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Emerson and Wayan Bagus helped Vernon to his feet. Vernon’s hair was singed, and most of his eyebrows were burned off.
“Snap, crackle, pop,” Vernon said. “Hey, Pam, give me a kiss. Oh yeah, and don’t touch the fence. I think it’s electrocuted.”
“This is bad,” Wayan Bagus said. “I should have removed the gun as well. I fear its luck has moved on.”
Emerson looked Vernon over. “I think he’s okay. He’s a little dazed from the shock, and he has some minor burns on his hands.”
“Burns shmurns,” Vernon said. “I’m good as new. Right, Pam? And by the way, don’t touch the fence.”
Riley looked at Emerson. “Which one of us is Pam?”
“I don’t think it matters,” Emerson said. “And obviously we’re not going over the fence. We’ll have to go around. Sooner or later we’re bound to come to a gate.”
—
Several hours later they straggled to the top of a knoll. They’d been walking parallel to the fence line, pushing through tall grass that alternated with low scrubby brush. Emerson was the first to get to the top of the small hill, and he stared out across a swath of pasture.
“That must be the gate,” he said to Riley, pointing at a little guardhouse about a quarter mile away down the fence line. He raised his binoculars to his eyes. “There’s a crude trail leading to it through a couple hundred feet of open grassland before it disappears into the woods.”
“Well, you found your gate,” Vernon said. “Now what?”
SEVENTEEN
Riley watched a Jeep Wrangler through Emerson’s binoculars as it emerged from the woods and meandered down the barely there trail. It stopped at the little guardhouse before passing through the gate and disappearing into a thicket of trees.
“This feels surreal,” Riley said, crouching down behind the hill, out of sight from the guards. “We’ve been watching this fence in the middle of nowhere for hours. How long are we going to spy on the gatehouse?”
Emerson was lying down in the grass, using his backpack as a pillow. “Until we can figure out a way to get past the sentries.”
Riley looked through the binoculars again. Two guards wearing khaki uniforms and campaign hats manned the station. One had an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. “There’s no way to get past those guys without being seen and/or getting shot. We should find another way.”
Emerson shook his head. “We walked the fence line for half a day. This is the only entry point.”
“It’s going to be dark in an hour,” Vernon said. “We can’t make a fire without being seen, and without a fire we haven’t got a lot of protection against the bears and wolves on account of I’m dehydrated after getting electrified.”
Wayan Bagus was sitting under a tree. “They’re wearing the same uniforms as the men who forced me off my island. If they’re anything like those men, they won’t be good hosts.”
Emerson sat up. “I have a plan. Ten years ago, a crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn’t commit. These men promptly escaped from a maximum-security stockade to the Los Angeles underground. Today, still wanted by the government, they survive as soldiers of fortune. We need to contact those guys ASAP.”
Riley grinned. “Seriously. Your plan is to hire the A-Team?”
“I have another idea, but it’s kind of crazy.”
“Crazier than asking a bunch of geriatric actors from a TV show that was canceled thirty years ago to break into a government installation?”
“How do you feel about tattoos?” Emerson asked.
“I’m not letting you anywhere near me with a needle,” Riley said.
Emerson pulled a Sharpie from his backpack. “This is more the temporary kind of tattoo. Are you ready to join the Rough Riders?”
“You think a pen-and-ink drawing of two crossed sabers on our wrists will be enough to get us into the compound?”
Emerson uncapped the pen. “No, but I’m hoping it will buy us some time and let us get close enough to overpower the guards.”
“Shouldn’t you practice first?” Riley asked.
“Excellent idea. It’s harder to draw on a human body than on paper, what with all your nooks and crannies.”
