face.
"So, look at the ugly fish the river puked out, eh?"
Manny squinted through raw, gritty eyes, twisted painfully to his back again, and followed the length of the legs disappearing into the boots. For the second time in twelve hours, he found a Soviet-made rifle pointed dead center at his chest.
"What's your name, fish?"
Manny's head felt as thick as the mud he'd crawled out of and he drifted toward unconsciousness again— then jerked awake with a groan when a boot connected sharply with his ribs.
"Your name, or I will gut you like the bottom-feeder you are."
He fought to focus as the scream of a howler monkey grated through his brain and a slow-moving cloud covered the blinding sun. Finally, he pulled his swimming vision together and stared at his new tormentor.
Bandoleers filled with ammunition crisscrossed a scrawny, bare chest. A Makarov pistol hung from a canvas belt, the holster tied to a bowed right leg. A steel-handled knife hung from a scarred leather scabbard strapped to his left calf.
Manny's new captor wore the dirt-stained camouflage pants of a jungle fighter. Beneath the brim of a battered bush hat was a face that would break a cupboard full of plates. The man's right eye bugged out like a frosted-glass marble. His left was open only a slit. A thick, jagged scar cut a half-moon from the outside of that eye down to the corner of his mouth and hooked it up into a perpetual sneer. What teeth he had were the color of hemp and as jagged as a rusted saw blade.
Diablo. The devil has found me.
Manny heard a raspy laugh. Only realized it was coming from himself when pain sliced through his ribs.
"For a man about to die, you are very happy, no? Maybe I should just shoot you now. That way I won't have to clean my knife."
"I'm not going to die. Not... today. And when have you ... ever cleaned anything, Enrique?"
Those monster eyes pinned him to the ground. "You call me by name. How do you know this?"
"Only one man I know ... reeks of rancid pig piss," Manny managed through a throat as dry as dust. "Cristo, Enrique. It's me. Manny. For God's sake, untie me. And then, amigo, you will pay for that boot you planted in my ribs."
But not right now. Right now it was all Manny could do to stay conscious and silently thank God for sending this unlikely angel of mercy.
Enrique Diaz dropped to his knees with a cry of "Dios!" when he finally recognized Manny.
Enrique whipped his knife out of the scabbard and sliced the rope tying Manny's wrists.
Icy hot needles of fire exploded through Manny's hands. He roared out his pain when his shoulders, frozen for hours, fell forward. Then he puked river water until there was nothing left but bile.
And then, mercifully, he passed out again.
"So. Do you know who betrayed you, amigo?"
Enrique and his brothers, longtime Contra fighters Manny had trained with, sat around a small campfire deep in the jungle, sharing a sparse meal of black beans and rice. Manny had told them about Poveda's men coming for him.
He stared at the fire as a green iguana skittered across a rust-colored rock and disappeared into the jungle scrub. It was dusk now. Thanks to Enrique, Manny was clean and clothed. His arm and his thighs were bandaged and soothed with salve. His belly was no longer empty.
It was only by good fortune that Enrique and his small band of guerrillas had been in this part of the jungle today. They'd been hunting. Manny was the only game they'd found. No one else would find him here. The camp would not be visible to anyone—including the Sandinistas. The jungle folded around them like a tent of green.
Manny was rehydrated. Enrique's salve had begun to work on the gunshot wound that had started to fester. Manny's headache had dulled to a minor annoyance. In a day or two, his body would be strong again.
His heart, however, would never heal. This he knew with everything
"So, look at the ugly fish the river puked out, eh?"
Manny squinted through raw, gritty eyes, twisted painfully to his back again, and followed the length of the legs disappearing into the boots. For the second time in twelve hours, he found a Soviet-made rifle pointed dead center at his chest.
"What's your name, fish?"
Manny's head felt as thick as the mud he'd crawled out of and he drifted toward unconsciousness again— then jerked awake with a groan when a boot connected sharply with his ribs.
"Your name, or I will gut you like the bottom-feeder you are."
He fought to focus as the scream of a howler monkey grated through his brain and a slow-moving cloud covered the blinding sun. Finally, he pulled his swimming vision together and stared at his new tormentor.
Bandoleers filled with ammunition crisscrossed a scrawny, bare chest. A Makarov pistol hung from a canvas belt, the holster tied to a bowed right leg. A steel-handled knife hung from a scarred leather scabbard strapped to his left calf.
Manny's new captor wore the dirt-stained camouflage pants of a jungle fighter. Beneath the brim of a battered bush hat was a face that would break a cupboard full of plates. The man's right eye bugged out like a frosted-glass marble. His left was open only a slit. A thick, jagged scar cut a half-moon from the outside of that eye down to the corner of his mouth and hooked it up into a perpetual sneer. What teeth he had were the color of hemp and as jagged as a rusted saw blade.
Diablo. The devil has found me.
Manny heard a raspy laugh. Only realized it was coming from himself when pain sliced through his ribs.
"For a man about to die, you are very happy, no? Maybe I should just shoot you now. That way I won't have to clean my knife."
"I'm not going to die. Not... today. And when have you ... ever cleaned anything, Enrique?"
Those monster eyes pinned him to the ground. "You call me by name. How do you know this?"
"Only one man I know ... reeks of rancid pig piss," Manny managed through a throat as dry as dust. "Cristo, Enrique. It's me. Manny. For God's sake, untie me. And then, amigo, you will pay for that boot you planted in my ribs."
But not right now. Right now it was all Manny could do to stay conscious and silently thank God for sending this unlikely angel of mercy.
Enrique Diaz dropped to his knees with a cry of "Dios!" when he finally recognized Manny.
Enrique whipped his knife out of the scabbard and sliced the rope tying Manny's wrists.
Icy hot needles of fire exploded through Manny's hands. He roared out his pain when his shoulders, frozen for hours, fell forward. Then he puked river water until there was nothing left but bile.
And then, mercifully, he passed out again.
"So. Do you know who betrayed you, amigo?"
Enrique and his brothers, longtime Contra fighters Manny had trained with, sat around a small campfire deep in the jungle, sharing a sparse meal of black beans and rice. Manny had told them about Poveda's men coming for him.
He stared at the fire as a green iguana skittered across a rust-colored rock and disappeared into the jungle scrub. It was dusk now. Thanks to Enrique, Manny was clean and clothed. His arm and his thighs were bandaged and soothed with salve. His belly was no longer empty.
It was only by good fortune that Enrique and his small band of guerrillas had been in this part of the jungle today. They'd been hunting. Manny was the only game they'd found. No one else would find him here. The camp would not be visible to anyone—including the Sandinistas. The jungle folded around them like a tent of green.
Manny was rehydrated. Enrique's salve had begun to work on the gunshot wound that had started to fester. Manny's headache had dulled to a minor annoyance. In a day or two, his body would be strong again.
His heart, however, would never heal. This he knew with everything
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