. By force of habit, his right index finger stroked the not-quite-closed bolt of the shotgun. "Unlocked Carry," Pol had called it.
A door closed with a slam. Jefferson heard voices speaking Spanish. He waited, listening with his ear to the door.
Couldn't be the Team, Jefferson realized. They talked English. To each other. Except for Wizard. He talked jive.
More voices. A voice whined in English. Jefferson recognized the voice as that of the desk clerk, a fat little man who talked about "excellent" television programs.
In the silence of the room, both Jefferson and Senor Rivera heard the faint creaking of hallway floorboards as several persons approached their room. Jefferson looked to Senor Rivera. Then he looked to the senora and the three girls.
Senor Rivera went to the bed. Shaking his wife and daughters, he woke them. He whispered instructions as a voice whined in the hallway.
Jefferson stepped away from the door. He pressed his back against the wall. With a thousand bedspring squeaks, the senora and the three girls left the bed and crowded into the bathroom.
The desk clerk whined. "This is the room — don't..."
Metal smashed flesh. As Jefferson panic-flexed his arms to close the sawed-off shotgun's bolt, a foot kicked the door.
The hallway's dim light silhouetted a broad-shouldered young soldier with an Uzi submachine gun. Muzzle-flash lighting the tiny room, the auto-fire reports deafening, the Blancotore the bed apart with high-velocity 9mm slugs.
Slugs shattered the window and hammered the walls.
He stepped in, waving the Uzi from side to side.
Putting the 12-gauge bore against the Blanco'schest, Jefferson fired. Heart and lung tissue sprayed the hallway.
A second soldier stepped forward, his Uzi flashing.
In his panic and adrenaline courage, Jefferson did not feel the bullets. He pumped the shotgun's action and fired point-blank into the gut of the second man. Then he pumped the action again.
The room seemed distant, as if all the walls had suddenly retreated. Jefferson coughed blood. But still he stood.
Staggering, placing one foot deliberately in front of the other, he looked into the hall. He saw only the desk clerk's body on the ancient, filthy carpet.
Something tore Jefferson's head. He heard the shots as he fell back into the room. He did not feel himself fall, he still gripped the shotgun, but he no longer stood.
"Mi hijo!" Jefferson heard Senor Rivera call out. A sheet of flame seemed to sear his vision. He realized he lay on his back, his head against one of the bed-frame legs. The light from the hallway blinded him. He squinted against it.
A silhouette appeared. Movement and grunting. Jefferson saw Senor Rivera pull the butcher knife from the torso of a third Blanco, then try to drive the knife in again.
But the wounded Blancoshoved Rivera away. As his life faded, as if in slow motion, Jefferson saw the Blancoaiming his Uzi to kill the father of the children hiding in the bathroom.
Save the children…
Jefferson pointed the shotgun at the Blancowith his left hand and forced his right hand to close on the trigger.
A flash.
No silhouette.
Crying.
Darkness.
Voices and hands. A light. Blood in his mouth. The voices of the Team. Pol, Wizard, the crazy one. The faces and hands of the girls, touching him. The girls he had saved.
A siren and the blue white lights of Los Angeles streaking through his vision. He would be saved…!
For the Team — for Pol, Wizard and the crazy one — Quesada joined Unomundo as living proof that a bizarre new Third Reich was continuing to grow in Central America. But that was a job for tomorrow…
***CODE TWO*** FROM JD/WASHINGTON
TO BROGNOLA/STONY MAN *** IMMEDIATE *** PURSUANT TO STONYMAN REQUEST FBI ATTEMPTED ARREST OF COLONEL QUESADA MIAMI RESIDENT SALVADORAN NATIONAL X HOWEVER SUBJECT FLED BEFORE ARRIVAL OF OFFICERS X WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN X QUERY FORWARDED EMBASSY SAN SALVADOR X JUSTICE DEPARTMENT REMINDS STONYMAN THERE IS NO EXTRADITION TREATY BETWEEN UNITED STATES AND EL SALVADOR X JD ***