was an American.
“They should never know war,” Selome said fondly, watching the children watching them. “We fought so they won’t have to, and now we must fight again to provide for them. Fully one sixth of our population are refugees in Sudan because we can’t afford to bring them home.”
Caught in the infectious curiosity of the Eritrean children surrounding them, Mercer hunched down to shake hands with a little boy no more than four who regarded him through solemn eyes and a mouth full of his own thumb.
The whine of the ricochet and the tumbling crash of a body falling against a pile of metal pots came at the same instant. Still on his haunches, Mercer twisted. Had he been standing, the shot would have taken his head off. He rolled to the ground, kicking out one leg to sweep Selome so she crashed against him. One of the children began screaming. Another shot passed over Mercer’s head, hitting the bottom of a large cooking pot and blowing through it like a cannon shot.
The market area erupted, men and women running for cover, sweeping up children and clogging the main alley-ways between the stalls in an attempt to flee. Mercer shook off his shock, grabbed Selome, and tossed her under a trestle table groaning with the weight of disassembled machine parts. He took a second to calculate the angle of fire before heaving against the table. It crashed to the ground, forming a barrier between them and the unseen gunman just as half a dozen shots pounded into it, several exploding through the wood in a shower of shards, the rest harmlessly absorbed by the metal scrap. Mercer kicked in the back of the flimsy stall, forcing an opening that he dragged Selome through.
The adjoining alley was filled with the panicked crowd. A woman went down and was nearly trampled before Mercer bulled his way to her side, and hoisted her to her feet. Forcing Selome ahead of him so his body shielded hers, they knifed through the throng. Though they couldn’t hear the silenced shots, both could feel their supersonic passage as they ducked into the gap between two stalls.
The next lane had already emptied of people, making it too exposed to risk a dash to freedom. Mercer needed to create a diversion. He told Selome to remain tucked in the crawl space and dashed across the narrow tract, entering a low-ceilinged stall that was as dark and forbidding as all the others and as equally loaded with merchandise. The vendor had disappeared but left a small brazier burning next to his overturned chair, a traditional coffeepot set to boil on its grill. The shop sold all types of lighting fixtures, mostly electric and mostly in various stages of disrepair. There was also a selection of oil lamps and on a shelf were several metal cans of what Mercer fervently hoped was lamp oil. He punctured two cans with a screwdriver lying on the cluttered work bench.
“Mercer!” Selome screamed from across the alley.
He spun as a figure turned the corner into the shop preceded by the barrel of a silenced pistol. Even before the assassin had fully revealed himself, Mercer threw one of the cans at him. Clear streams of volatile fuel sprinkled out as it flew into the man’s chest. In the same motion Mercer hooked his left foot under the smoldering brazier and lofted it into the air. Sparks and cinders cascaded from it like a fireworks bomb. Mercer dropped to the ground and rolled to the back corner of the stall just as the flaming grill hit the gunman.
Drenched in fuel, the Sudanese erupted in flame. His immolation sucked the air from the stall while fire twisted into the air above him. As he burned alive, his screams were the worst sounds Mercer could imagine. The air filled with the smell of his roasting flesh.
Mercer hefted the other can of fuel. “Selome, come on.”
She leaped from her hiding place to join him as he tipped fuel from the one gallon jerry can onto the fire. An errant tongue of flame ignited the lamp oil, and it began burning like a fuse toward the can still in his hand. A bullet passed close to Mercer’s head, and he saw two men boldly running down the alley toward them. He screamed for Selome to duck and spun in place, burning fuel spraying behind him, just inches from reaching the container. Like an Olympic hammer thrower, he released the can at the gunmen. It sailed at them like a comet, its tail blooming in a billow of flame.
He and Selome were running in the opposite direction when the container hit the ground just in front of the two assassins. It split open an instant before the flame reached it, and the narrow street caught fire, blocking the Sudanese from their intended targets.
Fighting for breath, Mercer and Selome reached the end of the alley and burst into the snarl of streets that fronted the cattle enclosure. The dirt roads were sprinkled with fallen hay from piles mounded against the stockade’s high brick walls. Usually, the crowds moved with purpose, leading cows, sheep, and goats to and from the pen, but everyone was standing still, watching the flames already rising above the market.
Trucks and buses clogged the side streets, making it impossible for Mercer to lead Selome out of the area. Knowing the fire would slow the Sudanese for just a few moments, and with only one avenue of escape opened to them, they raced into the cattle stockade. It was only after they were a quarter way across the circular plaza that Selome stopped, bending double to catch her breath. Cows and men had cleared a path for their mad charge, both equally upset by the intrusion.
“Mercer,” she panted and pointed over her shoulder. “That’s the only way out of here.”
“Oh shit,” he wheezed, realizing they were trapped. If they turned back now, they would run straight into the assassins.
The cows weren’t like those Mercer had seen in the United States. These were
Mercer grabbed a wooden staff from a farmer standing close by and dodged through the lowing herd toward the new mother. She watched his movement with tired, angry eyes, keeping her body between her baby and this new threat. He ignored her first halfhearted charges, angling the brahman with the finesse of a matador, forcing her around so her calf was behind her.
She came forward again, her horns like scythes as she lowered them to Mercer’s waist. He timed his lunge perfectly and rushed to meet her charge. Dropping to the ground, he rolled as one great horn slit the air just above him, regaining his feet as the brahman turned to follow. The calf was in front of him — unprotected for a fraction of a second. He gave the tottering animal a sharp crack on its rump with the staff.
It squealed more out of fright than pain and began running in a weaving gait that took it in the direction of the exit. Mercer could feel its mother right behind him and dove to the side, missing a fatal goring by inches. He landed on a small flock of sheep, cushioning his fall in the woolly, bleating mass. The new mother ignored him and chased after its child, but the young cow was too panicked to be calmed. Quickly, the alarm spread to the other nervous members of the herd, and suddenly they were stampeding. The peasants were powerless to stop it and wisely concentrated on staying out of the way of the maddened rush.
The two Sudanese had just passed through the entrance when the leading edge of the charge reached them. Their reactions were lightning fast, and cows went down under scathing fire from their weapons. Yet the herd paid no attention to their fallen brethren. When a huge bull was felled by a double tap from one of the silenced pistols, two more filled the gap in the solid wall of fleeing animals.
The gates to the stockade were roughly ten feet wide and three hundred and fifty tons of terrified cattle raced through, their hooves kicking up gouts of dust. The two gunmen never stood a chance. Their screams were lost in the thunderous din. Even their guns were so damaged by the herd they would never fire again. Of the men themselves, two purple/red stains in the churned dirt marked their graves.
Mercer used the flank of a sheep to wipe the worst of the filth from his clothes and hands and went to Selome’s side. “We’ve got to get out of here. After these farmers retrieve their cattle, they’re coming back for a little retribution.”
Selome peeled off her wrap, placing it over Mercer’s head and tucking it around his shoulders so it formed a cowl around his face. Apart from his superior height, the cloak made it difficult to discern him from the angry men milling about the pen. They made their way to the exit and gained the street a moment later.
No sooner had they begun back to the hotel than a white truck turned the corner behind them, its wheels kicking up a spray of gravel and its driver leaning heavily on the horn.
“Trouble at hotel. We leave now,” Habte shouted out the open window. His cousin was in the backseat,
