“Good,” I say. Eduardo’s extra tablet is already at my side. My mother is convinced I have a photographic memory, and I’m beginning to think she’s right. It took me a matter of minutes to get the layout of the entire property down, but I studied and studied the floor plans, just to be sure.
“We’re almost there,” Eduardo says, turning onto a paved road. The houses on this road are becoming bigger. Two donkeys stand together in an empty lot. We pass a cemetery with white gravestones and colorful flowers. A man walks down the street, his skin a shade darker than mine, a fishing pole over his right shoulder and a bucket in his left hand. Children kick a soccer ball just down the street. Eduardo takes another left. A green-covered mountain juts out in front of us and beyond that is the sea.
A man stands in front of an industrial building, dressed in a dirty flannel shirt and mud-covered jeans. I wait for the Jeep to pass him, but our speed slows. The man gives Eduardo a little wave and lifts up a large metal door. We pull the Jeep into a dark and empty warehouse.
“Un minuto,” Eduardo says, pulling our bags out of the back of the Jeep.
Eduardo and the other man load our bags, along with extra weapons the team in Colombia is expecting, into a rickety, dented farm truck. I step behind the Jeep to change into my gear. I strip down to my bra and underwear and throw on the Black Angel uniform. Black pants, a black tank top, black shoes, black socks, black, black, black. The black will help us hide in the shadows once darkness falls in Tumaco.
“?Estás listo?” I ask, pulling my bag over my shoulder and walking toward Eduardo. The closer I get to him, the more it smells. What the hell is that? I look down and see a shovel and what looks like mulch. The stench gets stronger and as I get closer I see it’s not mulch. It’s manure.
“What are you doing with that pile of manure?” I ask, pulling my dark hair into a low ponytail. I grab the red rubber band around my wrist and loop my hair through it one, two, three times.
“Putting it on top of you,” Eduardo answers casually in English, his accent heavy. I’m supposed to have done this before so I force myself to recover from the shock of all that … well … shit … on my head. “Once inside, we’ll put the boards back down. But we have to stop the guards from inspecting the truck at the border. They will not want to stick their hands in horse manure. They’ll let us through.”
“That’s right. Genius.”
“We ready?” Luke appears at my side, dressed in dark jeans and a black shirt, a black sweatshirt wrapped around his waist. His military training must have kicked in the moment he bought two tickets to Quito to even have the foresight to shove dark clothing into a bag. It’s not Black Angels gear but it will do.
“Let’s load up,” Eduardo says, shoving two loaded Glock 9s into our hands. “One weapon each. There’s not room down there for more than that.”
“Go ahead,” Luke says, placing a hand on the small of my back. I hand my bag to Eduardo and jump up into the bed of the truck, my pistol at my side. I lie down, the cold metal soaking into my warm, exposed skin. Luke jumps up and lies down beside me.
“?Bien?” Eduardo asks, a long board in his hand. We both nod. “Here goes.”
Eduardo puts the first board over my face. Then another and another and another. The boards are only a few inches away from my nose. Tiny, enclosed spaces and I are not friends. I’m totally claustrophobic but through my training, I’ve had to learn how to deal with it. I close my eyes, breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth as the final board locks into place and the rush of panic subsides.
Thump. Thump. I open my eyes as pile after pile of manure is thrown onto the bed. The small slivers of light between each board disappear.
“Eduardo, not near our faces, please,” I holler through the boards as Eduardo buries us alive.
“I got it,” Eduardo’s hollow voice answers from the other side. Thump. Thump. The trickle of light near our faces remains, but the rest of the truck is covered, the slivers of light almost entirely gone.
“?Listo?” the second man in the warehouse yells. I hear the metal garage door roll up.
“Vamos,” Eduardo answers. I hear his footsteps on the concrete floor circle the truck. The cab creaks as he climbs inside. The engine starts and the truck jumps as he pulls out of the warehouse and down the bumpy streets of San Lorenzo.
I stare straight ahead at the remaining splinter of light inches from my eyes. I wish I could see the blue sky, the clouds, the mountains, the sea.
“You okay?” Luke asks. I hear his feet shifting at the bottom of the truck, banging against the metal.
“I’m okay, are you?” I ask.