Paying with US dollars, they’d gotten an apartment across the street from the warehouse where the hostages were believed to be. Dylan had done the talking, speaking with his best Cuban accent. Jones had brushed up on his Spanish on the flight and could at least swear like a realvenezolano. Segal was pretending to be from Syria and spoke English and a little Spanish with a convincing Arabic accent.
Dylan focused the camera with its telephoto lens on the warehouse. Part of their job was to record comings and goings and to confirm, if possible, that the hostages were in this location. They wouldn’t be able to keep the side entrance under surveillance from this window, but they could at least cover the loading dock and the main doors that faced the street.
Their other job was to gather intel for a rescue. They needed to learn the strength of the enemy and the lay of the land—number of men, kinds of weapons, possible points of ingress—and, if possible, the location of the hostages inside the warehouse. In addition to a telephoto lens, they had a state-of-the-art thermal imaging system that would enable them to peek through windows, though not the warehouse’s concrete walls. Every image they took would be sent via VPN to Shields in Colombia for analysis. If they could confirm that the hostages were here, they would work with Tower to start planning a rescue operation, and the rest of the team would be flown in from Denver.
Camera in place, Dylan dragged over a chair and settled in for his shift. “Join the Navy, they said. See the world, they said. Sit on your ass and stare through a camera all damned day—no one said that.”
Jones and Segal chuckled.
Recon was important work. It saved lives. But it could be boring as fuck.
He looked through the viewfinder, saw two guys with handguns tucked in the back of their jeans standing guard at the side door. Two more guys stood on the loading dock while a third sat on an overturned bucket, smoking a cigarette.
Dylan snapped their photos. “It would be really great if one of those bastards in the abduction photos would step outside or if the hostages could just look out a window.”
Jones laughed. “Dream on, brother.”
Hours passed until Dylan needed to take a bathroom break. “Hey, can one of you take over? I need to hit the head.”
Jones left the VPN, which was up and running, and took Dylan’s seat. “It’s going to rain. Look at those clouds coming over the mountains.”
“En español. You should keep practicing.”
Jones repeated those last words, struggling with the vocabulary. “Mira las nubes que vienen sobre los montañas.”
“Lasmontañas. Jesus, man.” Dylan walked to the bathroom, shaking his head. “Mountains are feminine.”
“Why are they feminine?” Jones called after him.
“How should I know? Maybe they looked like big tits to some Spaniard.”
It was raining when Dylan got back to the window.
Jones didn’t budge, camera clicking. “Holy shit, man. That’s her—the nun.”
“What?” Dylan took over, adjusted the focus, and stared. “¡Puñeta! You’re right.”
There she was, unmistakable in her gray tunic and black veil.
“This kind of shit never happens.” He clicked shot after shot, hoping to get a clear image of her face. “Turn your head, Sister. Just a little to the left.”
As if she could hear him, she turned, looked to her left and then to her right, her hands held out as if to feel the rain, a smile on her pretty face.
Click.
“Yeah, that’s her for sure.”
Segal leaned in, looked through the viewfinder himself. “It’s our lucky day, boys—and hers.”
Dylan was still taking photos when a man stepped outside, grabbed the sister by her arm, and dragged her roughly back inside. Dylan snapped a few shots of his face, too, before the bastard disappeared.
There’s a bullet in your future, asshole.
Dylan popped out the camera’s memory card and handed it to Jones. “Let’s get this to Shields right away.”
He looked down at the warehouse once more.
Hang on, Sister. We’re coming.