The horsemen had ridden through the wagon line slashing at the missionaries before emerging by the campfire on the other side, where Falah was rallying his men for another attack. Through the blur Wake saw Woodgerd yelling something to the hostages-turned-riflemen, while at the front wagon he saw Faber, in a blood-soaked white shirt, shooting at a blue-robed figure in front of him.
Seeing the Frenchman brought Wake’s mind back. Catherine’s face was in the crate. Her mouth was open, saying something. He rolled over to the crate and willed himself to crouch up, groaning with the pain. Grasping the latch he pulled it open with his weight as he fell back. The women inside pushed their way out of the box—the first two were shot instantly, dropping as they tried to stand with their hands still tied behind them. Catherine fell out and he knelt there, his head roaring while he fumbled with the rope. He was failing and he sobbed for God to help free her as he lost control of his body and hit the sand.
Wake lay there, clutching his chest tightly, feeling blood leaking out and foam coming up in his mouth. He felt a hand on his face, a soft hand. Catherine’s tears were dripping onto his cheek, and she was beseeching him, but he couldn’t understand her sounds—or even move.
Wake slowly began to hear the women screaming as his eyes started to focus. His senses were returning. He was about to speak to Catherine when a shadow came over him and he looked up. Falah was mounted on a horse, standing tall above him, circling a scimitar over his head, eyes wild in rage. The man’s voice was the thunder of hell as he rallied his men for the final kill, screaming. “ShayTaan Taalib!”
Falah glanced down and saw the American by the horse’s hooves. Their eyes met and Falah smiled. A strange, bizarre smile. Wake saw a revolver come out from Falah’s robes, his mind registering that it was his own navy issue Colt, immediately understanding Falah’s expression. The revolver swung around and aimed down at him.
This is it. I’m dead, Wake realized. Here, now. In this far-off, empty place in the middle of nowhere so far from home.
The revolver’s muzzle exploded in a blast, but Wake never heard a thing.
41
Kiss of Allah
But something was wrong. He could see Catherine, so he couldn’t be dead. She was still bent over him crying, her face grimacing in horror as she gazed off somewhere. He was lightheaded, drunklike, the scene around him unfolding like a play in slow motion and he was the audience. It was all so very curious, illogical.
“I’m supposed to be dead,” Wake croaked aloud to himself.
The pain was real, though. And the sights around him. Catherine had gore all over her dress, the red splatter contrasting with the blue gingham. Henri Faber was there now, an arm around Catherine. Both were staring at Wake, their concern obvious, saying something he couldn’t make out. And there was a lump or rock beside him on the ground.
But no, it was Falah. The maniac, or what was left of him, was sprawled on the sand, his sightless eyes bulging out of the mangled meat of his face. The Colt was still in his hand and Wake reached over to pry it loose. He had to get that Colt. It was issued to him. The ringing in his ears faded and he heard sounds now as he pulled those grimy fingers off the pistol grip.
“Peter, can you hear me?” he heard Henri Faber yelling from only a foot away. “It is done. Finished. They are running away.”
Wake got the Colt free and held it in a shaky hand, rolling to the left as he felt another shadow cross over him. He raised the revolver to fire at the attacker, understanding at the last second that it was Rork, looking gaunt, utterly exhausted. The bosun knelt down as Wake let the pistol fall.
“Neither o’ us win the bet, sir. That bloody bastard was nailed by Henri here.” Rork opened Wake’s shirt looking for the chest wound. “An’ jes’ afore he would’a put paid to my old friend Peter Wake.”
Rork found the wound, his probing sending a wave of fire back through Wake’s chest. “Looks like we both owe Henri a bit o’ rum sippers at our next liberty port. In fact, I’d make it gulpers.”
Faber and his wife were holding onto each other, crying in relief. Rork rolled Wake over, searching for an exit wound. As he was turned, Wake saw Woodgerd warily kicking dead men, rifle aimed at their torsos, one of the freed missionaries picking up the weapons strewn about. Sokhoor, haggard and blood-stained, walked over to them holding his arm. He spit at Falah’s body and ground his sandal into the head, uttering something in his language. Then he stormed off, deliberately doing the same to each of the dead bandits.
“What . . . happened?” Wake asked Rork.
“Buggers ran off, they did, sir. Devil’s Disciples my arse. Didn’t much like hot lead or cold steel, by the looks o’ it.”
Rork pushed a rag into the hole in Wake’s chest. The bosun reached around and put another into a place in Wake’s back, where sensation was now returning, searing in intensity. Wake had never seen his friend look so serious, so grief-stricken. He suddenly comprehended that it was because of him, and a wave of shame came over him.
“I’m sorry, Sean. I got myself shot and let you down.”
Rork stopped, tears filling his eyes. “Ah damn you, Peter
