The Night Ranger

Fifteen minutes later, back in his hut, Wizard heard Khalid and the Donkey ride off toward the border. He’d have at least forty-five minutes before Khalid checked in, time for a nap. He switched off his lantern, lay flat on his blanket. He set his phone alarm and stretched out with his fingers locked behind his head. He closed his eyes and saw a bright precious city with buildings that stretched to the sky. He bent his neck until he was looking straight up, but still he couldn’t see where they ended. Winged cars floated between the towers. An Arab with a thick beard came to him and told him the city would be his if he would give up the wazungu. No, Wizard said. In the distance, an engine kicked up and sputtered and died. What’s happening, he asked the Arab, but the man only shook his head. Then Wizard heard more shouting and all around him the buildings shook and—

“Wizard!”

The city vanished as he opened his eyes. An upside-down Waaberi stood in the doorway of his hut. “The wazungu—”

“What—”

“They tried to escape.”

Wizard pushed himself up.

“Samatar stop them.”

Waaberi’s face twitched, an expression that meant: Bad news. “See for yourself.”

Wizard rubbed the sleep from his eyes, picked up his phone. The alarm was still fifteen minutes from ringing. He’d been asleep for only—he needed a second to make the numbers work, he was so tired—thirty minutes. No matter. Waaberi’s hard eyes told him: You won’t sleep again this night. Wizard grabbed a plug of miraa and chewed until his mouth filled with juice and the leaf cleared away the rubble from his city of dreams.

21

Nobody talked much after Hailey came back with the wrench. Gwen wasn’t sure what the other two were thinking. But the plan seemed more real to her now, and more frightening. She couldn’t get her head around the idea that they were going to try to kill their guard. The guy hadn’t done anything to them. They didn’t even know his name.

She didn’t argue, though. She knew what Owen would say. That she’d gone soft. That these men were not her friends. That even if she didn’t agree, they’d voted and they had to stick to their decision. Worse than the words would be the look, the eyes-narrowed-chin-tilted look that meant If you were smarter, we wouldn’t be talking about this, you’d get it.

Before they were taken, Gwen would have said that Owen loved her, or at least that he had the world’s worst crush on her. He lit up when he saw her, like a dog when the treat drawer came open. No more. Since the night that the Joker had hooded them to punish her for talking, Owen had dealt with her like a problem he had to manage.

She wondered whether Owen’s love for her had ever been real. Like so many guys she’d known, maybe he wanted the idea of her instead of actually wanting her. Maybe he wanted the ego boost that came from walking into a room with a beautiful woman, the feeling that everyone wondered how he’d won her. Was he rich, famous, a great storyteller, a demon lover? One point in Scott’s favor, maybe the biggest, maybe the only reason Gwen had put up with him: Scott didn’t need that boost. Scott genuinely believed that Gwen was lucky to have him, not the other way around. His feelings for her couldn’t have been simpler. He thought she was hot and a good lay. Which was pretty much what she thought of him. He’d been surprisingly good in bed, too. He had plenty of experience and zero performance anxiety.

Thinking about sex with Scott made her almost miss him.

She wondered what he would have made of their half-assed plan. Probably he’d have sneered at it. Chill, he would have said. Nobody’s gonna hurt us. We’re worth more alive than dead. Way more than all these Somalis combined.

But what had Scott known about Kenya or Somalia? What had he known about this continent? What did any of them know? Gwen felt more grown up than she ever had before, and more childish too. There was a word for that, but she couldn’t remember it. She’d come here thinking these Africans were simple and stupid. That they couldn’t even feed themselves. She knew better now. They might be poor, but they weren’t stupid and they sure weren’t simple. The worst part was she hadn’t even realized she was looking down on them. At least she was starting to see how little she saw.

She remembered. The word was paradox.

—

The camp quieted as the soldiers settled in for the night. Soldiers. Bandits. Gwen didn’t know what to call these armed boy-men. She listened for trouble, shots or screams, heard nothing. She drifted for a while, half asleep. A dirt bike took off and disappeared. Gwen expected more to follow, but none did. The faint voices from the other huts melded into a sort of song, all the world’s languages together. The minutes were as long as hours and as short as days, and she could float on the sea forever—

Owen nudged her awake. “It’s time.” He edged around the hut until he stood two steps from the door. He held the wrench flat against his leg. Even in the dark, Gwen saw how his body coiled. He’d played tennis in high school.

“Gwen.” He wagged two fingers toward her in a come-hither motion. Again she thought of Scott, who’d given her the same peremptory wave more than once. She wanted to tell Owen to drop the wrench, sit down. But Hailey put a hand on her arm and squeezed. She couldn’t delay any longer. She walked to the doorway, looked outside. The clouds were low and heavy. A steady rain soaked the earth. The wet season had come at last. Only their guard was outside. He wore an AK across his chest and squatted on an inflatable gray plastic ball that belonged in a yoga class. Gwen hadn’t seen it before and couldn’t imagine how it had arrived here. But she’d seen this in Dadaab, too, objects that didn’t seem to belong anywhere in Africa.

Enough. If she waited any longer, she’d lose her nerve. She stepped out, squatted beside their sentry. He looked at her and then away and finally he settled for staring at her feet. “What’s your name?” She pointed at herself. “Gwen. Mi nombre es Gwennie. You?”

“Samatar.”

“Samatar. Come in where it’s dry, have some miraa.”

“Miraa.”

“Miraa. Exactly.”

He reached into his pocket. The bundle of leaves had shrunk. She could see he didn’t want to share. He held it slightly away from her, like a frat boy with a flask that had only two good pulls left: Sure you want this?

“Keep it, then. No problemo. But come on in. No need for you to get wet.” She stood, pointed at the doorway. We’re all friends here.

He looked around. Gwen guessed that he’d been warned not to come inside the hut. But they both knew that he’d already broken that rule tonight and nothing bad had happened. He stood—then shook his head and squatted down. Gwen felt mostly relief. She’d tried, Owen and Hailey would have to admit she’d tried. She turned away.

And the rain picked up. Samatar raised his hand to the sky, stood. “Miraa.”

“I know, miraa—”

He stepped toward the hut. She couldn’t stop him, not without out-and-out betraying her friends. She walked inside. He followed. As he entered, Owen lunged, whipping his arm like he was hitting a topspin forehand, bringing the wrench into the side of Samatar’s head with a terrible crunch. Samatar choked out a gasp and his head lashed forward and his body turned to string. He fell sideways without even lifting a hand. A bone broke as he hit, the arm or the shoulder, Gwen wasn’t sure. He moaned just enough to prove he was alive.

Owen stooped, unbuckled Samatar’s AK, tugged at it. The rifle’s strap was caught between Samatar’s body and the ground. “Help.” Owen put his hands under Samatar and lifted. After a moment’s hesitation, Hailey pulled out the rifle.

A thin foam bubbled from Samatar’s mouth. His left arm twitched and his eyes rolled back until they were as