travelling, since her father worked at the American Embassy in Islamabad, Pakistan. He was later killed by the Soviets in an air-raid in neighboring Afghanistan, near the end of the Soviet-Afghan war.
Her hatred towards the USSR and Communism increased tenfold that day-so did her bonding with her mother, but it wasn’t meant to last. Her mother was hospitalized, a few years later, with severe heart complications.
It was then that her mother disclosed the horrifying truth. Marx’s father was a CIA agent that had aided the mujahedeen to run their training camps in Afghanistan in their fight against the Soviets. What was more devastating was when her mother also told her that she had been recruited by the KGB to spy on her father, and that furthermore, the intelligence that she had provided the Soviets ultimately got her father killed.
It was the most emotional day of Marx’s life. She had screamed at her sobbing mother, telling her that her sickness was well deserved. It was last time that she saw her mother alive. She was bawling as she ran from the hospital room, pushing hospital staff out of her way. She made it outside of the hospital where she collapsed, only to be aided by a few motorists and pedestrians. It was the last time she remembered crying.
The lounge doors opened and a group of men in business suits walked in and headed straight for the bar. Marx glanced briefly at them and sighed, assuming them to either be businessmen or diplomats-the latter she detested-as it was a constant reminder that all the world’s problems could be linked to politics and religion. It was what eventually destroyed her family.
It wasn’t long before one of them approached her. “Good morning. Would you care-”
“No, I wouldn’t.” The man withdrew from her immediately, muttering something under his breath. Just then she heard her boarding call over the PA system. Marx walked back to her seat and grabbed her single travel bag. In a few days, she would make history, and the face of the world would be forever changed.
Chapter 3
West Darfur, 10 AM, local time
The townspeople crowded the town square on market day. Most of the residents of this small dusty town-one of the few on the United Nation’s endangered list that has avoided attacks from both government and militia forces-had left and were making their way in droves to the refugee camps that bordered Chad to the west. For many, this was the last opportunity to stock up on rations before they migrated.
Over where the adults bargained for everyday items, three young boys kicked around a soccer ball between the stalls. The shortest of the three was the last to kick the ball. He sent it flying out of the market and into a clearing. They ran after the ball which had rolled under the feet of a man dressed in a traditional pastel-colored robe, and a skullcap, with most of his head and face covered by a length of cloth.
They stopped a few feet away, gawked at the giant, but did not run. He was leaning against a stack of empty boxes in the shade, and his eyes were visible as he peered down at them. He was not dark-skinned like them, but had more of an olive-colored complexion. They had never seen anyone of that complexion before, but knew he must be from a land beyond the desert, possibly even further than where the devils on horseback came from.
The giant kicked the ball back towards them and looked away. The shortest of the three picked it up and walked closer to the man. “Where are you from?” he asked in Arabic-the most common language that was spoken in the region.
Fox looked at the kid and saw in his eyes that he ached to know who he was. The boys must have known right away that he wasn’t from here.
“Did you come to save us from the devils on horseback?”
Fox glanced at the other two boys and then back at the one that spoke to him. They were all familiar with the devils or The Janjaweed-their official name. The Sudanese government had continuously denied being linked to the militia group, for carrying out the most atrocious attacks that had left scores of innocent people dead.
“What do you know about the devils on horseback?” Fox replied in Arabic.
“They’re very bad men,” the child replied as the other two approached.
“Really?” asked Fox. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Musa.”
“I’m Adam,” the boy to Musa’s left quickly said.
“I’m Ibrahim,” said the other.
“Where are you from?” asked Musa.
“Did you come from the other side of the desert?” asked Adam.
“Where’s your camel? How did you get here?” said Ibrahim, as the others joined in, flooding Fox with questions.
Fox held out his palm. It appeared that the size of it, in the children’s eyes, was enough to silence them. “Are they the same ones that come every time?”
They nodded.
“How many usually come?”
“Ten,” Ibrahim said first.
“I saw eight last time,” said Adam.
“That’s good enough,” said Fox.
“We haven’t seen them in a long time,” said Musa.
“Did you come to save us from the Janjaweed?” asked Ibrahim.
“My mother told me that help would come. And that they would be men from far away, just like you,” said Musa.
And their bombardment continued. These kids and their families had next to nothing and they depended on outside help. His fight wasn’t with the Janjaweed. He wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for Ares.
“Are you here to help us?” asked Adam.
Fox couldn’t avoid looking into their pleading eyes. “You shouldn’t need any help. After all, you just said that they haven’t been seen in a long time. You should all be safe. Now run along and play with your ball.”
The boys didn’t appear to be convinced.
“The last time they were here they scared everyone with their guns,” said Ibrahim.
Musa’s ball slipped from his hands, but he was quick to pick it up. “They took clothes that my mother was selling at the market and didn’t even pay for them.”
Adam nodded. “I heard they set fire to villages.”
Fox looked past them, in the distance, where he thought that he heard something. He waved the boys away with his arm. “Run along.” Fox walked off and left them. This is their civil war, not mine, who am I to get involved? I’m just here to fuck Ares over. I would’ve done the same had they gone to Somalia or Zimbabwe. He didn’t dare look back at the boys. They would only make him go soft, and he couldn’t afford another blunder such as the one in Groznyy.
He rubbed his forehead with his sleeve, wiping off some sweat. He then took a swig of cold water from his canteen that he had well hidden under his robe.
Fox turned to the sounds of a diesel engine gunning, and saw thick, black smoke belch into the air. A truck with a small open-end payload drove around the stalls, into the town square. Following it, on horseback, were five more men in army fatigues. The Janjaweed-the devils on horseback themselves-were here.
The bustling market came to a complete standstill as the men passed through. But Fox’s focus was on the truck and its cargo. His facial scarf began to drop and he fixed it to cover above his nose, as he dashed through the crowd, keeping his eyes on the truck.
During his pursuit, he saw a stall with women’s clothing. He reached inside his robe and took out a few bills without counting them. He tossed them on the table in front of the merchant saying the standard Arabic greeting, “Izeyik.” Simultaneously he grabbed three garments off the rack. He didn’t hear any protest from the merchant.
The Janjaweed drove about a hundred meters past the marketplace and stopped in front of an old, school building that had seen its share of assaults-from the dilapidated rooftop to the pockmarked outer walls.
Two men hopped out from the back of the truck. They waited as two more inside handed them an object on a
