Page 71 of V-Day
17.
THE WOMEN PUSHED INTO THElittle sunroom, stumbling down the three steps and over to the doors onto the deck at the top of the stairs down to the beach. Téra followed behind them, the rifle under her arm. Her heart screamed. She trembled from head to foot, but a hot, angry core drove her. If anyone tried to stop them, she would scrag them with her teeth, if she had to.
As she stepped onto the second step into the sunroom, the cluster of women at the doors got them open and streamed out.
Téra took the last step.
A hand shot out and grabbed her throat. The thick fingers squeezed, cutting of her breath. She couldn’t scream or warn any of the women who all had their backs to them. No one had thought to check the corners of the room.
Not even Téra.
Zapatero pulled her off the step and took the rifle from her nerveless fingers. He studied her curiously.
Beyond the door, the women screamed, throwing up their hands. Two Insurrectos marched up the last of the stairs from the beach, their rifles raised, herding the women back toward the doors.
Téra’s vision blurred as tears built.
She listened to the panic in their voices as the ladies were all driven back into the sunroom. They clung to each other, babbling.
Zapatero pushed Téra toward them, freeing her throat, as the other two Insurrectos came inside.
“Colonel! Louis and Jose are dead!” the one wearing sergeant’s stripes cried. “We can’t find anyone else. The outer perimeter is gone!”
Téra rubbed her throat.
Zapatero frowned. “You’re sure?” he asked his men.
They both nodded.
“Then who is left to guard the house?” Zapatero demanded.
They looked at each other.
“Just us, Colonel,” the sergeant said.
“Then why are you notguarding the house?” Zapatero shouted.
Their mouths dropped open. Before they could recover enough to respond, Zapatero lifted the rifle and shot the corporal in the chest.
He crumpled to the floor as the women screamed again.
The private’s eyes got very large. He fumbled with his rifle, as Zapatero swung his to aim at the private. Before either of them could fire, though, a third gun bellowed. Glass tinkled. Red sprouted at the side of the private’s neck and he dropped to the ground, his rifle clattering beside him.
The women pressed backward, out of the way. Téra didn’t move. She couldn’t. She stared at the broken window. Rubén stood on the deck, his left hand holding his crutch, the right-hand crutch leaning against his side. He held a Magnum in his hand, and it was pointing at Zapatero.
Zapatero lifted the rifle up and out from his side, the other hand held high.
Téra grabbed the rifle from him and turned it to point at him.
“Open the door for me,” Rubén called through the fractured window pane.
A dozen willing hands opened the door for him. He worked his way inside and over the two bodies, to where Téra stood with the rifle on Zapatero.
The colonel didn’t seem to be distressed. He watched Rubén, a small smile playing around his mouth. “You figured it out, then. Good.”
Rubén looked at Téra. “Keep the rifle on him for now. I don’t have a spare hand.”
She nodded.
