hearing the wrong word could trigger a relapse — she’d give him an olive branch. Feeling guilty and forgiving at the same time, Sharon lay back, shut her eyes, and dropped almost at once into a contented sleep.
FORTY-ONE
When the soldiers in the courtyard suddenly withdrew, Darrell McCaskey silently thanked Brett August. The Strikers had to be the reason for the abrupt pullback.
After the helicopter took off, the soldiers on the rooftop kept McCaskey and Maria pinned down. At the same time the scattered soldiers around the perimeter regrouped. It appeared as if they were organizing for an assault. But the attack never came. Everyone seemed riveted by loud pops from inside the palace.
“It’s begun,” McCaskey said to Maria.
Yellow smoke filtered through several of the windows along the wall beside the arches. There were shouted commands at the far end of the courtyard, near the western side of the palace. Though it was difficult to see because of the high, bright sun and deep shadows, the bulk of the soldiers seemed to disappear. Not long after that, McCaskey heard gunfire behind the ornate white walls.
“What’s going on?” Maria asked. She was leaning against the inside of the arch closest to the palace wall. Her legs were stretched in front of her. McCaskey had placed his handkerchief across the gunshot wound in her side and was holding it in place.
“It’s the countercoup,” he replied. He didn’t want to say much in case they were overheard. “How are you doing?”
“All right,” she replied.
As they spoke, McCaskey had squinted across the wide, sunlit space. To the south — McCaskey’s left — a tall iron gate separated the palace courtyard from the cathedral. The church doors had been shut before but now it looked as though people were beginning to emerge — priests as well as parishioners. He assumed that they’d heard the helicopter and the shots that had been fired at it. Within the courtyard itself Luis was still lying across the captain. The Interpol chief was silent but the Spanish officer was moaning.
“We have to bring him in,” Maria said.
“I know,” McCaskey said. He continued to peer into the sunlight. He was finally able to pick out at least three soldiers who had remained behind. Two of them were roughly four hundred feet away. They were crouched behind a post that supported the gate on the southern side of the courtyard. A third soldier was squatting behind an old lamppost about three hundred feet straight ahead, to the north.
McCaskey put his gun in Maria’s hand. “Listen, Maria. I’m going to try and get Luis. I’ll see if the soldiers will trade him for that captain.”
“That is not a trade,” Maria declared angrily. “Luis is a man. The captain is
“Hopefully,” McCaskey said evenly, “the soldiers won’t see things quite the same way. Can you move around slightly so they can see the gun?”
Maria put her left hand on the bloody handkerchief and twisted slightly. She brought her right hand around.
“Hold it,” he said before the gun came around. “I want to tell the soldiers something first. How do you say, ‘Don’t shoot’?”
McCaskey leaned his head out from behind the arch.
She told him.
McCaskey shouted,
There was no response from the soldiers. McCaskey frowned. This was one of those moves where you had to put everything on the table and pray.
“All right,” he said to Maria as he rose. “Let them see the gun.”
Maria twisted further until her right hand came from behind the archway. The gun glinted in the sun at the same time as McCaskey stepped into the open. He held his hands up to show that he was unarmed. Then, slowly, he began walking into the courtyard.
The soldiers did nothing. The sun felt savagely hot as McCaskey stepped closer to the wounded men. He was aware of continued gunfire from inside the palace — not a good sign. The Strikers should have been in and out without engaging the enemy.
Suddenly, a soldier stepped from behind the gatepost. He entered the gate and walked toward McCaskey. He was armed with a submachine gun. It was pointed directly at McCaskey.
“
McCaskey looked at him and shrugged.
“He wants you to turn around!” Maria yelled.
McCaskey understood. The soldier wanted to make sure he didn’t have a weapon shoved in his waistband. McCaskey stopped, turned, and lifted his pants legs for good measure. Then he continued walking. The soldier didn’t shoot him. He also didn’t lower his weapon, which McCaskey now recognzied as an MP5 of Hong Kong origin. If he fired at this range, he’d cut McCaskey in half. McCaskey wished he could see the soldier’s face beneath his cap. It would have been nice to have some idea what the man was thinking.
The walk to where Luis was lying took less than a minute but it felt much, much longer. When McCaskey arrived the Spanish soldier was still about thirty feet away. The soldier kept the gun pointed in McCaskey’s direction. The American knelt slowly, keeping his arms raised. He looked down at the wounded men.
The captain was looking up at him, wheezing through his teeth. His lower leg was sitting in a deepening puddle of blood. If he didn’t get help soon he’d bleed to death.
Luis was lying facedown across him, like an X. McCaskey bent his head and looked at Luis. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow. His normally dark face was pale. The bullet had struck the right side of his neck about two inches below the ear. Blood was dripping onto the stone blocks. It streamed toward the pool of the captain’s blood and they mingled thickly.
McCaskey stood slowly and straddled the men. He put his arms under Luis and lifted him up. As he rose he heard a commotion at the gate. McCaskey and the Spanish soldier both looked over.
A sergeant at the gatepost had his hand around a priest’s arm. The priest was speaking quietly and pointing toward the wounded men. The sergeant was yelling. After a moment, the priest simply wrested his arm away and stormed forward. The sergeant continued to yell at him. He shouted for the priest to stop.
The priest shouted back that he would not. He pointed toward the palace, where there were still the sounds of gunfire and clouds of yellow smoke. He said he was going to see if he could be of any assistance.
The sergeant warned him that there was danger.
The priest said he didn’t care.
McCaskey didn’t want to stand there while Luis bled. Cradling him gently to his chest, he turned and started walking toward the arches. The soldier let him go. McCaskey turned and saw him attending to the wounded captain.
McCaskey returned to the arch. Carefully, he set Luis down beside Maria. He looked back. The priest was kneeling beside the captain. He turned back to the injured man.
“Poor Luis,” Maria said. She set the gun down and touched his cheek.
McCaskey felt a pinch of jealousy. Not for Maria’s touch but for the concern he saw in her eyes. The look came from deep inside her, pushing aside her own pain. He had been such a damn fool to lose her. He noticed, now,
