Smooth. No risks.
Onto Shlomo Hamelekh, downhill full-speed ahead.
More red lights to defy, swooshing by, oblivious to cause and effect.
Only my baby.
Coming for you, motek.
A steep drop. Up through the air and down so hard the impact sent electric currents through his spine.
Good pain, welcome pain.
Alive. Let her be alive. Abba's coming, motek, sweet little mongrel.
Willing the Escort to be an airplane, a jet fighter, flying north, retracing the early morning ride of a month ago.
Fatma's body in the white sheet.
Shoshana.
Prettiness. Innocence.
Pretty faces, bodies juxtaposed, blood sisters-No, back to the glacier!
Uphill. The Escort struggled. Go faster, fucking damn fucking car, go faster or I'll rip you apart-
Rip him apart.
Fueling himself with boiling blood. Weapons assessment: only the 9 mm. The Uzi back at Headquarters.
He had his hands.
One good one.
Speeding past Zahal Square, more close calls, hateful shouts from the ignorant. If they knew the truth, they'd cheer him on.
Only Sultan Suleiman through a scatter of frightened faces.
The Old City. Not beautiful anymore. A bloody city. Conquest upon conquest, graveyard upon graveyard.
Jeremiah lamenting.
Mothers eating babies as the Romans besieged the walls.
Blood running down limestone. Altars.
Christian Crusaders wading knee-deep in blood, slaughtering the innocence-
Not my innocent.
Shoshi.
Fatma. Shoshi. Fatmashoshi.
Torturing himself with policeman's knowledge that cracked the glacier:
His motek. Number Four-no! Amsterdam, a dry run.
The Israeli butchery replicating the American butchery. American Number Four.
Gene's voice: This one was very messy, Danny? all the internal organs-No! Abba's coming, angel.
Motek, motek, hold on, hold on. Make yourself live. Force it.
Literally skin and bones- No!
Should have been there, should have been a better daddy. Promise to be better. God allowed back: making deals.
An old Arab man wheeled a barrowful of melons across the street. Daniel sped by. A bus coming from the opposite direction kept him from swerving far enough, and his rear bumper nicked the front end of the barrow.
Rearview mirror story: Melons rolling down Sultan Suleiman. Old man lying flat, then rising, shaking his fists.
Fuck your melons. My fruit is precious. Let her be alive.
Ben Adayah empty, a clear climb: God responding. A single tour bus bumping its way down the Mount of Olives Road.
Dodging to avoid him. Idiots pointing, chattering. Fly by them, fly! Onto Scopus.
Bloody eye of a bloody city. Abba's coming!
The fucking slaughterhouse of a hospital, rosy pink, the pink of diluted blood.
He aimed the Escort at the entrance, screeched to a halt, blocking it. Took hold of the Beretta, checked the clip, and jumped out.
The Arab watchman, Hajab, on his feet. Shaking a fist.
'Halt! You cannot park there!'
Ignore the idiot. Running, through the courtyard.
