chickens.
Veja staggered backwards, two steps, three, one, mouth working soundlessly, throat spasming up and down, all screamed out, unable to expel any more of his immense pain. He lurched forward and then went back again.
Max saw the bloody gash in the middle of his legs, the crimson rivulets pouring down his thighs.
Veja reached for his violated crotch and touched the mush below his dick.
Paul tossed the blood-soaked rocks and flesh away.
Veja brought his bloody fingers up to his eyes, studied them closely, and then, just as his face began to crumple into tears, he keeled back and slammed into the ground, cracking his skull.
He was dead.
Paul took out his gun and put a round in Veja's head. Then he dragged another soldier, screaming and pleading and crying, out of the shattered group. Paul slapped the man's face with a huge, bloody paw.
'You stay here and watch your friends. Just like you did when they raped the girl,' he said and turned him around to face his comrades. He then shouted at the two guards who were watching Saggar. They shoved him over to his men.
'You are animal?
Paul stepped away and whistled. The rocks began to fly.
The first volley came from the girl's family, who'd moved into position, opposite the rapists. They threw large rocks at them, over-and underarm, and fired smaller ones by catapult. All found their targets?heads were opened, brows were split, eyes were put out.
The rapists tried to run backwards but they met an immediate hail of rocks flying out of the darkness, hurled and shot at them by unseen hands. One soldier was knocked out, another dropped to the floor and pulled his legs up in fetal position.
The rocks flew into heads and faces and knees and chests. Max saw a man killed when one catapulted rock struck his cheek and spun him right into the path of another, high-velocity stone that caved his temple in and rammed skull bone into his brain.
Saggar was on all fours, scrambling around, feeling his way along the ground, blood covering his face from a gash in his forehead, one eye buried under a mound of swollen skin.
None of the rapists were left standing when the Le Fen family moved in, sticks and machetes in hand, Verite leading the way, helped along by her father. The other rock-throwers came out of the darkness and together they formed a circle around the fallen men.
Moments later, the sounds of beating and pounding and stabbing and slashing came from the circle. Max heard a few cries of pain, but it all seemed minor after Veja's screams that were still clearly echoing around his head.
The crowd worked on the bodies, letting out their hatred, sucking up as much raw vengeance as they could before their muscles gave out and tiredness got the better of them.
When they staggered away, they left behind a pulped vermilion mass, a gleaming, viscous lake of retribution.
A guard went around and put nominal bullets in the skulls that were still intact.
Paul looked at the driver.
'Now?you?I want you to go back to your barracks in Port-au-Prince and tell everyone what happened. Start with your friends and colleagues, then tell your commanding officer. Tell them I was responsible. Vincent Paul. You understand?'
The man nodded, his teeth chattering.
'And when you tell them what happened, tell them this from me?if
The driver started walking away, very slowly, head down, slouching, steps uncertain, as though they were the first he'd taken in a long while and half-expected his legs to give way. He put a good few meters between himself and the scene, and then he broke into a run and disappeared into the night like a man on fire who's spotted water.
Paul went to be with the family.
Max couldn't move. He was numb with shock and disgust, his mind paralyzed by conflict. He hated all rapists and, in theory, up to the moment it had happened, he had agreed with Paul's actions.
True, what the soldiers had done was evil, and their official 'punishment' had been a joke, an insult to the victim, but justice hadn't been served by Paul's act. The girl hadn't got her life and innocence back, just the satisfaction of knowing that the rapists had been punished, that they'd suffered before dying. But what good would that do her next year, and the year after? What good was it doing her now?
Sure, the punishment Paul had meted out would be a deterrent?
A better, more responsible way, would have been for Paul to have talked to the press, stirred up a major stink about the rape, and forced the UN to prosecute its troops and make it plain that such conduct was unacceptable.
But then Max thought of Sandra and asked himself what would he have done in Paul's place. Taken them in and waited a year for some judge to maybe sentence them to fifteen to life if the evidence stood up? No, of
What was he thinking,
Fair play. Fuck 'em.
Max sneaked away back to his car and drove off.
Chapter 29
WHAT PASSED FOR nightlife in Petionville was in full swing when he drove down the main road leading to the market square. A few bars and restaurants had opened their doors wide out onto the sidewalk and lit up their painted signs to show they were ready for business. There was barely anyone there.
Max needed a drink and a little company around him to redress the balance, a little brightness and banality to chase away the shadowy aftershocks he was feeling in his gut and running up and down his veins. It had been years since he'd seen someone die, not since he'd shot those kids. They'd deserved it too, but that didn't make it any easier to absorb and move on from. A little dying always stayed with you. He was glad it wasn't as hard to deal with now as it was then, when he'd had more to live and care for. He'd watched cops gun down criminals and criminals murder cops. And then there were all those people he'd killed himself?in the line of duty, and a step or two over it. He didn't know how many?he couldn't bring himself to count?but he remembered all their faces, their expressions, those who'd begged for their lives, those who'd told him to go fuck himself, those who prayed, the one who'd forgiven him, the one who'd wanted his hand held, the one who'd blown his last breath in his face and the way it had smelled of fried gunpowder and bubblegum. His boss, Eldon Burns, had kept a tally of all the people he'd taken down, but then he was morbid that way, and he liked numbers. He kept his old Smith & Wesson .38 Special service revolver as a paperweight on his desk. There was a notch on the butt for every kill. Max had counted sixteen.
He passed La Coupole and spotted Huxley standing in the doorway talking to three streetkids. He parked the car and went over to the bar.
'Good to see you again, Max,' Huxley said warmly as they pumped hands. The boys he'd been talking to shied away a little, the smaller hiding behind the taller of the trio.
Huxley said something to them. The taller boy babbled something back, talking fast and excitedly, a hoarse catch in his throat, making the sound of a flock of singing sparrows hitting a tin roof. He pointed to Max with his fingers and eyes, stabbing in his direction with both.
'What's he saying?' Max asked, guessing the boy'd been among his prospective attackers.
'He says to tell you he's sorry for the other night,' Huxley said, frowning with incomprehension. Max looked at the kid. He had a small head where very little hair grew, and tiny eyes that shone like onyx buttons. The child seemed more fearful than apologetic. 'He says he didn't know who you were.'
'Who does he think I am?'
Huxley asked him. Max heard Vincent Paul's name in the ensuing babble.
'He says you're Paul's friend.'
'His
The boy interrupted him with another rush of words.
'He says Paul warned them to look out for you around here,' Huxley translated, looking impressed. 'You meet him?'
Max
