Braco by Lesleyanne Ryan Page B

thumbs inside the flak vest. “He wants to think it was from the cow. He just doesn’t know.”
    Maarten grunted and then turned to face the road. “Something’s coming.”
    Jac listened to an engine accelerate in the distance.
    Diesel, he thought. Another fire truck?
    Sun glinted off the windshield of a bus which pulled up and parked on the shoulder. Within minutes, a dozen buses lined the street like a row of boxcars. Refugees rushed the tape.
    â€œHold them back,” Jac shouted.
    He touched Maarten’s arm and pointed; the other peacekeepers were forming a human chain. But before they could secure the refugees, one of the Serbs shouted at the crowd, motioning to the buses. Jac didn’t understand the words, but the refugees did. They broke through the chain of peacekeepers and stampeded towards the buses. Two men bulldozed over Jac, knocking him to the ground. Maarten grabbed the shoulder of his flak vest and pulled him away from the rampaging mob.
    The crowd stormed the buses. In minutes the vehicles were overflowing with people. The stampede slowed and the peacekeepers worked to herd the remaining refugees behind the tape. Then Jac spied two Serb soldiers pulling an old man up into the back of the empty bread truck.
    â€œCome on, Maarten.”
    The peacekeepers moved through the refugees until they stood next to the fire truck. Serb soldiers were hauling more men from the crowd and loading them into the bread truck. One soldier grabbed a boy, pulling him away from his mother. She shrieked and grabbed the boy’s dragging feet. Jac walked up to the Serb and seized his hands, removing them from the boy.
    â€œWhat are you doing? He’s just a kid.”
    â€œFuck off, Blue Helmet.”
    A Serb sergeant walked up to Jac.
    â€œWe are taking them to be questioned,” the sergeant said.
    â€œQuestioned? For what?”
    â€œTo see if they are war criminals.”
    Jac pointed to the boy lying on the ground with his mother.
    â€œHe’s not a war criminal, for God’s sake. He can’t be more than twelve.”
    The sergeant gestured to the soldier with a finger. The soldier stepped back and the boy left with his mother. Maarten tapped Jac on the shoulder and pointed to a pile of documents on the ground. Jac picked up two of them. They were identification documents the Bosnians used. He approached the Serb sergeant with the papers in his hand.
    â€œHow are you going to identify war criminals without their papers?”
    â€œWe know who they are.” The Serb smiled. “We don’t need their papers.”
    â€œWhat do you mean you don’t need them?” Jac looked into the truck. Six elderly men pleaded with their eyes. “Where are you taking them?”
    â€œNone of your business. If they’re war criminals, they’ll be tried. If they are not, they will go to Tuzla.”
    They can do whatever they want with us on the road.
    â€œI don’t believe you.”
    â€œI don’t care.” The Serb jerked his thumb at a house. Jac’s eyes followed the thumb. On the second-floor balcony of the house, a fifty-calibre machine gun had been set up and was pointed at the Dutch compound. The weapon could cut down hundreds of people in a matter of seconds.
    â€œJac,” Maarten whispered, tugging on Jac’s arm. “Janssen said not to provoke them.”
    Jac pulled away.
    â€œProvoke them? For God’s sake, Maarten, they’re taking these men away. They’re probably going to kill them.”
    â€œNo kidding,” Maarten replied in a quiet voice. “But just how do you suggest we stop them? Look, maybe we should report this and let the major take care of it.”
    A gunshot cracked.
    Jac and Maarten twisted around, looking for the source. They waited for a second shot, but none came.
    â€œWhere was that?” Jac asked.
    â€œI don’t know.”
    Jac surveyed the refugees. There was a