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extended from the door into the framework could be heard withdrawing from their slots. Then the massive door swung open silently and smoothly. Sergeant Macco stood at attention and snapped a salute.
    Seng wasted no more time on niceties. He aimed the tranquilizer gun at Macco’s throat and squeezed the tiny trigger. The guard’s eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped to the stone floor like a sack of sand.
    The dungeon was not a state-of-the-art prison. The rusting iron cell doors had been hung in the late nineteenth century and still required the large antique key chained to Macco’s belt. Seng ripped the key and its ring from the guard’s belt and began opening the first doors. As soon as the door was swung ajar, Julia Huxley rushed into the cell to check the condition of its inhabitant. Seng’s team helped by assisting the shocked prisoners, who feared the worst, into the dungeon’s passageway.
    â€œFive are in no condition to walk up the stairs and onto the street,” said Julia. “They’ll have to be carried out on stretchers.”
    â€œThen we’ll haul them on our backs,” replied Seng. “We don’t have enough bodies to carry five stretchers.”
    â€œThese poor devils think we’re going to execute them,” said a tall, ruggedly built team member with red hair in a buzz cut.
    â€œWe haven’t got time to explain!” snapped Seng. He knew that the security officials downtown were wondering why the dungeon alarm in Santa Ursula had been triggered at this time of night. They were certain to call and find the phones down. How soon they would send a squad of men to check was anybody’s guess. “Julia, you round up those who can move on their own two feet. The rest of you men carry the ones too weak to walk.”
    They moved off, almost having to drag the poor, suffering Cubans out of the dungeon and up the stairs, every team member with a Cuban over one shoulder, their free arms braced around other prisoners who could barely manage the steps. Julia brought up the rear, supporting two women and whispering encouraging words whose meanings could only come through in her soothing tone—she knew only enough Spanish to order a margarita.
    Climbing the winding stone steps was a torturous exertion for the weakened prisoners, but there could be no turning back. Any capture now meant certain execution. They struggled up the steps, chests rising and falling, lungs gasping for air, hearts pounding. Men and women who had long ago given up hope now saw an opportunity to live normal lives again, thanks to these crazy people who were risking death to rescue them.
    Seng could not afford the time to sympathize with their plight, or look into their gaunt faces. Any thoughts of compassion were fleeting. Sympathy could come once they reached the safety of the Oregon .
    He concentrated on pushing them all toward the main gate, keeping his mind cold and logical.
    At last the front of the column reached the guard’s office at the gate. Seng stepped cautiously out onto the brick street. There was no whisper of sound or any sign of vehicles or people. The truck was right where they’d left it.
    The team carrying those too weak to walk were huffing and puffing now and soaked in sweat from the tropical humidity. Warily, Seng studied the darkened street and buildings through his laser night binoculars. The area was clear. Satisfied, he hustled everyone through the gate and shoved them roughly in the direction of the truck.
    He rushed back into the office and checked the guard. He was still unconscious. He also spotted a red light on a console beside the desk. The alarm had indeed been activated when they’d opened the dungeon door. The phone began to ring, and he picked it up and snapped in Spanish, “Uno momento!”
    Then he set the receiver down and dashed out the door.
    The rescue team and the freed prisoners were crammed into the cargo bed