Then one day he had a visitor, a middle-aged man who arrived with a briefcase

and a polite, professional attitude. He spoke through the bars to Rogers after

the guards had backed away to allow them privacy.

 

Rogers had listened to everything carefully.

 

The man had ended the meeting by saying, “Good luck.” “It’s never really about

luck, though, is it?” Rogers had replied.

 

And finally, after five more days, the time came. “We’re moving you,” the head

guard said. “Why?” The guard didn’t bother to answer.

 

He saw the bottle coming and then he was sprayed in the face with the gas. He

fell heavily to the floor.

 

They lifted him off the floor and carried him to a waiting Army transport truck,

where he was put into the back and strapped down to the floor. Six guards

climbed in with him, guns resting on their thighs.

 

They set off. Their route took them along some back roads, and then they reached

a highway and the truck sped up. They reached a bridge and drove across it.

 

One of the guards peeked through the back flap. “Damn, that’s a beautiful sight.

Nothing like a bridge over water on a fine night.” A second later Rogers ripped

the straps off. “Holy shit!” exclaimed the guard nearest to him.