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Back The Desert of Glass Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. BY MICHAEL C. GRUMLEY
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. 66
  69. 67
  70. 68
  71. 69
  72. 70
  73. 71
  74. 72
  75. 73
  76. 74
  77. 75
  78. 76
  79. 77
  80. 78
  81. EPILOGUE
  82. II
  83. III
  84. IV

“What did you do in the Army?”

“Infantry.”

“Which means?”

“Ever see a movie with thousands of soldiers marching across an open field?”

“Yes.”

“That’s us.”

“I see.  On the front line.”

“Infantry is the front line.”

Angela tilted her head.  “Is that where you learned to fight?”

“No.  Before that—when I was younger.  You could say I grew up on the wrong side of the tracks and learned the hard way.”

“Did you ever lose?”

“Many times.”

“Well, even so, I’m glad you came.”

Rickards eased his head back against the vinyl headrest.  “Are you saying you need a bodyguard?”

“No.  Just a friend.  Someone I can talk to without judgment.”

“I’m too old and too flawed to judge anyone.”

“That’s what I like about you,” she said, smiling.  “The non-judgment, not the flawed part.”

He motioned past her toward the sleeping Townsend.  “You think he’s going to be able to help you decipher Morton’s data?”

“I sure hope so.”

With that, Rickards nodded and closed his eyes.  “Just remember the old saying, be careful what you wish for.”

***

Touching down in Bogota, Colombia, the three spent an hour in a remodeled section of the airport’s terminal before boarding an Airbus A319 headed for La Paz.  Landing two hours later, just past 9:00 p.m., they deboarded and walked the quarter mile to baggage claim.

Townsend’s bag was bigger than either Joe or Angela was expecting.  And heavy.  It took up most of the trunk in their small rental car.

To Angela’s relief, the arrival had been uneventful, including reaching the small hotel a few miles west of the airport, where Rickards trudged up the stairs carrying Townsend’s heavy bag. He dropped it with relief outside the professor’s assigned room.

“Thank you, Joe.  That’s very kind of you.”

“Don’t mention it.  I hope there’s a giant espresso machine inside.  Something tells me I’ll need one in the morning.”  He then approached Angela as she opened the adjacent door and briefly scanned the room inside.  Satisfied, he waved at them both, picked up his own bag and strode to the next door.

***

Three hours later, they were all awakened by a sudden screaming outside, followed by a man intermittently yelling in Spanish.  The ruckus culminated several minutes later in a thunderous slam of one of the hotel doors beneath them.

There was a long silence before the swearing resumed, and a car was started, backing up and peeling out of the small parking lot.

While watching the commotion from his room’s window, Rickards heard his cell phone ding behind him, resting atop an old wooden bedstand.  The sound prompted him to let the curtain fall back into place and then walk over to pick it up.

On the brightly lit screen was a text message from Angela.

Welcome back to Bolivia.

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