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.