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The groaning of hinges brought his focus back to Ben, who was homing in on the sound, as well as the faint, wavering light coming from the apse, a door at the back of the altar that led to the sacristy. Amos had learned all those words from a book about Saint Thomas Becket.
They could hear more frantic movement now: the thump of something light, the thud of something heavy. All at once, the wavering light went out.
Amos suspected the priest had heard them pop the door and was trying to extricate himself. Not wanting to alarm the man unduly, he called out, “Peace to you,” in English, then in Spanish.
Signing to Ben that he would go first, Amos mounted the altar and leaned through the apse with his weapon lowered, spotting the priest by his silhouette. “Tranquilo,Padre. We are here to rescue the American, Grace Garrett. Is she here?”
A wavering voice called, “Sí.” Then a lamp snapped on, revealing a stout priest in dark robes and a white collar, standing alone.
Amos joined him, inspecting the little room for any sign of his recovery target, but all he saw were robes hanging on a rod, a small table, and a rug.
“Where is she?”
The priest pointed at the rug. “Abajo.”Below.
Amos set the small table to one side and lifted back the rug, exposing a trapdoor. “Open it,” he requested of the priest and stepped back.
The man bent obediently, lifted the hatch, and called out in Spanish, “Your prayers have been answered, Peter.”
As Amos peered into the deep cellar, the lamp found reflection in four pairs of eyes. He pulled a penlight from his pocket and ran the beam over the faces of those peering up at him. The occupants, wide-eyed and anxious, stood on a dirt-packed floor. The body odor rising to him suggested they’d been down there for several days. Amos’s light rested on a pretty brunette squinting up at him. He knew her at once by her resemblance to the photo he had—one he could not stop looking at for how lovely she was. But his stare caused the dusky-skinned boy she was clutching to wail with fright.
“Hush, Mateo, it’s okay.”
The child did not hush. Amos panned his light toward the beak-nosed man with his arm around a plump woman—Mr. and Mrs. Doyle, of course—before spotlighting his target again.
“Grace Garrett, I’m Senior Chief McLeod with the U.S. Navy SEALs. We’re to take you safely home.”
To his amazement, she raised her delicate chin and stated, “I’m not leaving by myself.”
“Now, Grace,” the tall man crooned with an Irish accent, “this man is here to help you. Don’t be stubborn.” He reached for her, as though to guide her up the steps.
She wrenched her arm away while locking eyes with Amos. “This couple could be tortured for helping me. We all go with you, or no one goes.”
Her steely demand rather impressed him. Amos reassessed the Doyles and realized she was probably right. “We can take you across to Colombia if that helps.”
“Yes.” The missionary’s voice quavered with relief. “We would be very much obliged.”
The boy in Grace’s arms had buried his face against her neck. Amos supposed he was also coming. “Let’s go, then. We won’t be alone for long.”
Swift to obey him, the missionary propelled Grace toward the stairs, which were steep and without any railing. Amos descended part way and held out a hand, but she ignored it, forcing him to step back. The boy had wrapped his arms and legs around her like he never meant to let her go. Concern pricked Amos. She knew she would have to leave the boy when they flew her out, right?
One by one, those in hiding emerged from the cellar. As Ben leaned into the room to see them, the little boy caught sight of him and shrieked.
In that same instant, Theo’s voice sounded in Amos’s earpiece. “Mako, we have company. A Humvee with five tangos just pulled up.”
Blast!“Theo, fall back and join us. We have to move now,” he said to the small group. “Is there an exit to the street behind us?”
“No.” The priest shook his head. “The exit to the garden is closest.”
Peter Doyle spoke up, “From the garden, we can cut through the school. I have keys to the building.”
Amos nodded. “Lead the way.”
“Vayan con Dios,”called the priest as he covered the hatch with the rug.
Amos curled a hand around Grace Garrett’s arm as they all followed Mr. and Mrs. Doyle to a door in the transept. Ben slipped out ahead of them, ready to shoot if they encountered more soldiers. As a group, they eased out the side door into the cool night air, with Theo closing it behind them.
Low walls topped by wrought iron fencing enclosed them in a space fragrant with the smell of passionflower. Ben scanned dark corners through his NVGs as they hastened across the dirt yard edged in lush flower beds. The little boy had fallen quiet, but his glinting eyes watched Amos’s every move. As they neared the adjacent school building, Mr. Doyle sifted through his keys. They all froze at the sound of raised voices coming from inside the church. The soldiers were yelling at the priest.
