5. 020

It got darker as they drove. Mateo watched the passing fields and trees and low rolling hills until all he could see was his reflection in the glass as night fell outside. He was really thirsty and his shoulders were starting to hurt. The cops scared the hell out of him, though. They kept glancing at him and talking about some guy named Jerry, as best he could tell through their accents. Whoever this Jerry guy was, they really hated him. Maybe he was a child molester or something really horrible, and they'd mistaken him for the guy. Hopefully they didn't beat him up or shoot him before he had a chance to get to the US Embassy and beg them to figure out the crazy people. Did England have a Gitmo? He really hoped it didn't. If they thought he was a terrorist, would they send him to the regular one in Cuba?! He forced himself to calm down, or at least to breathe more calmly. No point in freaking out over wild worries. Nobody thought he was a terrorist, and if the cops were going to shoot him in the woods because they though he was this guy Jerry, they would have by now. They’d get him to the embassy eventually and figure this out.

It was three hours later, he guessed, or maybe even four, when they stopped. It was some kind of exurb, and he could vaguely make out some huge pale mansion or hotel or something behind a wall -- a pretty low wall, one he could climb, easy, if he, uh, had to? Then he saw the glitter of cattle-fence barbed wire backing it up in the light from the headlights, and guys with guns. Weird guns, like hunting rifles, but they were all dressed alike, like soldiers, or maybe some kind of weird British SWAT team. The cops pulled him from the car as a group of them approached.

And then he didn't see anything else, because one of them shoved a bag over his head.

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