“They’re ready,” she told Linc.
“How are the kids?” he asked, as he peered through the viewfinder and motioned for the guerrillas to move closer together.
“Fine. Joe’s watching them.” She knew now why Linc had all those web-fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. He squinted into cameras a lot.
“Tell them to hold still,” he said. She did. “Okay, on the count of three.”
“Uno, dos, tres,” she counted.
The shutter clicked and the camera ejected the exposed automatic film. Kerry took it from Linc and asked, “Can you take another?”
“Yep. Give them the countdown.”
After several had been taken, Kerry took the Polaroid pictures to the leader. His men inched closer, looking at the snapshots until they were fully developed. Laughter broke out. Mild insults were exchanged. They were apparently pleased with the results.
While they were passing the pictures around, Linc ripped off several frames with his power-driven Nikon. Some of these men, had they been born elsewhere, would be gloating over high school graduation pictures and toting baseball bats instead of machine guns. The contrast between their innocent delight over the snapshots and the grenade-decorated belts at their waists would make photographs that bore the famous Linc O’Neal stamp of excellence. His photographs were wordless editorials.
“Now, while they’re in a good mood, let’s get the hell out of here,” he told Kerry beneath his breath. “You do the negotiating, since you seem to be so good at it.”
Kerry didn’t know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult, but she didn’t dwell on it. They needed to be on their way as quickly as possible. Every hour counted. They had only two more days to make it to the border in time. Traveling with the children was slow. They hadn’t covered nearly as much ground as they should have, though Linc had been driving them relentlessly.
Kerry tentatively approached the band of guerrillas. As unobtrusively as possible, she got the leader’s attention. “May we leave now?” As though a switch had turned them off, the soldiers fell silent.
They all watched their leader closely, gauging his reaction and anticipating his decision.
The opinion of his men was important to him. He wanted them to hold him in the highest esteem and wouldn’t dare lose face in front of them. Knowing this, Kerry pleaded her case.
“You are brave fighters. It doesn’t take much courage to terrorize children. El Presidente’s men are the cowards who make war on women and children, not soldiers like you.” She made a gesture that encompassed the entire group.
“Would you butcher helpless children? I don’t believe you would because you fight for liberty, for life. You’ve all left behind children of your own, or brothers and sisters. These could be your children.” She nodded toward the truck where the children were huddled. “Help me. Let me move them to a safer place, away from the fighting.”
The leader focused on the children. Kerry thought she discerned a flicker of compassion, or an emotion very near to it, in the man’s impenetrable eyes. Then he looked at Linc and his expression became hostile again.
“Are you his woman?” he asked Kerry, hitching his chin toward Linc.
Kerry glanced at Linc over her shoulder. “I—”
“What’d he ask you?” Linc didn’t like the look on the rebel’s face.
She met his burning gaze across the clearing. “He asked if I was your...woman.”
“Tell him no.”
“No? But if he thinks—”
“He’ll use you to get to me. Tell him no, dammit!”
She faced the commander again. “No. I’m not his woman.”
He stared at her with cold calculation. Then, in a move that dismayed Kerry, he began to smile. The smile broke slowly across his dark, foreboding face and grew into laughter. Soon he and all his men were laughing at something only they understood and found amusing.
“Yes, you may go,” he told her in Spanish.
She looked at her feet in an attitude of humble appreciation. “Gracias, señior.”
“But first I want your man to take my picture again.”
“He’s not my man.”