on the gas as the soldier’s companion raised his gun. The bus leapt forward. The right fender scraped against the side of the troop truck as Abul fought to keep it on the road.
One of the soldiers leapt onto the back of the bus. Boston turned and fired, pumping three bullets into the door. The man fell off, dead.
Abul jerked the bus onto the road behind the truck, barely keeping it upright as the shoulder gave way on the left. He let off the gas and cranked the wheel desperately, staying with the curve. A man ran at the bus from the side, and Abul lowered his head, hunching over the wheel and praying to Allah to deliver them.
Behind him, Danny quickly frisked the soldier, tossing away a pistol and a grenade, along with two magazines for the M-16. Now that he was on the floor, the man looked small and almost frail. His rib bones poked through his uniform shirt.
“Up,” Danny ordered.
The soldier didn’t understand. Danny grabbed his shirt and threw him into a seat. Fear gave way to resignation on his face. The man prepared himself to die.
“You’re a lieutenant?” said Danny incredulously, noticing the metal pins on the man’s brown fatigue collar.
The soldier didn’t understand.
“Ask him his name,” Danny told the bus driver.
Abul was too busy driving to translate.
“Hey, Abul, who is this guy?” Danny said.
The soldier turned and spat blood to the floor. He worked his tongue around his teeth, trying to see if any had been broken. He’d been shot once when he was seventeen; the punch in the face felt worse.
“Stop the bus,” said Danny after they’d gone almost a mile from the other soldiers.
Abul did so, his foot heavy on the brake. His hands were shaking.
“Ask him his name and his unit,” Danny told the driver.
“What is your name?” said Abul from his seat.
The soldier didn’t answer the question, merely staring at Danny. Never in his life would he have expected a robbery victim to act this way, especially a westerner. It was impossible; the man, he decided, must be a devil.
“Open the back door, Boston,” said Danny.
“What are you going to do, Colonel?”
“Get rid of him. He’s of no use to us.”
“You must kill him,” said Abul. He jumped up from his seat. “Shoot him. Shoot him.”
“I don’t think so,” said Danny.
“You will kill him or he will kill you. He will kill me,” said Abul.
“You come this way a lot?” said Danny.
Abul had already resolved that he would never drive this way again, but that was irrelevant. The soldiers were fierce and predatory; they would certainly want revenge for this sort of embarrassment.
“Kill him,” said Abul.
“I don’t know, Colonel,” said Boston. “Abul may be right. They aren’t going to interpret mercy as a good thing here.”
Danny looked into the soldier’s face. He fully expected to die.
“How old are you?” he asked.
The soldier had no idea what he was saying.
“Abul?”
Abul translated. The man simply shrugged. He wasn’t able to answer the question accurately, and would not talk to a devil for anything. It was one thing to lose his life—everyone did, some more quickly than others—and a much different thing to lose his soul, which he knew would last forever.
“Get the door, Boston,” said Danny.
“Mr. Rock,” said Abul, appealing to Boston. “To let him go now—foolish.”
“So was not paying him,” said Danny. He hauled the kid to his feet and pointed the gun toward his groin.
“You remember me. My name is Kirk,” he told him, using one of his aliases. “Kirk. You screw with me, next time I blow these off.”
He jammed the gun hard enough to make the kid suck wind.
Boston opened the door at the back. Danny pushed him out.
“Go,” Danny told the driver. “Get us the hell out of here.”
9
Eddd, Sudan
W HILE D ANNY F REAH WAS DECIDING HOW TO BEST IMPRESS the Sudanese army that he was not a man to be messed with, Nuri Abaajmed Lupo was another two hundred and some
One of the soldiers leapt onto the back of the bus. Boston turned and fired, pumping three bullets into the door. The man fell off, dead.
Abul jerked the bus onto the road behind the truck, barely keeping it upright as the shoulder gave way on the left. He let off the gas and cranked the wheel desperately, staying with the curve. A man ran at the bus from the side, and Abul lowered his head, hunching over the wheel and praying to Allah to deliver them.
Behind him, Danny quickly frisked the soldier, tossing away a pistol and a grenade, along with two magazines for the M-16. Now that he was on the floor, the man looked small and almost frail. His rib bones poked through his uniform shirt.
“Up,” Danny ordered.
The soldier didn’t understand. Danny grabbed his shirt and threw him into a seat. Fear gave way to resignation on his face. The man prepared himself to die.
“You’re a lieutenant?” said Danny incredulously, noticing the metal pins on the man’s brown fatigue collar.
The soldier didn’t understand.
“Ask him his name,” Danny told the bus driver.
Abul was too busy driving to translate.
“Hey, Abul, who is this guy?” Danny said.
The soldier turned and spat blood to the floor. He worked his tongue around his teeth, trying to see if any had been broken. He’d been shot once when he was seventeen; the punch in the face felt worse.
“Stop the bus,” said Danny after they’d gone almost a mile from the other soldiers.
Abul did so, his foot heavy on the brake. His hands were shaking.
“Ask him his name and his unit,” Danny told the driver.
“What is your name?” said Abul from his seat.
The soldier didn’t answer the question, merely staring at Danny. Never in his life would he have expected a robbery victim to act this way, especially a westerner. It was impossible; the man, he decided, must be a devil.
“Open the back door, Boston,” said Danny.
“What are you going to do, Colonel?”
“Get rid of him. He’s of no use to us.”
“You must kill him,” said Abul. He jumped up from his seat. “Shoot him. Shoot him.”
“I don’t think so,” said Danny.
“You will kill him or he will kill you. He will kill me,” said Abul.
“You come this way a lot?” said Danny.
Abul had already resolved that he would never drive this way again, but that was irrelevant. The soldiers were fierce and predatory; they would certainly want revenge for this sort of embarrassment.
“Kill him,” said Abul.
“I don’t know, Colonel,” said Boston. “Abul may be right. They aren’t going to interpret mercy as a good thing here.”
Danny looked into the soldier’s face. He fully expected to die.
“How old are you?” he asked.
The soldier had no idea what he was saying.
“Abul?”
Abul translated. The man simply shrugged. He wasn’t able to answer the question accurately, and would not talk to a devil for anything. It was one thing to lose his life—everyone did, some more quickly than others—and a much different thing to lose his soul, which he knew would last forever.
“Get the door, Boston,” said Danny.
“Mr. Rock,” said Abul, appealing to Boston. “To let him go now—foolish.”
“So was not paying him,” said Danny. He hauled the kid to his feet and pointed the gun toward his groin.
“You remember me. My name is Kirk,” he told him, using one of his aliases. “Kirk. You screw with me, next time I blow these off.”
He jammed the gun hard enough to make the kid suck wind.
Boston opened the door at the back. Danny pushed him out.
“Go,” Danny told the driver. “Get us the hell out of here.”
9
Eddd, Sudan
W HILE D ANNY F REAH WAS DECIDING HOW TO BEST IMPRESS the Sudanese army that he was not a man to be messed with, Nuri Abaajmed Lupo was another two hundred and some
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