Sword of Minerva (The Guild Wars Book 10) by Mark Wandrey (great books for teens TXT) 📕

the man was shambling back, a pair of worn license plates clutched under one arm and paperwork in the other hand.

“All legal,” he said. “My cousin has a truck, same model.” He pointed at the truck Rick wanted. “It’s in the shop back of the business getting new brakes.”

“What happens when he gets his truck and the license is missing?” Rick asked.

“Parts are hard to find. Take maybe two, three days.” Rick fished a seventh chit out. “A week, minimum.”

“Sounds good,” Rick said and held out the chits. The man grabbed at them, but Rick caught his hand. “Look, if the policía are waiting around the corner, or even down the road, we aren’t going to be taken in. You have no idea who you’re dealing with, and you don’t want to.” The man’s face blanched, and he tried to pull away. His hand might as well have been locked in a vice. Rick squeezed, and the cartilage popped.

“Please, sir, I no lie to you!”

“I hope not, for your sake.” Rick released the man, who stumbled and fell, sending the 100-credit chits rolling in the gravel. “Because after we deal with the policía, we’ll be back to deal with you.” Rick turned and began loading their baggage. The salesman sat on his sizeable butt, staring after Rick for a long moment before scrambling greedily for the money.

“Still think we’re safe?” Sato asked as he helped secure the cargo truck’s rear door.

“Fifty-fifty,” Rick admitted. He climbed behind the seat and started the diesel engine again. The gauge said they had half a tank, calculated as a 1,200-kilometer range. Enough to get them to northern El Salvador or Honduras, to start.

He backed the truck out of its space and turned onto the road. The last he saw of the salesman, he was watching the truck drive away while massaging his abused hand. Rick decided to head east for Honduras. Their trip had just gotten a little longer.

* * * * *

Chapter Seven

Sato watched Rick operate the truck as if he’d spent most of his life doing it. It was part of the programming built into the armor, of course. More than the clumsy, blunt weapons of the CASPers, the Æsir was an elegant scalpel. Maybe when all this was over with…

“We’re coming up on the border,” Rick said.

Sato pulled himself away from his thoughts and looked ahead. The mountains they drove through were rugged and seldom driven by anyone except farmers and miners. That was exactly why they’d chosen it. Some places, the road was barely wide enough for the truck. Despite precarious drop-offs and crumbling shoulders, Rick never hesitated.

Did your soul make it into this new body? Sato contemplated as the truck struggled up a grade. Day had given way to dusk. Sato didn’t know if there was such a thing as a soul, but wasn’t there some divine spark? Something that made them more than a collection of cells and blood? Rick’s presence there, alive and aware of who he was, suggested otherwise. Didn’t it?

The road rounded a bend, and a hundred meters ahead was the Honduras border. Nothing much more than a small building with a wooden gate and a sign saying, “Now Entering the Republic of Honduras.”

“What do we do if they don’t let us through?” he asked Rick.

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes,” was the reply.

Sato wanted to say something, then shrugged. Rick was right; it made no sense to plan for something that might or might not happen. It was unlikely the minimally manned border was well armed, so they could probably just force their way through. The truck was both large and made from tough stuff.

Before he had any more time to consider, Rick was braking to a stop next to the guard shack. He’d dimmed his usually shining blue eyes, so now he just looked like a man wearing a jacket. There was a chill in the high-altitude night air, and a window slid open to show a man wearing a uniform. The sounds of some Spanish language show drifted out, along with the smell of food cooking. The face glanced at the cab, then back along the truck, and back to the cab. Rick gave a casual wave.

The guard rubbed his eyes and yawned, then gave a wave in return, and the gate rose. Rick put it in gear, and their truck rumbled ahead.

“That was easy,” Sato said.

“Smelled like he had dinner cooking.”

“Makes me hungry, too,” Sato replied, his stomach grumbling. They hadn’t eaten since they’d bought the truck earlier in the day.

It was only another hour before they came to the Guatemalan border. This one looked even less used than the Honduran crossing had. Sato was much more relaxed this time, confident it should be an easy job.

The truck stopped, but this time a bored-looking man didn’t wave them through. A pair of soldiers opened the door and examined the truck and Rick. Rick looked back at them, waiting.

“Bring your papers inside,” one of the soldiers said.

Rick nodded and took the folder of papers on the truck they’d gotten from the salesman.

<What do I do?> Sato asked over their pinplants.

<Just wait here,> Rick replied, opening the door and going into the building.

Sato watched and waited, wondering what he would do if Rick didn’t come back. What if he gets in a fight with the soldiers and loses? Jail in Guatemala didn’t sound appealing. Rick had only been gone a minute, and he was already considering starting the truck and running for it.

The door to the checkpoint opened again, and Rick emerged. He was carrying something and not moving in any hurry.

“What happened?” Sato asked his travelling companion.

Rick got back into the cab and handed Sato a container. It was a ceramic dish with