Elna stepped out from behind the tent and approached the guard openly, trying to concoct an easy lie. As soon as she cleared her throat, he swung around and pointed the rifle at her, so she ducked down in a submissive gesture.
“Sorry, sir,” she said. “I didn’t mean to bother you, but they told me to come and get you.”
“Get me?” he replied. He was short and fat, with a mouth like a sideways capital C.
“Breakfast is ready,” she said. Indeed, she could smell the slight foulness of whatever the people were cooking.
How soon until they notice a member of their breakfast crew just vanished? she wondered.
The guard started to say something, but Prig rose up behind him, silent as a shadow. He’d retrieved the wrench, and he brought it down on the back of the guard’s skull with a swift, well-aimed strike. The guard made a single expulsion of breath, which harmonized with the crack of his skull. Then he dropped face-forward, pivoting at the heels, and smashed onto the ground. Moving fast, Prig retrieved the man’s rifle, grabbed him by the ankles, and dragged him into one of the tents. He stuffed the body into the narrow space between the cage and canvas.
As he did that, Elna rushed toward the cage the man had been guarding. A young man was sitting at the back of the cage, his head between his knees. He was young, Latino, with a Marine’s haircut and a well-built physique, but when he raised his head to look at her, she saw he’d been beaten to a pulp. One eye was swollen shut, both cheeks swollen, his lips bisected by a scab, small cuts and abrasions all over his face. Instead of a Marine uniform, he was dressed in a black-and-white striped prisoner’s uniform.
“Golf?” she asked. “Is that you?”
He stared at her for a second with his one eye, and it slowly seemed to focus on her face.
“Yeah, that’s me,” he replied, his voice rough. With the injury to his lips, he had some trouble speaking. “And who the heck are you? You don’t look like an executioner. You look like a high school science teacher.”
I do? she wondered.
“We’re here to rescue you,” she said.
He just stared at her as if she were mad, but then Prig appeared at her side.
“Hey there, buddy,” he said. “Remember me?”
“Sarge,” Golf replied. He struggled to rise and managed to get to his knees.
“Hey, Golf, tell me straight,” Prig said. “You didn’t give them any classified information, did you? Sorry, I gotta ask.”
“Hell no, Sarge,” Golf replied. “Look at my friggin’ face. Does it look like I gave them what they wanted?”
Prig beamed at him, then turned and beamed at Elna for good measure. She felt a strange moment of kinship with the Marines. They’d pulled it off. They were all one big happy team now.
“No more interrogations and beatings,” Elna said. “We’re getting you out of here.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard in a while,” Golf said. She could tell he was trying to smile, but his busted lips prevented it.
“Here, got this off the guard,” Prig said. “Let’s hope it works.”
He handed Elna a large iron key and signaled for her to unlock the cell. As she took it, he pulled the small, plastic-wrapped two-way radio out of his pocket.
“I’ll give the all clear to the others,” he said.
She inserted the key into the large, crude padlock that held the cage door shut. It slid right in.
“This is it,” she said.
Golf grabbed the bars of his cage and, achingly, pulled himself to his feet. Elna unlocked the door, removed the padlock, and tossed it into the dark space between the tent and cage. Prig had just lifted the radio to his mouth and pressed the talk button when a strange noise blared out across the camp. It sounded like bugles or trumpets, all playing different notes and all being played as loudly as possible. There was immediate panic throughout the camp. Elna heard people shouting and dashing about.
“Someone’s raised the alarm” Prig said. “The other team must have run into trouble. We have to get out of here now.”
“Maybe someone found Natasha,” Elna said.
“Doesn’t matter now,” Prig said. “Time to go.”
He reached inside the cage and grabbed Golf with his free hand. Before the injured man could react, he yanked him forward, wrapped an arm around his torso, and hurried away from the cage. Elna started after them, and she was passing another iron cage when a coarse voice suddenly called her name.
“Elna Pasqualee.”
She turned to the voice and saw an emaciated figure sitting in the cage. His hair had grown long and wild, and he had grown an ugly beard on his cheeks and chin. He wore the camouflage uniform of a camp guard, but his rough skin and perpetually red face were familiar to her.
“Garret,” she said.
Malin’s former best man. He’d turned against the islanders during their imprisonment in the camp. Elna was so startled to see him in a cage that she stumbled to a stop.
“What are you doing in there?” she asked.
“Got in a bit of trouble with the boss,” he replied. “Flirted with one of his many…uh, girlfriends. No big deal.”
“You want out of that cage?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Nah, I’ll make do. Once I’m back on the commander’s good side, he’ll put me to work again.”
Prig hissed at Elna to hurry, and she turned and nodded.
“You made the wrong choice,” she said to Garret. “For your sake. Not for ours. Good luck in life.”
He gave her a contemptuous smile. “You’re the one who needs good luck. You’ll never make it out of the camp alive. They have a whole trench full of the bones of invaders and rebels. You’ll be there too, soon enough.”
“You’re as pleasant a human as ever,” Elna replied. “Enjoy your cage, Garret. It suits you.”
As she left the tent, she heard the hideous alarm sound coming from
