We hid the motorcycle in an alcove that sheltered one of the church’s side doors—padlocked like the rest and hung with a No hay paso sign. From there we crept around to the back of the church, looking for an access point. We found a place where some lumber that looked like smashed pews had been piled in a heap against a wall, underneath a window. The plastiboard that had been nailed over the window was loose and swung back easily.