The Sands of Time Page 0,3

door. The priest stepped out into the corridor and the guard locked the door behind him. There was the sound of a loud crash from the front of the prison. The guard turned to peer out the narrow, barred window.

"What the hell was that noise?"

The priest said, "It sounds as though someone wishes an audience with us. May I borrow that?"

"Borrow what?"

"Your weapon, por favor."

As the priest spoke, he stepped close to the guard. He silently removed the top of the large cross that hung around his neck, revealing a long, wicked-looking stiletto. In one lightning move he plunged the knife into the guard's chest.

"You see, my son," he said as he pulled the submachine gun from the dying guard's hands, "God and I decided that you no longer have need of this weapon. In Nomine Patris," Jaime Miro said, piously crossing himself.

The guard slumped to the cement floor. Jaime Miro took the keys from the body and swiftly opened the two cell doors. The sounds from the street were getting louder.

"Let's move," Jaime commanded.

Ricardo Mellado picked up the machine gun. "You make a damned good priest. You almost convinced me." He tried to smile with his swollen mouth.

"They really worked you two over, didn't they? Don't worry. They'll pay for it."

Jaime put his arms around the two men and helped them down the corridor.

"What happened to Zamora?"

"The guards beat him to death. We could hear his screams. They took him off to the infirmary and said he died of a heart attack."

Ahead of them was a locked iron door.

"Wait here," Jaime said.

He approached the door and said to the guard on the other side, "I'm finished here."

The guard unlocked the door. "You'd better hurry, Father. There's some kind of disturbance going on out - " He never finished his sentence. As Jaime's knife went into him, blood welled out of the guard's mouth.

Jaime motioned to the two men. "Come on."

Felix Carpio picked up the guard's gun, and they started downstairs. The scene outside was chaos. The police were running around frantically, trying to see what was happening and deal with the crowds of screaming people in the courtyard who were scrambling to escape the maddened bulls. One of the bulls had charged into the front of the building, smashing the stone entrance. Another was tearing into the body of a uniformed guard on the ground.

The red truck was in the courtyard, its motor running. In the confusion, the three men went almost unnoticed, and those who did see them escaping were too busy saving themselves to do anything about it. Without a word, Jaime and his men jumped into the back of the truck and it sped off, scattering frantic pedestrians through the crowded streets.

The Guardia Civil, the paramilitary rural police, decked out in green uniforms and black patent-leather hats, were trying in vain to control the hysterical mob. The Policia Armada, stationed in provincial capitals, were also helpless in the face of the mad spectacle. People were struggling to flee in every direction, desperately trying to avoid the enraged bulls. The danger lay less with the bulls and more with the people themselves as they trampled one another in their eagerness to escape. Old men and women were knocked down under the feet of the running mob.

Jaime stared in dismay at the stunning spectacle. "It wasn't planned for it to happen this way!" he exclaimed. He stared helplessly at the carnage that was being wreaked, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He closed his eyes to shut out the sight.

The truck reached the outskirts of Pamplona and headed south, leaving behind the noise and confusion of the rioting.

"Where are we going, Jaime?" Ricardo Mellado asked.

"There's a safe house outside Torre. We'll stay there until dark and then move on."

Felix Carpio was wincing with pain.

Jaime Miro watched him, his face filled with compassion. "We'll be there soon, my friend," he said gently.

He was unable to get the terrible scene at Pamplona out of his mind.

Thirty minutes later they approached the little village of Torre, and skirted it to drive to an isolated house in the mountains above the village. Jaime helped the two men out of the back of the red truck.

"You'll be picked up at midnight," the driver said.

"Have them bring a doctor," Jaime replied. "And get rid of the truck."

The three of them entered the house. It was a farmhouse, simple and comfortable, with a fireplace in the living room and a beamed