shook with sobbing.
Buckwheat looked inside, through the gate, carefully.
In the middle of an athletic field, barely visible for the fifty-odd young men surrounding her, was a girl in a red dress, buried to her waist and with blood pouring from her head and face. All of the young men were armed, rifles slung across backs and fist sized rocks in hand. Perhaps a thousand people filled the nearest seats in the stands, watching the punishment.
The girl wasn't screaming, though she rocked back and forth as silent tears rolled down her cheeks. The tears left clear furrows in the blood. She could have been anywhere between twenty and thirteen years of age, though Buckwheat guessed it was most likely closer to the latter. As he watched, one of the surrounding young men threw a small rock, striking the girl on the front of her neck and forcing her back. She began to gasp, as if trying to suck air in through a windpipe that had suddenly swollen. The men taunted her, imitating her strained gasping.
Wahab walked up, bearing a rifle in one hand. 'What is happening? Who is that girl?' he asked the weeping young man sitting by the gate.
'My sister,' the boy forced out. 'She was raped and they found her guilty of adultery. My . . . sister.' He broke down in sobbing once again.
'What was that?' Fulton asked. When Wahab explained, he shook his head and said, as he often did, 'Thank God my multi-great grandpappy got dragged onto that boat.'
'Give me your rifle,' he demanded of Wahab, holding his hand out.
Wahab shook his head, tightened his grip on the weapon, and said, 'No. There is nothing you can do for that girl. It is the law. It is a rotten law, but it is still the law. And those men slowly killing her will still kill her, and also you, if you interfere. I would be . . . sorry to lose you, Buckwheat.'
Tightened grip or not, Fulton reached out with snakelike speed, snatching the rifle from Wahab's hands. As he settled into a kneeling supported firing position, his left side resting on the left edge of the gate, Buckwheat said, 'They're too intent on pulverizing that girl to even notice me until I open fire. You've got two minutes. I suggest you go get some more ammunition for this and the other rifle. I intend to see just how far your chief's protection will extend to those who intend to rescue his son.'
A sort of low moan, punctuated by occasional rifle shots, permeated the air above the stadium floor. The moaning came from the survivors of what had been fifty-three young men, formerly engaged in stoning a girl. The bulk of the men had been shot in the back, some when firing first began and others as they fled that fire. With each shot the volume of moaning grew less.
Bang. Robert Buckwheat Fulton walked gingerly across the grassy field, his rifle generally pointed toward the ground. Bang. Every few steps, he would stop and fire another round-bang-into the head of someone who appeared to him to be still breathing. In all, he did that eleven times-bang-before he reached the spot where an older brother dug with bloody hands to free a younger sister from the pit into which she had been half buried. Wahab followed, his rifle up towards the now empty stands.
'How?' he asked, repeatedly. 'There were fifty of them! More than fifty! How?'
'President's Hundred,' Fulton said, in explanation, as he took aim at the head of another breather just past the girl. The retired sergeant's voice was pure ice. Bang. 'Camp Perry, Ohio. Motherfuckers never had a chance.' Bang. He looked down at someone who was not only breathing but conscious. 'How do you like it when someone else has a gun and can shoot, asshole?' Bang.
'Oh,' Wahab said. He looked over at the girl and said, 'We can go now, Robert.'
Bang. 'Has the kid got his sister free?'
'No point. I mean, yes, but . . . she's dead.'
Fulton bit his lip. 'I see.' Bang.
'Come on, Robert, we must go meet the chief and our attachments to your force.'
'Sure. Be just a few more minutes . . . Hey, want a little cat's meat, motherfucker?' Bang.
D-53, Bandar Qassim, Ophir
'I hear there was a disturbance down in Bajuni,' the old sept chief, Taban, said to Gutaale at the evening majlis in the latter's palace courtyard. 'No one seems to have any details, but apparently a frightful number of young men were put to death by Khalid's decree.'
'It's all falling apart down there,' Gutaale said confidently. 'Even faster than I predicted. Soon we'll be able to take it all.'
Taban shook his head doubtfully. Even so, he had to admit that seizing the other chief's only son and heir had been masterful. Or at least, I can't point to any one thing that hasn't worked out as Gutaale predicted. The lands we have demanded have been evacuated and turned over. Unrest is apparently rife in the enemy capital. Khalid's position is said to be crumbling. Still, it doesn't feel right. And I can't explain why.
D-44, Suakin, Sudan
The sun wasn't quite up yet, nor had the muezzin begun the call for prayers. Under a bare lightbulb, in his own quarters, Labaan dipped his canjeero, a thin, pancakelike bread similar to Ethiopian injera, into a side dish of beef, cut small and boiled in ghee. Ordinarily, breakfast, or quaraac, was his favorite meal. This one . . . wasn't. Neither, come to think of it, did I enjoy yesterday's, or the day before's, or any lately. Nor lunch nor supper either.
His fingers dipped the rolled bread, dipped, dipped, then simply opened up and dropped it into the bowl. Standing, Labaan walked toward the part of the building wherein his captive and his gifted slave girl were kept. The guard on the door nodded, respectfully, which nod Labaan returned. The bare coral walls weren't really something one wanted to rap one's knuckles against. Instead, Labaan made a little coughing sound to announce himself.
'Are you and the girl decent, Adam?' Labaan asked.
In answer, there was a rustling of cloth, as if someone were hurriedly dressing, then the hung fabric covering the door was pulled partway aside. Adam, wearing a clean white robe slid out sideways through the narrow opening, closing the door covering behind him. It was dark in the room, Labaan could see.
'Makeda is sleeping,' Adam said. 'I don't want to wake her.'
'You'll spoil the girl, young Marehan,' Labaan said chidingly. 'But never mind. Even a slave can sleep in sometimes. I assume you haven't had anything to eat yet.' The older man inclined his head, saying, 'Come on.'
The guard wasn't there for the girl; he was there for Adam. As the captive followed Labaan along the coral floor, the guard stepped in behind, his rifle at high port. After all, the boy wasn't chained.
At his own quarters, Labaan motioned for Adam and the guard both to have seats on the floor. The guard laid his rifle down on the side opposite the boy. There was no reason to throw temptation his way.
Once they were seated, Labaan retrieved his dropped piece of canjeero and popped it into his mouth. With his other hand he indicated the tray holding the bread and the bowl of beef. Adam hesitated until the guard reached over, ripped off a piece of the bread, rolled it and dipped it, scooping up some of the beef.
They ate in silence for some time until Labaan said, 'I have been thinking about the . . . security arrangements, Adam, and I had a thought.'
Adam raised one eyebrow, inquisitively, but said nothing.
'There is a thing the Europeans have, maybe the Americans, too; I'm not sure. It's called ‘parole.''
'Which is?' Adam asked.
'Your ‘parole' is, among other things, your word of honor that you won't try to escape. I've watched you for some time now. You're a good boy, a good man, really. If you gave me your word you won't try to escape then I can dispense with the damned, bloody shackles. Give you more privacy.' Feel like less of a heel, though you don't need
