The girl froze when she saw us.
We had stood perfectly still under the scant cover, but the little camouflage offered by the rayadillo worked only in open sunlight. Here, under the partial shade and deep green of the sugarcane fields, the striped fabric of our sky-blue uniforms stuck out like a sore thumb. They blended with neither leaf nor shadow.
For a moment, I thought she'd drop the clay pot balanced on her head and let out a piercing scream—just like what had happened in Buenavista. Once again, a single wrong turn and a woman might ruin our element of surprise.
But perhaps Teniente Medina's handsome foreign face was comforting enough to soothe her nerves. The Spaniard, who was leading the advance, raised a hand and gently placed a finger on his lips, offering a calming smile. The girl blinked, swallowed hard, and slowly lowered the pot to the ground with care.
