Page 84 of Prisoner of War
Chapter Nineteen
Carmen eyed the pitiful condition of the mountain encampment while trying to look as if she wasn’t looking around. She didn’t need to look far to read the true state of affairs for this fledging loyalist army. The children with the big eyes and silent stares, the women doing the work of men, with submachine guns slung over their shoulders and babes clutching their skirts.
There were too few men here and not nearly enough activity. They had suffered serious setbacks and were reeling with the impact.
She was taken to the hospital because of the deep scratch on her forearm from a barbed wire fence she had scaled on the edges of the city. The hospital was nothing more than a dozen dirty plastic and canvas tarpaulins stretched out over the top of two rows of camp bedsto protect the occupants from the rain and sun. All the beds were full. At the end of the row, a woman in a white coat sat behind a folding table, writing. A battered folding chair stood in front of the table.
The boy who had led her this far pointed to the woman. “She will be able to fix your arm,” he told her.
“Thank you,” Carmen told him. She ducked under the low roof and made her way tothe table.
The woman looked up as she approached. She had dark circles under her eyes, which spoke of long-term sleep deprivation. Her face was drawn, the cheeks sunken. “You need medical attention?” she asked, her voice graveled with weariness. Her accent was odd and unplaceable, but her Spanish was perfect.
“My arm—it is just a scratch. I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Not at all.” The woman steppedaround the table and examined her arm, turning it gently. “How did you get it?”
Carmen told her.
“I will give you a tetanus shot too,” the woman told her. “Sit down, please.”
“Do you know who she is, Madra?” came another voice, a male one, from behind Carmen.
Carmen swiveled in the chair to face the voice. She found herself looking at a man in army fatigue pants and a white cotton shirt thathad seen too many washings. He had unkempt long hair that curled around his shoulders and at least a three-day growth of black beard. There was a scar running from the corner of his eye down almost to the beginning of his mouth. The eyes were startlingly blue and sharp with intelligence.
Carmen straightened her shoulders. “Are you this outfit’s leader?” she asked.
“This one right here?” he asked,pointing to the mud at his feet. “Yes, I am that.”
“You’re American,” she accused.
“Guilty as charged. I know who you are, too.”
She could feel the old wariness rise in her. “I don’t think that’s possible,” she countered. “We’ve never met.”
The woman, Madra, appeared again, carrying a kidney tray with medical supplies. “Do you want to take care of this, doctor?” she asked.
Carmen blinkedwhen she realized that Madra was speaking to the man.
“Yes,” he said, coming forward and taking the tray from her. “You go and get some sleep.”
“I just have to do one last round—”
“I’ll do it,” he said sharply. “Go. That’s an order.”
Madra nodded, relenting. “All right.” She walked back down the corridor of camp beds and ducked under the overhang.
The man was fitting a needle to a syringeand filling it with swift, sure movements.
“You let me think you were the rebel leader,” Carmen said.
“You asked if I were the leader of this outfit. I am.”
“You’re the camp doctorandthe cell leader?” The needle stung and she hissed.
“I am the doctor here,” he said stiffly.
“Then who is the cell leader? That is the man I need to speak to.”
