My lungs feel like they’re collapsing. I breathe in, but the air in this truck is metallic and suffocating. After hours of talking and planning and replanning, no one speaks. The only sounds I hear are the tap, tap, tap of Luke at the keyboard, Velcro ripping apart as Sam adjusts her vest, and Cooper’s fingers drumming nervously on the metal wall of the truck.
Soft whispers break up the quiet. I look up at Laz. His hands are collapsed together, his eyes are closed, his mouth moves quickly. I catch snippets of what he’s saying. Dios mio. Seguridad. Jesus Cristo. He’s praying. I watch him as he carefully crosses himself in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. He raises his hand to his lips and gently kisses his fingertips. He opens his brown eyes and they immediately meet mine.
“Who were you praying for, Laz?” I ask, my voice quiet.
“For your parents. For you. For all of us,” Laz answers and nods.
“Thank you.” I lean my shoulders against the truck. “I hope God hears you.”
“Have you asked God to protect you?” Laz asks, taking a step closer to me.
“I haven’t really prayed in a long time,” I say and shake my head. “It feels selfish to ask for help now.”
“Dios te escucha,” Laz says, his index finger pointing up toward the heavens and then down to his right ear. He nods slowly, his brown eyes glistening. There’s a flash of sadness in them. Maybe the sorrow is for me. That I walk through life without God in my heart and prayers on my lips. I study his face: He blinks and the sadness is gone. He looks peaceful, envy crushing my already-aching heart. I wish I believed God would always protect me or that prayers carry power or that good really does conquer evil. Life would be easier that way.
“God hears you,” Laz repeats, this time in English. “God hears you always.”
I want to believe that if I pray hard enough for strength, protection, and the lives of my parents, that God will hear me and make it so. But I don’t think it works that way. God doesn’t choose who gets to live and who has to die. And if he does, he’s a God I don’t think I want to know.
The truck’s heavy tires squeal as the truck comes to a complete stop.
“Go time,” Sam says, clutching her gun to her chest.
“Let’s bring them home,” Thomas says. I push my earpiece deeper into my eardrum.
Cooper unlocks the back door of the truck and it swings open with a screaming creak. One by one, they jump the five feet down to the ground, their boots scraping against the gravel road.
“Are you sitting down with me?” Luke asks from behind the monitors.
“Yes, just one second,” I say and walk toward the back of the truck. “I can’t breathe in here.”
I jump quietly off the back of the truck and onto the gravel road. I take in a breath. The air outside is humid and salty and sweet. The shore is only two miles away and Colombia’s fragrant flowers are in full bloom.
I watch as Sam, Laz, and Cooper walk into darkness, their calves and lower thighs disappearing in the field’s high grass and weeds. A half mile is what separates me from my parents. A half mile until they come face-to-face with some of the most ruthless assassins in the world.
With each breath, my racing heart slows. Something resembling peace washes over me. Maybe it’s my training or the smell of seawater. Maybe it’s Laz’s prayer. Whatever it is, my heart isn’t filled with fear. It’s filled with something I’ve never felt before. Whatever it is, I need it to stay with me. I breathe in the Colombian air and hold it in my lungs. Stay with me, please. Dear God, please stay with me.
TWENTY-NINE
“There are four guards around the perimeter of the barn, do you copy?” Sam’s voice whispers in my ear. I take my right hand off the keyboard and touch my ear.
“Copy,” I say and hear the rest of the team repeat “copy” after me. Luke and I are seated on the floor of the truck, watching the team’s cameras on our monitors. The team is one hundred yards away from the barn, crouched in the grass, watching the guards. One guard is at the front of the barn standing stationary, the MP5 machine gun cradled in his arms. The guard on the side facing the field paces back and forth. Like a good soldier. Torres probably loves this kid. He’s tall and muscular and incredibly alert.
“Are you guys seeing this?” I warn, my voice carrying up to my mouthpiece. “The guard on the south side of the barn is super intense. We have to wait for him to calm down a bit if we even want a chance in hell.”
“We see him,” Sam answers me. “Good eye.”
“Thomas, any indication they’ll change guards soon?” Cooper asks. I hold my breath, hoping he’ll say yes. We need a lazy guard, one that’s more concerned with cigarette smoking than gun holding.
“No. They just changed guards an hour ago,” Thomas answers. His voice in my ear sounds hollow and reminds me just how far away I am from home. “They probably won’t change again for another hour and a half, and by then it might be too late.”
“All right,” I hear Cooper say on the other end. “We have to move in now. This is the only chance we’ve got.”