The black flag waves in the sun.
The flash of white-blonde catches her attention again. The girl—the daughter of the huge blond, is in the doorway—alone! She stands with her eyes screwed shut, hands on ears. Running towards her, arms raised, machete in hand, is a terrorist.
No!
Run!
“The girl!” Alex shouts.
He releases an arrow as Jessie reloads. It clatters at the man’s feet. Oblivious, he thunders towards the girl. Hate sneers across his face, his dark brows pulled together in an ugly V. His teeth bared white, he snarls. Animal!
The girl screams.
No thoughts. Just the man. Jessie takes aim with her last bolt. He’s nearly there. She follows his trajectory and shoots. The girl presses herself into the deepest corner of the doorway.
He stumbles.
The bolt slices through the air, stabs at the tiled shop entrance and clatters to the floor.
No!
On his knees, at the edge of the pavement, he pushes himself to stand.
Jessie sprints.
The man raises his machete.
The girl screams.
He swings it down. Jessie throws herself onto his back. Clamps her arm around his neck and snaps it closed. Her hand clasps around her closed fist and she squeezes. He grunts and grabs at her arm. She squeezes harder. The girl curls into a ball. Jessie yanks at him, pulling him back to the kerb, leaning back as a dead weight as he scrabbles at her arm. He’s strong, but without any real muscle, not a man trained for action. He staggers. She pulls at the weapon. He twists and wobbles on the edge of the kerb. She twists him over. He falls to the ground on his belly.
Pain! Scraping, scratching, deep pain.
Her hand is trapped against the tarmac.
Warm. Wet.
The hilt of the machete is in her hand, the blade sunk deep into his stomach. He gurgles and writhes in agony. Pain in her hand as it is scraped against the rough tarmac. She rolls back and pulls at the man’s shoulder, releasing her hand. Warm liquid seeps over her skin. She pulls her hand free. Scratched and gouged with grit it drips with his blood.
As blood pools around him, she runs to the child and grabs her. The girl screams, struggles and pulls into the corner of the doorway.
“I’m here to help,” Jessie shouts above her screams and grabs her about the waist. She hasn’t got time to soothe the child. The girl kicks at her thighs as Jessie scans the street for her mother. Black top. Golden blonde hair. There! She’s squatting behind a black Mercedes banked onto the kerb. Her face is blotched and blood runs down her cheek. “I see your mother,” she tells the girl as she presses at the shop’s door handle. “But it’s too dangerous for you here.” The door is locked. The girl writhes in her arms. Jessie holds her a little tighter. “Hold still,” she shouts her temper flaring. “I’m trying to help you.”
“Let me do that,” Alex says as Jessie kicks at the door.
Jessie steps to the side, letting Alex squeeze past. She scans the road as the girl struggles in her arms. The mother lurches forward then limps across the road.
“Viktoria!”
The blond, crouched across the street, shouts as the woman nears the middle of the street. She stumbles as a man falls into her, his knife catches at her torso as he hits the ground. She lurches forward, her eyes glued to the child as the man’s attacker stabs at him.
The blond stands as the attacker turns his attention on Viktoria. The child wriggles. Jessie’s last bolt lies feet away. The figure runs at Viktoria. There’s nothing Jessie can do.
A shot rings out and he falls to the ground. Viktoria stumbles into the shop’s doorway and grabs for the child as Alex kicks at the door again.
“Anna!”
The lock breaks and the door swings open.
“Go inside and close the door! Find something to defend yourself with. Don’t come out until it’s over,” Jessie shouts at the woman as she catches her breath.
A woman runs out onto the street, bleached blonde pony-tail swinging against her shoulder.
A man shouts a warning.
A blade catches her arm. She staggers. A knife stabs at her.
Jessie grasps for her bolt and reloads. Steel shoots through the air and stabs into the attacker’s throat.
“The gun, Jessie. Use the gun.”
“There’s only one bullet,” she replies. “Cover me,” she shouts and runs out into the road.
The terrorist scratches at the road as she approaches. He gurgles as she bends to him. She reaches for the bolt. He swats at her arms. Her fingers grasp the end of the metal rod and she pulls. The man chokes as it withdraws and bats at her. Blood flows from the wound as she stands. Wiping it against his clothes she runs back to Alex.
Thwack!
A figure drops behind her.
“What you playing at?”
“I’ve only got this bolt!”
“So you’re going to go around and collect them? Is that it?”
“If I have to.”
“What about that gun?”
“I’m saving it. For later,” she replies and motions for him to follow her.
Squatting down behind the black Mercedes they reload their weapons. The cacophony of noise from the street has reduced to a racket of grunts and the scrape and clank of metal. Another gunshot sounds and the blond walks into the middle of the road. He’s got some balls on him!
The street is strewn with bodies. Some lie still others writhe and judder. A man sprawls across the tarmac with his hand inches from his arm. The hand still clutches a knife. Jessie’s stomach wretches as his body jerks.
Alex jumps to a stand and fires his bow. The arrow stabs through a terrorist’s neck and pins him to a car door.
“Nice shot!”
Liquid pools at the man’s knees as his bladder empties.
Jessie reloads. Surveys the road.
Another man jumps out from behind a car and charges at the young Asian woman. Jessie shoots and his scowl slackens to a questioning O. He staggers with the bolt in his sternum, arms flailing before falling to his knees.
“Cover me!”
“Again! No. Jessie!”
Ignoring Alex, she sprints across the street and pulls the bolt from his chest. Air escapes as it withdraws. Lungs punctured. Blood wets his shirt. Jessie kicks at his chest and he falls to the pavement.
The flag waves.
Enraged Jessie strides towards it passing Alex as he punches a man to the floor. Another extremist looks on, eyes darting left to right. As Jessie advances he catches her gaze and turns to run.
“No way,” she shouts. The bolt slides easily into its home and Jessie takes aim. He drops as the bolt slices through his skull and into his brain.
The flag waves.
Jessie strides then runs. The flag-bearer sneers, scowls and holds the flag higher.
She wants to tear the flag to shreds. Its message of hate and intolerance has no place in her country.
Time slows as their eyes lock. She drops her crossbow. He sneers and waves the flag, shouts and jabs it in the air.
Jessie reaches down mid-stride and grabs a bloodied machete.
His eyes narrow and he shouts.
Around her the world spins, the noise of the fight sits at the periphery of her senses. She sees only him and the black fabric shouting its hate.
She picks up her pace, machete held high.
His eyes narrow and he lowers the pole to a javelin, its sharpened point ready to run her through. He runs at her.
“Allahuakbar.”
“He’s not listening!” she screams.
Metal glints at the end of the flag pole and the blade wedged into the wood catches her arm as it slices past. She knocks it aside. She’s level with his outstretched arms. She swings the machete down. It chops into bone. He screams. She pulls the blade back and grabs it with both arms then swipes at his throat. It cuts through the flesh. Blood spews and spatters the street, spraying Jessie red.
&n
bsp; His body drops with a thud to the tarmac, his head crashing against the edge of the path. The flag pole clatters on the road, its black fabric limp. A lighter drops from his pocket as he bounces against the path and Jessie grabs it. She flicks the lighter’s lid and a flame, small and steady, burns. She reaches for the black flag. It smells of petrol. Within seconds flames are devouring the cloth. Jessie stabs it at the sky. Victorious, joy, deep and guttural, erupts from the depths of her belly as she stamps her boot down on the man’s back and waves the burning flag.
The noise around her quiets. Bodies lay bleeding and still. The flag-bearer stares at the burning fabric. That’s right! A woman is burning your flag. A bloody woman! She jabs it again at the sky and her roar fills the air.
URI REPLACES HIS GUN in its holster. His hands shake.
The girl is waving the burning flag. Her war cry reverberates between the buildings and seems to fill the street. The bodies lie still and silent.
The young blond passes him and he grabs the man’s arm. “I have to thank you.”
The younger man pulls at his grip.
“Sorry!” Uri apologises. He offers a tentative smile. “I saw what you did.” A questioning frown. “For my Anna, and my wife. You—and your girl—you saved them.”
The boy nods. “I saw you too. You killed a good few yourself.”
“Da. I wish I killed all of them.”
The boy nods.
“There are many people injured.”
“Too many.”
Uri nods. The boy hadn’t many words, but then again, neither did he.
“The girl—she is fierce—like a warrior.”
Alex nods but doesn’t speak and Uri turns away as Viktoria peers out of the shop’s window. He raises his hand to her in recognition. Relief washes over him but his hands still tremble. It could have been so different; he could have lost them both.
JESSIE THROWS THE FLAG pole and its burning cloth to the floor and walks back to Alex. Still alert, she scans the street. Smoke billows from the apartment block as the fire burns but calm has descended. The large man with the copper beard seems to be taking charge.
In the middle of the road a woman sits cradling the head of a man. Her face is obscured by her dark hair, but her pain is obvious as she rocks to and fro hugging him to her belly. It’s a heart-breaking scene and Jessie turns away. There’s nothing the woman can do. The man is dead. Jessie killed him.
CHAPTER NINE
Uri stares at the dark-haired girl with admiration and a knot of fear. She is a skilled and ferocious killer, and the daughter of the target he’d failed to kill. She’d also saved his Anna from a death he can’t bear to think of. As she’d walked toward them he’d been sure she would recognise him and he’d fingered the trigger of his gun in anticipation. In time she’d recognise him—when things settled. He’d be ready.
He’d recognised her as soon as she’d run past them in the street. Their eyes had locked for a moment and he’d stared at her expecting the sickening reaction of recognition but it hadn’t come and now here he was thanking her for saving Anna’s life when only yesterday he had tried to end hers. How odd life is. If he had succeeded perhaps now Anna would be dead. A chill creeps along his neck as Viktoria continues to talk to the girl. Uri strokes Anna’s silky hair calming himself, the touch reassuring. She’s alive. She’s safe.
“We should get away from here, Viktoria,” he urges as soon as there’s a lull in the conversation. “This is not the place for Anna.”
Viktoria pulls Anna closer. “You’re right.” Viktoria’s eyes are red with the tears she’s barely able to hold back. Her face looks haunted and pale. He has to get them both to a safe place.
“We should leave this city.” Her voice trembles as she looks at the body-littered, smoke-filled street. “Can we go to the country, Uri—like we said?”
He knows she’s right.
“We’re going to the country.” Alex’s eyes are in earnest but Uri picks up on Jessie’s annoyance—she hadn’t wanted the boy to tell them that.
“Oh? Where are you going?” Viktoria asks before Jessie has a chance to warn Alex to be quiet.
“Up north.”
“Yes, north. It’s safer up there.”
“You think?” Uri asks. He’s not so sure. From what he’s seen today this could happen in any of the cities or towns across the country.
“There’s safety in numbers,” Viktoria adds. “We could travel together—up north.”
“Sure,” Alex replies and the dark-haired girl gives him a nudge then stares at Uri. Is this the moment she’ll recognise him?
“We’re going north,” she says with deliberation. “If you want to go that way too you can come with us. Viktoria’s right. There’s safety in numbers.”
The tension in Uri’s shoulders relaxes.
“Are we going to walk?”
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Alex replies.
“Oh?”
“We should find a car—it’s a hell of a long walk otherwise.”
“Motorbikes would be better,” Jessie adds.
“True.”
“But we’ll need to find an old car,” Uri interrupts. “The EMP has wiped out the newer ones and I have no idea how you’d fix them to run anyway—they’re too advanced now. Give me something from the 1970s and I can fix her to run.”
Jessie nods and a trickle of blood slips down her temple. Uri watches its progress until she wipes at it. She doesn’t realise it’s not sweat.
“There’s a showroom about a mile from here,” he continues, “where they sell vintage cars and bikes.”
A smile touches at the corner of the girl’s mouth. Uri returns it with a tentative one of his own. Incredible! She hasn’t recognised him and if she hasn’t now perhaps she won’t.
As the girl breaks his gaze and turns to the younger man a voice pricks at him; ‘We finish every job. Nothing comes in our way’. He ignores the memory, but the voice prods again. ‘The Family comes first. Don’t let it down. Don’t let me down.’ The job had been bodged—seriously bodged, either that or the woman was protected from on high. ‘You have another chance’. He watches the girl’s dark hair swing against her back as she takes a sip of water. Perhaps fortune was looking down on him and this girl was going to lead him directly to the target? No, Uri. She just saved your daughter’s life. A job is a job. Staying objective is essential. But she just saved your daughter! Shut up!
“Shall we go?” Uri enquires as Viktoria passes Anna to him.
“You ready Alex?”
“Yep.”
“Then let’s go find some wheels.” Jessie replies. “Lead the way, Uri.”
CHAPTER TEN
The carnage of the street has quieted to chaos as men and women sit huddled on the pavement or stand in small groups hugging the walls, standing back in the doorways. Nareen sits alone and smooths Hamed’s hair from his face. Blood-smeared fingers stroke his forehead as tears blur her eyes. She blinks them away as she cradles his head in her lap.
“Hamed,” she says in a whisper.
He doesn’t respond. Of course he doesn’t. She doesn’t expect him to. Hamed is dead, killed by the thugs that had brought the violence and blood to the streets. They hadn’t fired the shot that killed him, but his blood was on their hands. Blood fills the streets just as they’d wanted, but it was theirs and it was Hamed’s.
She sits and waits, her mind lost in a fog of grief. How was she supposed to get him home? Who would carry him? How would she tell his mother?
A figure casts a shadow and a boot kicks into Hamed’s thigh.
“Hey!” a voice booms.
Pressure on her shoulder.
“Can I help you?”
She looks up to a pair of blue eyes framed by auburn hair and a copper beard. The man frowns at her with concern then crouches and repeats his question. “Can I help you?”
“He’s dead,” is all she can think to say.
“Did you know him?”
“He’s my husband,” she replies looking down at his face. So calm with the anger gone. So peaceful.
“Oh,” the man replies. “Then I’m sorry.”
“He tried to kill people,” she offers, needing to speak, needing to be honest. “He helped set the fires. He was marching with the others.”
The man listens in silence.
“Do you hate me too now? Do you want to kill me too?”
Their eyes lock and she senses conflict. He looks down at Hamed. “I want to protect people from their hate,” he replies. She remains silent. “Do you hate me?” he asks. “Do you want to kill me?”
“No,” she says with relief, a burden lifted. “We’re not all murderers.” Emotion breaks into her voice.
“I know,” he replies. “I saw you.”
“Saw me?”
“Yes, I saw you fighting. You’re the one who warned us. I saw how the men hit you. I saw you pulling at them.”
“I’m sorry,” she cries as the weight of Hamed’s crimes come tumbling down over her like bricks stabbing into her soul. “I’m sorry.”
“Did you set the fires?”
“No.”
“Did you help him to set the fires?”
“No. I tried to stop him.”
“Then you have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I could have stopped him. I should have reported him when I found out.”
The man stares down at her lap, silent for a moment. “Perhaps.”
Her shoulders shake and he squeezes them with a gentle reassurance. “Listen, you can’t stay here and ... there’s nothing that you can do for him.”
Snot dribbles onto her lips. She wipes it away with her sleeve not caring if he notices.
“What shall I do with him? I can’t leave him in the street.”
“Let me help you take him home.”
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