“Guess you’re our man,” said Santiago.
“I’m not going over there,” I said.
“I’ll cover you from the street,” he said.
I followed Santiago down to the lobby and out into the courtyard. The few sparse trees looked larger than what I remembered. Santiago stopped in the doorway and we both looked out at the street.
“You’ll be fine,” he said, his hand on my shoulder.
“I know,” I said, without much conviction.
I stood there for a long time. There was no wind, no sound, nothing but the silence of the night. My legs were uneasy, my head felt empty, my stomach hot like it was full of liquor.
Santiago smiled and put a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry.”
My mouth was full of saliva, like right before you throw up. I spit. Waited. Then I spit again.
“He’s one of ours,” Santiago said, and pushed me toward the door.
I peered up the street in either direction. I couldn’t see far, but there was no sign of movement. I ran across the street, my 9mm bouncing in its holster. I struggled to keep my head clear and my nerves steady.
When I reached the other side of the street, the man was standing in the dark just inside the doorway, an Army-issue Colt .45 in his right hand. He nodded and smiled as I walked through the door and into a cavernous room. He stepped to the door behind me and looked up the street in both directions.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
My back was wet with sweat. I rubbed at my neck with my hand and felt the grit of sand. “Cooper,” I said. He had no reason to know that my real name was Joshua Stantz. I couldn’t see his face, so I told him I was Cooper.
“You the ones from 10th Mountain?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Hamlin,” he said. “You can call me Hamlin for now.”
“You here to help us?” I asked.
“Come on up,” he said, and started toward a stairwell. He had a southern accent. I’d heard it when I was in basic training back in South Carolina. He walked slowly in front of me, which made me feel more secure.
He stopped at the foot of the stairs and pointed a few steps up. “Watch out,” he said, “fishing line.” He turned when he spoke, and I could see the silhouette of his face against the darkness of the stairs. “The sound of someone falling is more than enough to wake a man up. Loud noises ruin your judgment and instinct.” He stepped over the fishing line. “Understand?”
“Check,” I said with false confidence, bending over to touch the fishing line. It seemed like something a real warrior would understand entirely. Santiago loved that kind of information.
“That’s good to know,” I said. I wanted to impress Hamlin. I wanted him to like me, and I wanted his help.
“Do you know the language?” I asked.
“Probably,” he said.
We walked into the room he’d set up directly across the street from ours. There were several windows, and he stood between me and one of them. He was short and stocky, and as my eyes adjusted to the dark I could see that his black hair was streaked with the yellow sand of the streets and desert. Sweat parted the dust on his face and made swaths of shiny skin. He was wearing a pair of dirty old khakis and a short-sleeve cotton shirt, much like most of the men in this city. A .50 caliber sniper rifle and an AK-47 were lying on the floor.
I wondered if he was one of those men the government didn’t acknowledge or recognize if they went missing. We’d heard rumors. A man like him didn’t exist to anyone. He didn’t have any Rules of Engagement to follow. He made the rules.
“Do you have any extra food with you?” he asked.
“We’re almost out,” I said. “We can barely take care of ourselves.”
“Ruin travels fast,” he said.
I didn’t know what to say, so I nodded in response. He waited, expecting me to say something.
“It’s hard,” I said finally.
He nodded in agreement and motioned for me to sit on a small wooden crate in the middle of the room. I wondered what the building had been used for originally. Other than the crate, all that remained in this room was an old wooden desk that was missing all its drawers. It had been flipped on its side, and now Hamlin was leaning on it.
“Do you have a radio?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “It would only compromise my identity if I were killed.”
“Why’d you call me over?” I asked. “Are you here to help?”
“Do you realize that I could have shot you if I wanted to? I could have killed everyone in that room and no one ever would have known.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sure you could have.”
“I’m just fucking with you,” he said. “There was no reason for me to shoot you.”
We sat in the middle of the room, away from the windows. I looked at the ceiling in an effort to avoid his stare. Even in the dark it was unmistakable.
“Your friend is dead, right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“He must have been hit by that big anti-aircraft gun,” he said. “Something heavier than an AK-47.”
“I know,” I said, not wanting to appear as if I didn’t know the truth, or didn’t get the joke. The room lightened a little with the rising moon. The way he was looking at me made me afraid to move. I ran a hand through my hair and felt the sweat and the sand.
“Kids,” he said, staring at me. “I mean, they have twelve-year-olds doing the fighting for them. They’re just kids.”
I tried to see in the darkness. I wondered whether there might be another door or even another room that I couldn’t see.
He walked to the window and looked across the street toward our room. “You’ve had a hard time of it,” he said. He put his Colt .45 on
