by Schafer, Ben
The attendant didn’t away from the television screen when I leaned on the counter. “Hello?” The man turned a page but stayed silent. “I need to buy some gas. You still have some left in the tanks, right?”
The attendant sighed and turned to face me, annoyed at the idea of having to do his job. “Yeah, we still have gas. How much do you want?” he asked. I tossed a handful of bills onto the counter. “That’s not much,” he commented.
“It’s enough,” I replied.
He shrugged and picked up the money. He flicked a switch by the register. “That should do it.”
“See, was that so hard?” I asked.
The clerk shot me a dirty look, then returned to his regularly scheduled programming. It was a not-so-subtle way of telling me that the conversation was over. The screen dissolved into static. “Damn signal,” the attendant muttered. He reached up and twisted the antenna until the images returned in their previous blurry state.
When he did, his shirt lifted, revealing a military-issued web belt with a radio and pistol.
It was a clumsy mistake, and I was not the only one who spotted it. While my attention was focused on the disguised soldier behind the counter, the bearded “customer” dropped his merchandise and rushed at me. I barely had time to spin around before he pulled his own pistol, a Browning Hi-Power, and pointed it in my face. I’m sure that he thought that such a tactic would intimidate me into compliance, but the idiot failed to realize that he had simply brought himself into easy reach.
His mouth opened, probably to demand my surrender. Before any words escaped his throat, I took a sudden step to my right and grabbed his wrist with my left hand. I pushed his arm away from my body, then threw a jab at his temple with my right hand. My hand throbbed, but the man was stunned. I gave him no chance to regain his senses before I pulled down on his collarbone and kicked his ankles out from under him in the opposite direction. The man slammed into the floor with bone-rattling force and his whole body went slack.
The whole altercation took only a couple of seconds, but it provided the fake clerk with the opportunity to draw his handgun from its holster. He wasted no time with threats, or aim, and pulled the trigger the moment his Browning cleared its holster. The first bullet sailed way over my head. I didn’t want to give him the chance to correct his failure.
I released the fallen man’s wrist and rolled to the side, pulling the pistol with me as I moved. The motion took the fake clerk by surprise. He rotated to follow the roll, but he was too slow. It was his last mistake.
He was determined to make the most of it. A couple more wild shots tore apart the newspaper stand to my right. I had to end this. As I came out of the roll, I didn’t even bother to line up a precise shot. I emptied the magazine into my attacker over the next few seconds. Only half of the rounds connected, but they did the trick. He tottered on his feet, then collapsed on top of the counter.
I slid the empty gun down an aisle filled with candy and sodas, then checked the pulse of the “customer” that I had knocked to the floor. It was thready, but he was alive. I was relieved. I didn’t like killing people, even if I had a talent for it.
I grabbed the fake clerk’s weapon from the counter edged the door open. I couldn’t see anything through the grime, but I expected some kind of ambush. I was relieved to discover that the parking lot was still deserted. If we moved fast and our luck held, we might have a chance of escaping before the trap closed on us completely.
The others must have heard the gunfire, because they were all hiding behind the truck. I whistled to them as I approached. “Jamil, are we done here?”
It took him a moment to respond, as if he wanted to make certain no one was following me out of the gas station. “Uh, yeah,” he pointed to the pump, which was still in the gas tank. “We’re good.”
“Get in the truck. We’ve got to get out of here.”
He nodded once and replaced the pump. I opened the door for Azima and Hashim while the others piled into the bed once more. “What happened in there?” Azima asked as she climbed into the cab.
“There were men in there waiting for us,” I said. My stolen gun was too big for my ankle holster, so I slid the Browning into my waistband. “I took care of them, but there’s no way they were working alone all the way out here.”
“Are we safe?”
I shrugged. “I can’t say.” I scanned the horizon. I was certain the whole army was out there waiting to swarm us with soldiers and tanks. There were no rebels here to fight our battles for us. We were surrounded by empty stretches of desolate highway that left no place to hide. The only option we had was to run.
Once I was certain everyone was in the vehicle, I smashed the accelerator to the floor. The engine coughed to life and we were on the move. The truck lurched as we hopped a low curb on the way to get back onto the main road.
Over the rush of the wind, I heard Jamil shout, “How did they know we were here?”
I glanced one final time at the gas station in the rearview mirror. That was a question I had been asking myself. As I thought about everything that had happened, memories long-buried rose up in my mind. There was a definite pattern here. I had a sickening feeling that I knew what had happened. Too many pieces were out of place. Too many coincidences were adding up. It seemed that with every passing hour I was faced with more questions.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. It was about damned time to get some answers.
CHAPTER THIRTY
MY whole body shook as I made my way into the alley. I was still just a kid, barely into my teens. I had no idea how to harness the sudden burst of adrenaline pumping through my system. I felt bile rising in my throat, both from the unexpected exertion and from sheer terror.
The lack of sunlight disturbed me when I visited this place with Azima. Now it gave me comfort. I didn’t need to worry about what was hiding in the dark. The real danger was stalking me in broad daylight. Perhaps the darkness would provide the advantage I needed to survive.
The yellow bicycle that had been here last time was nowhere to be seen. Someone had either fixed it or discarded it completely. In its place, there was a single aluminum trash can overflowing with refuse. A bony pale dog scampered away as I got near. I waved a hand in front of my face to keep the flies at bay and considered my next move. I could keep running through the alley, but I had no idea where it led. I had a feeling that if I kept stumbling around in the dark, I would find myself facing a literal dead end.
My only option was to go up. If I could reach Azima’s little hiding spot before Mr. Black and Mr. Green found their way back to this alley, they wouldn’t think to look for me there. But I had to move fast. If they caught me mid-climb, I would have nowhere to go.
I refused to let indecision cripple me. I made my way to the fire escape and began to climb. Maybe this isn’t so bad, I thought.
Then my foot slipped and I plummeted to the ground.
The world spun around me for what felt like hours but was closer to three seconds. I rose, unsteady on my feet, and shook my head. From the mouth of the alley, I could hear Mr. Green’s distinct voice shout, “He went this way!”
I brushed my hands on the front of my pants, an act that my mother hated. My palms were too sweaty, and if I couldn’t get a solid grip on the iron rungs of the fire escape then I was as good as dead already.
Fortunately, the second attempt went smoothly. “Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down,” I mumbled as I ascended. When I reached the third floor landing I ignored my own advice and looked down toward the mouth of the alley. I froze when I spotted the silhouette of a man.
I thought that it was all over when the figure turned away from the alley and I heard Mr. Black yell, “Would you hurry? He’s getting away!”
This was my only chance. I inhaled sharply, pushing the horrible smell of rotting garbage aside, and made a running leap toward the hole in the wall. And, just like I had the last time I jumped, I slammed face-first i
nto the brick wall on the other side. I had the advantage of experience this time, however, and reached instinctively for the handhold that had saved me the first time.
Both men entered the alley and began searching for me. And here I was, dangling fifteen feet above their heads. Oh, dear God, I prayed silently. Don’t let those men see me.
And they didn’t. It was nothing less than a miracle. I didn’t waste my chance. While I still fell short of the opening, this time I had caught the ledge with both arms. This allowed me to pull myself, slowly but surely, over the edge and onto the rug.
I crawled away from the edge as quickly as I dared. When I was about two feet away from the hole, I rolled onto my side and threw up next to the plastic planter that served as Azima’s makeshift table. For a long moment I lay there, weariness and despair fighting for control of my emotions.
Even if I was safe, which remained to be seen, my mother was critically injured. I hadn’t actually seen her die, but there was no doubt in my mind.
Someone had murdered my mother.
Was this somehow my fault? She had mentioned that someone would use either Azima or me to gain leverage over our parents. Is that what had happened? Were these men terrorists? Foreign spies? Secret police?
My mother was extraordinarily outspoken against the regime, especially about its treatment of women. She made plenty of enemies, any one of whom could have tried to kidnap her to coerce her into silence. I had a hundred questions but only one sure answer.
Someone had murdered my mother.
I lay there, surrounded by the smell of garbage and my own vomit. I heard sirens in the distance, but they were still too far to give me any hope. When I concentrated on the voices in the alley below me, I realized a third man had entered the conversation.
“What the hell happened?” the newcomer asked.
“Relax,” Mr. Green said. “We’ve got it handled.”
“Really?” the newcomer scoffed. “Because this was supposed to be a simple job. In and out with no witnesses. Now one of our targets is dead and you morons got spotted by an entire street filled with people.”
I wiped my mouth, then edged closer to the opening. I was still in mortal danger and I was still terrified, but if I missed an opportunity to get some answers I would never forgive myself. I needed to see what was happening. I needed to get a glimpse at the third man.
“The damn kid bit me!” Mr. Black complained. “And why didn’t you lend a hand when the kid started running?”
“Because I’m not wearing a mask, you moron!” the newcomer said. His voice remained quiet, but a tone of contempt underscored every word. He kept himself wrapped in shadows and I could not see his face. But he appeared to be in top physical shape, and his shoulders had bulk to them.
“He may be an idiot, but he has a point,” Mr. Green said. “You were supposed to be much closer to our position when you started your distraction.”
“And you were supposed to wait for my signal,” the newcomer countered. “Foot traffic was much worse than I anticipated. That altercation at the music stand was a much better distraction than the one we had planned. If I had failed to take advantage of the opportunity, we would have missed our best opening.”
I covered my mouth to suppress a gasp. The third man was the driver of the runaway van. The suspicious timing of that event made sense to me now. I hadn’t gotten a good look at the man’s face. If he could just edge his way into the light a little more . . .
“What are our orders?” Mr. Green asked.
The newcomer sighed. “You need to go back to your normal lives as soon as possible. No one will be able to make a positive identification. If the police come to ask questions you must have an alibi. Find something public enough that people can remember your presence but vague enough to forget the exact timing. Maybe a restaurant, but avoid places with cameras or that require reservations.”
“What about the kid?” Mr. Black asked.
The newcomer ran a hand through his hair. “I think the kid is a lost cause.” Mr. Black opened his mouth to protest, but the newcomer cut him off. “Don’t say a word,” he snapped. “This mission turned into a complete failure the minute you put a bullet into the Hoyek woman.”
“I get it,” Mr. Black mocked. “You’re afraid of getting your hands dirty. That’s why you stayed so far away from the action. That’s why you’re giving up now.”
“I assure you,” the newcomer said, his tone pure ice. “I can get into the dirt with the worst of them. But when this escalated to murder, the whole game changed. That shooting was never part of the plan. This failure is on your head.”
“Don’t blame me for this,” Mr. Black shot back. “If I go down, I’m gonna drag the rest of you with me. You think I’m an idiot? I know things. Things that you don’t know that I know, you know? And if you try to hang me out to dry I’ll tell those things to people who would really like to—”
I thought I heard someone cough twice, then Mr. Black fell. Mr. Green held up his hands. “No, wait! It’s not supposed to be like this. It’s not my fault!”
The newcomer sighed. “I know.” Another pair of coughs, then Mr. Green collapsed. His outstretched arm caught the aluminum garbage can on the way down. A pile of refuse poured out of the container and on top of Mr. Green and his partner.
Holy crap. Whoever this third man was, he was ruthless. But I felt no sorrow for the murders I just witnessed. On the contrary, I was filled with a dark satisfaction that justice had been served. I hated that feeling, but I couldn’t deny that it was there and, at the moment, it felt really good.
A solid block of ice formed in my gut when the third man said, “You can come out now.” He tilted his head to look directly into my eyes, and I was certain that I was going to die. He knew where I was hiding. From the casual way his focus shifted, he had figured it out the moment he stepped into the alley.
I wondered if I would see the flash before the bullet struck. I wondered if death would hurt. I wondered how my Dad would go on living without his wife or his son. I wondered if Azima would ever get her big break as an actress in Lebanon. I wondered if my mother would be waiting on the other side to comfort me and walk with me into eternity.
All of those thoughts raced through my mind in an instant. Then the instant was over, and I was still alive. The murderer simply sighed, then shoved something in his pocket and took a step into the light. “I’m very sorry, my boy. You deserved better than this.”
Then he vanished and I could breathe once more.
I stayed up in that little alcove for over an hour as I tried to work up the nerve to leave. I kept reliving each moment in my mind, trying to remember any details that could help catch the man who had escaped. Part of me wasn’t even sure that I wanted to catch him. He killed the men who murdered my mother and spared my life when he had no reason to do so.
Beyond that, I was afraid that I didn’t have much that could help the investigation. There would be a dozen other witnesses to the shooting in the souq, so I wasn’t sure what else I could contribute. As for the murders in the alley, it was too dark to have seen any details. I’m not even sure what kind of gun he used. Though, to my mother’s disapproval, I had seen enough action movies to understand that he had used a silencer. The man moved like a soldier but he didn’t talk or look like any soldier I had ever seen. And if he was a member of the secret police, then any testimony I gave would only put my life in greater danger.
All I had was one fleeting image of the man’s face. He had a very round head, but the effect was somewhat diminished by the large amounts of greasy hair on top. He had a thick mustache, but in those days half of Damascus was sporting that look. His gray eyes caught the light and seemed sharp and alert. I held tight to that image. One day, I promised myself, I would see that face again and know that it was the face of a killer.
I hit the brakes so hard that the truck began to skid on the asphalt. It stopped on the right shoulder where the road dipped into a shallow ravin
e. The group in the back got tossed around a bit with the sudden jolt. I threw the door open and leapt out of the truck. Little bits of gravel crunched under my boots as I marched around the side of the truck.
Jamil rubbed his head. I could already see a bruise forming. “What the hell, Kyle?”
I ignored him and located my real target. Nadir had absorbed the sudden shock better than the others and was helping his wife return to a comfortable seating position. He let out a pitiful yelp as I grabbed the back of his stupid tan jacket and yanked him out of the truck. Nadir hit the road hard. He moaned and tried to get his feet under him, but I didn’t let him.
I punched him, suddenly and viciously, in the nose. His bushy mustache felt weird as my fist impacted his face. My hand still ached from the punch I threw in the gas station and the impact sent a pulse of pain through my arm. I was beyond caring. I reached behind my back and pulled the Browning out from my waistband, then pointed it directly at Nadir.
“Kyle!” Azima screamed. Hashim looked confused and unsure whether to laugh or cry at the sudden flurry of activity happening outside the truck.
“What is wrong with you?” Khamilah shouted. “Have you lost your mind?”
“No, my mind is clear, clearer than it has been in a long time.” I stood over Nadir, one boot on either side of his torso, and looked down on him.
“Tell them, Nadir. Tell them how you’ve been sabotaging this trip from the very beginning. Tell them how you never really retired from the intelligence service,” I growled. “Tell them how you put us all in danger.” I leaned down and stared at Nadir’s face. I finally recognized it for what it was.
The face of a killer.
“Tell them how you murdered my mother.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE