If We Survive

  I glanced back to check on the skinny guard over by the plane.

  He was gone! He had vanished!

  “Look!” Jim whispered.

  At the same moment, a movement caught my eye. I turned. And I saw the skinny guard—or at least I saw his long legs—being dragged through the mud and out of sight, into the cover of the jungle.

  “It’s Palmer,” Jim whispered. “He got him.”

  I looked across the way at Meredith. She was waving at me frantically, gesturing me to come over. But I already understood.

  “We’ve got to move right now,” I said. “This is the only chance we’ve got. Nicki.”

  She glanced at me—as if she didn’t know what I was going to say!

  So I said it: “Nicki, go! Go fast! Now!”

  She went. And she did go fast. But she didn’t stay low. She just dashed from our hiding place and started running. She raced full speed across the cemetery, leaping between the monuments like a deer.

  “Nicki!” I said in a harsh whisper—but I didn’t dare raise my voice and she didn’t hear me. She didn’t pause.

  She broke out of the cemetery and barreled full speed across the open field toward the jungle.

  I turned in fear to the guards at the checkpoint. Two of them were gathered around the third—the rebel with the cell phone. He spoke into the phone another second as Nicki ran full speed across the open space.

  Then the rebel snapped the phone off. He was slipping it into his pocket when Nicki’s movement caught his eye and he turned.

  And he saw her.

  And he shouted. “Alto!”

  Stop!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  After that, there was nothing but fear and gunfire.

  The three remaining rebels unstrapped their weapons and ran toward us.

  Jim shouted, “Go, Will!”

  And I didn’t hesitate. I leapt up from behind the grave and dashed forward, dodging like a running back through the headstones toward the cemetery’s edge. The sound of the rebels’ AKs rattled through the quiet jungle. Birds exploded out of the trees, screaming. Clots of mud leapt into the air as the bullets dug into the earth.

  I was running across the open field, the mud squelching under my sneakers. I saw the three guards racing toward me, their rifles spitting flame.

  But then I saw Palmer step calmly out of the trees in front of me. He had a machine gun now too—the skinny guard’s weapon. He opened fire and, at my back, I heard another coughing blast as Jim jumped up from behind the gravestones and starting shooting as well.

  I only got a panicked glimpse of the onrushing guards as I made my crazy dash across the field—but so help me, if the situation hadn’t been so insanely lethal, the looks on their faces would have been hilarious. One second they were all murderous intensity, rushing toward us like angels of justice ready to deliver the killing blow from their AKs. The next second they realized that we were armed as well, that we—Palmer and Jim—were actually shooting back at them. And the ferocity instantly went out of their expressions to be replaced by wild-eyed looks of terror.

  The three rebels scattered. Two of them hurled themselves into the cover of the jungle on their left. The third, the squat one, waddled quickly behind the cemetery wall to his right.

  I put on an extra burst of speed, trying to reach the cover of the trees before the rebels could start shooting again.

  But that was a mistake. Just as I reached the spot where Palmer was standing, the ground seemed to fly out from under me. Like Meredith, I had run too fast and slipped. I went down—all the way down—landing hard on my shoulder, sliding through the mud.

  The guards poked out from their blinds and started shooting again, trying to riddle me where I lay. Palmer and Jim returned fire, trying to keep them pinned down. I struggled to get to my feet—and as I did, Meredith rushed out of the jungle to help me.

  “No!” I shouted. “Stay back!”

  But she kept coming—crying out and flinching as bullets pounded into the mud between us.

  She rushed to my side. I leapt to my feet. She grabbed me to help me stand, and I grabbed her to push her back into the trees. Holding on to each other, we ran behind the firing Palmer until we were back in the cover of the jungle.

  “Get in the plane!” Palmer shouted to us.

  But the second he glanced back over his shoulder at us, one of the rebels leapt out of the trees and drew a bead on him.

  Palmer faced forward just in time and fired. The rebel flew backward, dropping into the mud.

  The squat guard seized the moment, jumped up from behind the cemetery wall, and took aim.

  Palmer fired once and the squat guard ducked—but the next moment, Palmer gave a cry of frustration. His magazine was empty—he was out of bullets.

  He threw the rifle into the mud and drew the six-shot revolver from his belt. He fired a single shot to keep the squat guard pinned down. He waved his free hand urgently at the cemetery across the way.

  “Let’s go, Jim! Let’s go!”

  Jim leapt up from the cover of the graves and let loose a burst from his AK. I heard a scream from the jungle and thought he might have hit another of the guards, leaving only the squat one left.

  We’re going to make it, I thought. We’re going to get away!

  But in the next few seconds—the next few terrible seconds— all our hopes seemed to unravel in awful slow motion.

  I was in the trees with Nicki and Meredith. My hopes rising, I was shouting at the girls to get in the plane. I had my hands on their arms and we were all turning away from the gunfight, turning toward the edge of the jungle to where the Cessna was waiting.

  I don’t know what made me glance back, but I did.

  I saw Palmer fire another shot from his revolver. Then I heard a burst of answering machine-gun fire. I saw a line of blood shoot out of Palmer’s arm. He dropped into the mud, the pistol flying out of his hand.

  “Palmer!” I screamed.

  Then—still in the horrible underwater slow motion of a bad dream—I turned back for him. I took a step toward him out of the trees. He was already rolling to his feet, the wound just above his elbow spilling blood down over his forearm and wrist.

  I broke out of the cover of the trees and grabbed his other arm to help him—and as I did, I saw a jeep screaming up to the checkpoint, turning off the road onto the open field, and racing straight toward us over the muddy ground. There was a rebel behind the wheel and another in the passenger seat.

  I saw at once that this second rebel was Mendoza.

  Now, as I helped Palmer into the trees, Jim made his move. He broke out of the cemetery, shooting wildly, and rushed toward us across the field. The jeep swerved to get out of the way of his fire. Its tires lost their grip on the mud. It slowed as it spun round toward the jungle and then I heard the crunch of metal as its fender went into the trunk of a tree.

  But Jim was out of bullets now too. He threw his rifle to the ground and started running toward us.

  He got two steps before the squat guard rose up from behind the cemetery wall and shot him down.

  The machine-gun bullets raked across Jim’s legs. Jim cried out and threw up his arms and tumbled face-forward into the mud.

  I didn’t think. I let go of Palmer and ran to get him.

  I dashed across the field and slid to Jim like a runner going into home plate. I grabbed his arms.

  “Go!” he said. “I can’t walk! I’ll be all right! Go!”

  But there was no way—no way—I was going to leave him there. I wrapped both hands around his arm and jumped to my feet, trying to haul him up with all my strength. He screamed in pain.

  “I can’t!”

  “You have to!”

  I saw the squat guard take aim at us and pull the trigger. Then he cursed and tore the magazine off. His gun was empty too. He fished a fresh magazine from his belt. I kept trying to pull Jim up.

  And now Palmer rushed to us, bloody as he was. He grabbed Jim’s o
ther arm. Ignoring Jim’s screams of pain, we both dragged him to his feet. We draped his arms across our shoulders and began carrying him across the field toward the trees while his useless, wounded legs trailed through the mud behind us.

  A troop truck was now barreling up to the checkpoint, rebels already pouring out of the back. I thought we might make it to the plane before they reached us. I even thought we might make it into the cover of the trees before the squat guard could reload.

  But there was no way we were going to outrace Mendoza.

  The rebel leader had leapt out of the crashed jeep. He had drawn his pistol. He was running toward us, screaming wildly in his desperation to stop our escape—in his determination to bring down Palmer Dunn.

  As Palmer and I dragged the wounded Jim toward the jungle cover, Mendoza got close enough to take his shot—a good shot. He planted his legs. He lowered the pistol. He aimed straight at Palmer. No way he was going to miss at that distance. No way we could make the trees before he fired. No way we could escape if Palmer went down, leaving us no one who could fly the plane, and yet there was also no way Palmer could save himself—not while he was helping me carry Jim to safety.

  I saw the wild rage for vengeance in Mendoza’s eyes and I thought all hope was gone.

  Then Meredith stepped out of the trees. In one swift and weirdly graceful motion, she bent down and swept up the pistol Palmer had dropped in the mud. She stood very still, very straight and tall, and took careful aim at Mendoza.

  How long did she hesitate before she pulled the trigger? Some fraction of a second maybe? Even with all our lives on the line, I couldn’t blame her. To kill a man, to send his soul to judgment—it’s a terrible thing to do, a terrible thing to have to live with afterward, a terrible sacrifice to make even when you have no other choice. I knew that.

  And Meredith did hesitate. And Mendoza saw her. And quickly he shifted the aim of his pistol from Palmer to her.

  And Meredith pulled the trigger.

  The blast of the pistol was loud even in the open field. The powerful recoil made Meredith’s arm fly up into the air and even pushed her backward half a step.

  Among all the crazy racing images around me, I saw Mendoza’s face go blank with surprise as a black wound appeared in the center of his chest. I saw him lower his pistol and stagger where he stood. He gave Meredith a look—a look, I thought, of incomprehension—as if he couldn’t for the life of him understand how she could ever do something as nasty as that to a sweet guy like him.

  Then he toppled over—like a falling tower—and his body thudded into the mud.

  The next moment Palmer and I had carried Jim into the cover of the trees and Meredith was with us, pale and grim, and Nicki was beside us and we were all racing through the jungle together, racing to the plane.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  We had no weapons left. Meredith, in horror, I think, had dropped the revolver in the mud and left it there. Behind us, the squat guard had reloaded and was firing after us in short bursts. The bullets ripped through the leaves all around us. The rebels from the troop carrier—I don’t know how many—were racing over the open field behind us, trying to get around the trees and cut us off to keep us from escaping. We were dragging Jim and dodging tree trunks and leaping over roots and pushing through foliage. Our pursuers were closing on us quickly.

  We broke out of the trees and reached the plane. It didn’t look large enough to hold us all, but it would have to. Meredith and Nicki, unencumbered by Jim, had rushed ahead of us. Nicki yanked the door open and bent the front seat forward. Meredith climbed in quickly so she could help pull Jim aboard.

  Palmer and I brought the groaning Jim up to the plane and hoisted him through the door. Meredith grabbed him and dragged him through as he screamed in agony. His legs were a mass of blood.

  Now Palmer was gone—around the plane to the pilot’s seat. Nicki was climbing in and pulling the seat back to make room for me up front. I jumped in shotgun.

  Even as I shut the door, the engine was roaring to life, the propeller turning and the plane starting to strain forward against the resistance of the muddy ground.

  “Come on!” Palmer shouted at the Cessna. He was covered in mud and blood and his eyes gleamed white with intensity.

  As if in answer to his cry, the Cessna went forward a little faster—then a little faster still.

  There was no runway, but there was a stretch of dirt where the grass grew sparse. The earth was packed tighter here and the mud was not as bad. As the Cessna’s wheels reached the spot, the plane sped up and turned.

  I looked ahead through the windshield and saw the mountains to the west, the clouds breaking apart above them to reveal the dark-blue sky and the lowering sun.

  The real shooting started now. The rebels from the troop carrier had come around the curve in the tree line. They had a bead on our plane as it rolled away from them. They were firing at us—their rattling blasts blending together into one solid death-dealing roar.

  I didn’t look back at them. There was no point. They would bring us down or we would outrun them, and there was nothing I could do to change the outcome. I sat in the plane facing forward, breathing hard from the chase but oddly unafraid, oddly calm about whatever was going to happen next.

  Don’t worry about anything. Pray about everything.

  I remembered what Meredith’s sister, Anne, had taught her:

  Put your hands together and point your soul toward the light of God.

  As the Cessna rolled faster, as the noise of gunfire rose above the noise of the plane, I clasped my hands together in my lap and faced the windshield.

  I felt the plane take to the sky. I felt it wobble as if it might yet tumble back to earth—and then I felt it right itself and lift up faster and faster, higher and higher. I heard Nicki give a shout of celebration. And I heard Palmer laughing. I saw the sky surround us and I saw nothing before us but the mountains and the sun.

  We headed for that light—with Costa Verdes, that country of tragedies, falling away below us.

  We flew for the west.

  America.

  Home.

  Freedom.

  EPILOGUE

  I never got to say good-bye to Palmer Dunn—or Meredith Ward either. I tried to, but it just didn’t work out that way. After we flew across the mountains, Palmer picked up a signal on the emergency band of the Cessna’s radio. Voices guided us north to an airfield in Belize. We were met there by a small crowd of celebrating people. Father Miguel had told them we were coming. They all spoke English. They all slapped us on our backs as we stepped out of the plane. They had an ambulance already waiting. They helped us put Jim on a stretcher and they rushed all of us off to a nearby hospital, sirens blaring.

  The next few days went by in a blur. We were taken first to one hospital, then flown to another in the capital city of Belmopan. At the second hospital, we were met by a woman named Mrs. Blake who was from the American embassy. Jim had to stay in the hospital another day while they worked on his legs, but the rest of us just needed some bandages here and there. Even Palmer: a bullet had torn a gash in his arm, but it hadn’t stuck. He was fine. So Mrs. Blake had us moved to a hotel—an amazing luxury hotel with huge rooms and soft beds and hot showers and English-language television. It wasn’t heaven, but for now, it was close enough.

  I talked to my parents on the phone. My mother cried. My father laughed. They sounded good, I thought. I let myself hope that maybe they had stopped arguing with each other, but I wasn’t sure and I didn’t really know how to ask. I figured I would just have to wait and see for myself.

  Mrs. Blake brought us new clothes. When we were all cleaned up and rested, she brought some reporters to the hotel. Some were local, some were from back home. We had lunch with the reporters in the hotel restaurant and they asked us questions about our escape and took video. Later I heard the interviews were on television and then on YouTube. I never watched them, but I hear they’re still there.

&n
bsp; Finally, Mrs. Blake brought us new passports and arranged our plane tickets home. By the fourth day, even Jim was ready to travel, though he was hobbling around on crutches.

  We flew to Belize City and then to Dallas, Texas. From there, Jim and Nicki and I would fly home to California. Meredith was going back to Denver. Palmer said he was going to see a friend in Virginia, to ask about finding a new job. Something in law enforcement, he said, but he wasn’t very specific.

  I meant to say good-bye to Palmer and Meredith there at the airport. But as we were all making our way from the airport security checkpoint to our gates, I saw a sign for a chapel. I told the others I would catch up with them, and I went in.

  The chapel was just a little room with chairs pointing at a podium. I guess it was supposed to look vaguely like a church, but only vaguely. There was no one there but me.

  I sat in one of the chairs. I was planning to pray. I wanted to say thanks for our survival. I wanted to remember Pastor Ron, and ask God to take care of him and to bring peace to his family.

  And I did start praying, but after a while, I just found myself sitting there, staring down at my sneakers, kind of lost in thought. I was a little nervous about going home, I realized. I was nervous about seeing my parents, about finding out if they had solved their problems and ended their arguments, or if their marriage was going to break apart and take my life with it.

  I was nervous—but I realized I wasn’t scared, not like I’d been scared before. I had gone to Costa Verdes to get away from them, to get away from the suspense of waiting to find out what would happen. But now I was back and I was not afraid.

  Which was weird, you know. Because I still didn’t know what was going to happen. Not to my parents, not to me, not to my life or to the world. I didn’t know the future, in other words. No one does. I definitely hoped there’d be some good news up ahead. But I knew there’d be some bad news sometimes too. And I won’t say I was fearless about that like Meredith was—not yet—but I thought I understood now how a person might get to be fearless over time, if he set his spirit on the right path.