But Wells wasn’t sure these hyenas were thinking of him as predator anymore. In their minds, they’d driven him off once already. They’d spent the day developing a taste for human flesh that under normal circumstances they never would have known. They’d learned that these strange two-legged creatures were filled with delicious meat and marrow like every other animal. They were holding off only because they weren’t sure how much damage he could do to them. If they decided he wasn’t a threat, they would come at him. Wells wasn’t at all sure that he could ride fast enough in the dark to escape them.
Two more hyenas stood.
“Tried to play nice. You wouldn’t listen. Some hyenas you just can’t reach.” Wells spread his arms wide and howled at the black clouds above with the gusto of a D-list actor desperate for the role of Werewolf #2. Without waiting to see how the hyenas reacted, he grabbed the handlebars and poured on the gas as he came down the hill.
The hyenas stood now. They chirped and cackled at one another, curious, almost alien sounds that grew more intense as Wells closed in. The alpha stood apart from the rest, his tail unfurled straight behind him, his eyes on this legless man-beast coming at him. The ground was hard-packed dirt, and Wells rode confidently. He twisted his handlebars and came straight at the big guy. Who tilted his head high and opened his bloody muzzle and screamed—no other word would do—screamed his frustration at the dark heavens above. He loped sideways toward the third hut, the rest of the pack, tracking Wells with his eyes.
This isn’t over, and don’t think it is . . .
For a creature that couldn’t speak, the hyena communicated clearly enough.
Wells stopped beside one of the White Men he’d killed that afternoon. Up close the corpse was deeply compromised, pink grooves carved into its black skin, one eye gone, its guts open and stinking of ordure and covered with flies. Another hyena took up the alpha’s cry now, and another.
Step away. That meat is ours . . .
Wells closed his mouth against the flies, leaned over, reached down, wishing for gloves and a kerchief, wishing for a Biosafety Level IV protective suit. He pulled the rifle away from the corpse—
The alpha’s keening scream rose another octave and he lowered his head and charged—
Wells raised the AK, slipped his left hand under the barrel, found the trigger guard, slid his right index finger inside—
The hyena bounded at him, a low black streak in the night. Another followed, and another—
Wells tucked in his elbow to brace the rifle and squeezed the trigger, knowing that the safety had to be off, he’d seen the kid about to fire this afternoon. He was in a terrible firing position, bent over the bike, aiming with his off hand, no time to set himself. The rifle danced in his hands, but Wells kept his finger on the trigger and the hyena was so close that he almost couldn’t miss. The hyena staggered and kept coming, and then the whole top of its head exploded and it took one more step and collapsed. Wells laid off the trigger just long enough to make sure the AK didn’t jam and shifted to the next hyena, this one smaller but coming faster. He missed, shooting behind the animal. The hyena was only three steps away now, its mouth open, lips drawn back, ready to pounce. Wells twisted the rifle to the right, kept shooting. Chunks of flesh spurted out of the beast’s belly, eruptions of blood and sinew and muscle. The animal took another half-step and tumbled and lay on its side gasping and dying. Wells was already focused on the next hyena. He was catching up with their speed. This one he took out twenty feet away, blowing open its jaw so it flopped down onto its back in agony. Wells shot it until it stopped moving. No mercy in these rounds, hate only. Two more hyenas moved toward him but turned away when they saw what had happened to their betters. They ran now, howling in fear. The rest of the pack followed, disappearing into the darkness.
Wells would have killed them all if he could, shot them down nobly or not. These corpse-devouring beasts filled him with an ugly fury. But they would be dangerous to men no more. They would skulk the scrub in fear and leave the two-legged animals to invent their own terrors. Now Wells, too, had to flee. The shots and screams had surely reached the road. He didn’t know if the Kenyans would chase him, but he couldn’t chance staying here. He liberated the corpses of their ammunition, trying not to hear the laughing voice in his head calling
hyenaman hyenaman
, and rode over the trackless scrub. East. To Somalia.
20
L
OWER
J
UBA
R
EGION
W
izard wished for quiet tonight, time to think. But quiet was hard to find. Everyone in the world wanted these hostages. After the Dita Boys came the phone calls. When Waaberi hung up with the Arab, he pushed the phone at Wizard like it was cursed.
“He offer us three million dollars, Wizard. One, two, three million.”
“Don’t believe he has such money.”
“Find out, then. Make him drop one million. Send some boy to pick it up. Some boy you know to trust.”
“They ours now. Not for Arabs to cut up. You know these Arabs hate us, look down on us. They say we all pray to the same Allah, but any Somali who works in Saudi, they treat him worse than a donkey. Beat him and such.”
“Gutaale”—the first time in the years since Mogadishu that Waaberi had called him by his former name—“you know what that way.” Waaberi tilted his head east. “And you know what the other way. They coming for us, Kenyans, Americans, what-all. To the south the swamp and to the north nothing at all. You going to buy us an airplane and fly us out of here, Wizard? Maybe we swim to China or I don’t know where? We need money, Wizard, and this man say he give it to us. He beat Somalis like donkeys, what you care? He the devil himself, what you care? What you owe these wazungu? Last night you kill one. Now you ’tecting them.”
“You ’fraid, Beri? Fancy to leave me now? Go on, then. Take anyone who want to follow. Take them all. I don’t stop you.” Wizard came out with a key from his pocket. “Even give you a Rover.” He pressed the key on Waaberi, but Waaberi crossed his arms over his chest, tucked his hands under his armpits.
“Don’t disrespect. Not leaving, Wizard. Not now, not ever. I asking, what is the plan? We just waiting for them Boys to come? Then tell me so. I make sure my RP ready. Put a hole in some Ditas.”
“Only sent the emails twelve hours ago. Put in for the money tomorrow. I don’t want to hear about them Ditas no more. They talk talk. Man threaten once, he serious. Threaten twice, he scared. Trying to do with words what he can’t with bullets.” Wizard wasn’t sure he was right, but the idea pleased him more than the alternative. “If they come, they gon’ wish they didn’t. Meantime, these wazungu belong to me. I decide what to do with them. No one but me.”
Wizard couldn’t fully explain, even to himself, why he wouldn’t sell the hostages to the Arab. Something to do with seeing the girl, Gwen, chewing the miraa, her blue eyes all bright and hopeful when she saw him. Like she was scared but not scared of him. Like she trusted him even after what he’d done to the other one. That plug in her mouth like she was born to it. And all afraid of rape, too. He couldn’t sell her to some Arab who would hurt her that way.
“That the plan, then. Hope this money comes from the sky, the Americans drop it down in a parachute.”
“The families gon’ pay, Beri. I know it. Go on and sleep. And tell the Donkeys and the rest, they sleep too. No miraa tonight.”
“You know that not happening, Wizard.”
“Yah. Tell them, go inside, keep the AKs close, but we got to rest while we can.”
Waaberi saluted, a quick, sloppy finger-to-forehead dance that meant
I’ll
do what you say, but I think you’re crazy,
and disappeared.
Wizard found his tools in his pack. He laid a thready brown blanket on the dirt and reached for the AK that hung from the wall on a crude wooden peg. He folded his legs under him and set to field-stripping the rifle. He preferred pistols as a rule. Commanders carried pistols. But if the Ditas attacked, they’d all be soldiers. Also, the AK was a simple clean weapon and working with it soothed his fingers. But he’d only just removed the bolt carrier when his phone rang.
Wizard wondered if the Arab was calling again. Instead the screen showed Muhammad’s number. Finally, good news.
Only it wasn’t.
When the call was done, Wizard wanted to slice up this American, cut out his evil tongue, end his boasts. Wizard knew better than to think the man was lying. Muhammad wouldn’t give up his phone if he was alive. The American had killed him. Wizard still couldn’t figure if the man was a soldier or something else. In the pictures Muhammad sent him, the American and his driver were by themselves in the Land Cruiser. No other vehicles, no more men. Yet they’d somehow killed four of Wizard’s own. And the man was wrong about Muhammad. He knew how to survive. He’d fought in Mog for years.
Then the man told Wizard to give back the hostages. For fifty thousand dollars. Did he imagine that Wizard didn’t know what these wazungu were worth? If he worked for the families, why didn’t he offer a fair ransom? But Wizard didn’t ask those questions. He held his anger and told the American one hundred fifty thousand. Too low a price, but he didn’t care. Anything to lure the man to the border, where Wizard could gain his revenge. Of course, the American might have his own treachery set. But Wizard wouldn’t back away from this man who’d killed his soldiers.
Soon as he got off the phone, he decided to send soldiers to the border, two solid men. Riding there would take thirty or forty minutes in the rain that had just begun. They’d arrive well before the meeting. Wizard didn’t know why the mzungu had proposed that particular spot to meet. Wizard sensed that he didn’t know the area well. White people rarely stayed long in this region. Wizard would have heard about this one if he’d been here for more than a few days.
He’d tell his men to hide themselves in the scrub north of the road. A little hill there gave cover. Let them watch the Kenyan side of the border, see if anyone tried to set a trap before the meeting. If they didn’t sound an alarm, Wizard would send three more men in a technical an hour later. No, a pickup. No machine gun. No weapons visible. Two men up front in the cab, one hiding in the bed with an AK. Five men total. They ought to be able to deal with one mzungu. Anyway, Wizard couldn’t spare more. Not tonight.
When the American arrived, they’d see if he had anyone with him, the Kenyan police, whoever. If he was foolish enough to come alone, Wizard’s men would bring him back here. Wizard would open him from belly to chin and let him bleed, let the beasts of the scrub feed on him—
No. Better. He’d sell this one to Shabaab, the Arabs, whoever offered the highest price. Let them do what they liked with him.
If the American did have an army of his own, Wizard would tell his men to retreat, but northeast toward the Dita camp instead of here. When they got close to the camp they could start shooting. The Ditas would believe they were under attack and return fire. Then the Americans would attack the Ditas.
Wizard knew the plan had holes. What if the American killed these five men just as he’d killed Muhammad and the others? But Wizard couldn’t invite the American to his base until he was sure that he didn’t have a hundred soldiers with him. At the same time, he couldn’t send just one or two men to the border. The American was too dangerous to risk meeting one-on-one.
No, this choice was best. Wizard would put Shiny Khalid—one of the four Khalids in camp—in charge. The other Khalids were Tiny, Thirty Centimeter, and Big-Head. Wizard didn’t know how they had earned their nicknames. A smart commander let his men have a few secrets. Anyway, Shiny Khalid was one of Wizard’s smartest soldiers. He’d nose out a trap if the American was setting one. Plus, he knew where the Ditas were camped. Only problem with Shiny was his fearful streak. He wouldn’t relish setting up a cross fire between the Ditas and the Americans.
So Wizard would team him with one of the Donkeys, the dumb brave boys who truly believed that Wizard couldn’t die and that they couldn’t either. They were proud of their fearlessness. They embraced their nickname. Donkey Gudud would be best. If he had to, he’d ride straight for the Dita camp, whatever Shiny Khalid said.
Wizard felt his confidence coming back. He knew his men, knew how to make them more than they were. They would kill this American and a thousand Ditas, too, if the moment came. Wizard striped his fingers over the rumpled skin on his belly and back, the only trace of the AK round he’d taken that day in Mog. He’d beaten that bullet. He had no fear.
He was so focused on putting together his plan that he didn’t even realize that he had finished stripping and reassembling the AK. Only its magazine remained. His hands had done their work himself. He believed in signs, and this was a truespoke sign. The American would be his tonight. Wizard clapped the magazine into the stock and hung up the rifle. He felt five meters tall as he walked out of his hut to find Khalid.
He was pleased to see that his men had followed his order sending them back to their huts. Or maybe the rain had done the trick. Aside from Samatar, who was guarding the wazungu, the center of camp was deserted. Good. He had seven sentries posted tonight, and he was sending five more soldiers to the border. Everyone else needed to rest. Even miraa couldn’t keep men awake forever.
—
Fifteen minutes later, back in his hut, Wizard heard Khalid and the Donkey ride off toward the border. He’d have at least forty-five minutes before Khalid checked in, time for a nap. He switched off his lantern, lay flat on his blanket. He set his phone alarm and stretched out with his fingers locked behind his head. He closed his eyes and saw a bright precious city with buildings that stretched to the sky. He bent his neck until he was looking straight up, but still he couldn’t see where they ended. Winged cars floated between the towers. An Arab with a thick beard came to him and told him the city would be his if he would give up the wazungu. No, Wizard said. In the distance, an engine kicked up and sputtered and died. What’s happening, he asked the Arab, but the man only shook his head. Then Wizard heard more shouting and all around him the buildings shook and—
“Wizard!”
The city vanished as he opened his eyes. An upside-down Waaberi stood in the doorway of his hut. “The wazungu—”
“What—”
“They tried to escape.”
Wizard pushed himself up.
“Samatar stop them.”
Waaberi’s face twitched, an expression that meant:
Bad news.
“See for yourself.”
Wizard rubbed the sleep from his eyes, picked up his phone. The alarm was still fifteen minutes from ringing. He’d been asleep for only—he needed a second to make the numbers work, he was so tired—thirty minutes. No matter. Waaberi’s hard eyes told him:
You won’t sleep again this night.
Wizard grabbed a plug of miraa and chewed until his mouth filled with juice and the leaf cleared away the rubble from his city of dreams.