Grisham's apartment is empty of guns; the racks of muskets are split open on the floor. It's irrelevant—what good are regulation muskets against British riflemen—but Grisham stops, gazes down at the split wood, toes a plank aside. "They took my money," he says—quietly. They can't be caught.
She's already over by the window when he says it, barely hears the words but gets it quickly. He'd stashed his savings in the racks—probably the baseboard. "How much?"
He drops to a crouch, pushes a few more pieces of wood as if he's making sure. "Enough to leave." He pushes his hair up, tugs at the collar of his tunic, then stands up. "Gonna blow them sky high," he grins, walking towards her, and climbs out the window.
She'd left her sash and corset back at the garrison; he'd left his hat. He'd suggested she leave her sword, but the gauche persuaded him otherwise. Now she's starting to understand why; the line of silver is the only thing that could attract attention to them right now.
"Should've left—" and he wheezes.
Her elbow digs into his side a little harder. "Shut up."
20 paces to the left, two of Bouchard's men are standing guard. Grisham saw them first and pulled her back into the shadows of the patio. Pulled her against him, rather, and back into the shadows of the patio. She hopes he's up against a cactus.
The two men are speaking in a mix of Spanish and English. She turns her head but Grisham puts his hand over her mouth as soon as her lips part. "They're talking about spreading out," he barely whispers into her ear. "Sending half the men back towards Montoya's."
She stays still and waits for an order.
He sends her across first, when the two lookouts return to their main circle for instructions. Two paces, dive into the cover provided by the fallen bells. Three seconds, wait and listen, then over into the small hollow of the north church. Grisham comes quickly after, waits a little longer at the bells. He didn't crouch like she did; he's flat on his belly, keeping everything light-colored in the dirt.
"Hey!"
He looks at her, doesn't move. The wall at her back is icy cold; she has to tell herself to breathe.
"Un puro. Y cerveza! Y… ah… jamon. Y un puro!"
She almost giggles; Grisham grins, teeth glinting at her, then scrambles up and across. The hollow isn't quite big enough for two; they move into the doorway. "Wouldn't mind a cerveza myself—"
"Shut up!" But he's grinning and she is, too-then stops when she realizes that her back is against the same wall as Padre Romero's. She hadn't locked the door when she'd fled from his body. Grisham, still grinning, goes first.
They don't stop for the padre; Grisham glances left, hesitates for a moment, then keeps walking straight into the nave. "Lima said the powder was in the crypt."
It just gets worse and worse. "With the bodies?" It comes out as a whisper.
He grins. "Maybe. Scared?"
She doesn't have to respond; he's walked square into a pew. "Mm. Guess God doesn't like your attitude."
He glares at her and follows her to the stairs.
There are fourteen barrels arranged in two clusters in the center of the vault. She won't admit breathing a sigh of relief, in exchange for not seeing Grisham uncross his fingers. "Can you lift one?" he asks, shifting one away from the first cluster.
"Think so." She takes the second cluster, slides a barrel across the sand-strewn stone. He's already hefted one onto his shoulder. "Where do you want to put them?"
She shouldn't have asked; she realizes that instantly. "Under the altar." He's still grinning; she prays for lightning. "Told you, sweetheart. Sky high." The barrel isn't too heavy, and she really doesn't see a choice. "Need you to start breaking open the boxes."
Boxes? She looks at where he's pointing: the rows of sarcophagi. "What?"
He's carrying another barrel towards the altar, doesn't look up: "Break them open. Bodies make good explosives."
Good God. He can't—that's sacrilege! "Are you serious?"
He grunts, glares at her and stalks past her to the far end of the crypt, where two adzes are leaning against the wall. "Fine. Finish moving these. Do not make a spark." He pauses in front of the first sarcophagus and grins. "Sorry, bub," he chuckles, before smashing in the top.
It occurs to her when Grisham puts the adze down. His feet are surrounded by small chunks of stone. "We… don't have a fuse."
He stands still for a minute, then nods. "Yep."
Maybe he's stupid. "How are we going to set it off without a fuse?"
He shrugs. "Drop a match."
"That's suicide."
"Yep."
Oh. "I—-um. Fight for it?"
He chuckles. "Gee, wonder who'd win."
"Grisham—-"
"You remember last time one of us *had* to die?" She thinks of the mine, of Xs and Os, of pushing her sash between his lips. "You're the hero. I'm the soldier. One of us is a little rarer than the other."
"You're not a soldier, you're a psychopath. You're just as special."
He's still smiling. "Better get a move on."
"Don't be stupid, we can make a fuse out of your shirt—-"
"It'll take too long to burn. They gave us three hours. We're on three and a half now. More time and they won't be ready."
She crosses her arms, folds her lips. "You're an idiot."
"I'll miss you, too." He takes three matches out of his pocket, nods at the stairs. "Go on." She ducks her head and goes, is almost up the stairs when she hears, "Hey. Do I get a last request?"
Arrogant, lecherous bastard. She turns, looks at his grin, shakes her head. He's going to die, Tessa. He's going to die for you. "You bastard," she whispers, and comes down the stairs again.
He actually seems surprised by the kiss, but only for a second. She'd tried to block out their prior kiss—-he was sloppy, drunk, tasted like stolen wine—-but it's returning with this one: how his hands know where to press, where to pull, how he teases and then takes. How his mouth feels like he's laughing, even when his body proves he's not.
She breaks first but doesn't step away, can't quite focus yet. "I was actually gonna ask for you to take care of my horse."
"Liar."
"Yep." He pulls her in again and she lets him, for a few more seconds, before gently pushing.
His finger is under her mask.