As gunfire blazed and the two fugitives staggered along at top speed across the rooftops with their baggage, Smith saw an opportunity: at the end of the last outbuilding, a ramshackle stake truck bulged with a cargo hidden by a lashed-down tarpaulin. Its Mercedes-Benz emblem gleamed from the hood, the only part of the truck that looked well maintained.
“Maybe we can borrow this vehicle,” Smith said hopefully. “I’m an American, so they’ll trust me.”
“You? An American?” Yaquita laughed. “Then you really aren’t the Pedrito I know.” Smith didn’t know what she found so funny.
He stepped down from the corrugated metal overhang to the top of the truck’s cab. The roof of the vehicle was rough with rust and patched with primer-coat paint. Like a true gentleman, he reached up for Yaquita’s bags.
