All the Young Warriors

THIRTY-FIVE

The shrug. He didn't get that. Was the bastard just resigned to it? Thought he deserved it? All out of fight? Or had he lost too much blood? Why only a shrug?

He didn't have much time to think about it, though. Once he shot the guard, he knew it had to go quickly. So Jibriil shrugged and Bleeker blew his brains out and it was done. The kid and Mustafa were in the Rover, on their way out of camp. Maybe some of the soldiers would mount up in a truck and chase them, but Bleeker hoped he would prove to be too irresistible a target-a white American to string up. Their mighty leader's assassin, even. The perfect star for their little movies.

He saw the truck hightailing it out of camp. Adam peeking through the window at him. He felt pretty good. And then they attacked. Pulled both arms out of socket. Hit him with rocks and rifle butts and fists and boots. Grabbed his hair. Knives sliced him all over. One slit right across his eye. His lips. Blood in his mouth. By the time one held his forehead and ripped the blade across his throat, he was mostly beyond feeling. He smelled the body odor around him, his own blood, felt the heat, and saw an army of hands all wanting to take their turn with him, but none of it hurt. Knew his lips were curled into a grin. It was natural, dying and grinning. They went hand in hand. But Bleeker knew it was more than that. He had beat them. No matter what they did to him next, he wasn't feeling it anyway.

They carried him to the tree while he choked on his blood. They strung the rope around his ankles. They pulled him up. How much longer was he going to have to watch this from one good eye? Swung back and forth. Chanting. Angry men in scarves wielding machetes.

And then, well, look at that. A girl in her Sunday best. A toddler. Her mother behind her, hair like silk falling over her shoulders, urging the girl forward. Go to Daddy. Walk to him. You can do it.

He held his arms out to her. Pudgy little girl. Yellow and white dress, stained purple from her juicebox. Inching forward. Giggling, burbling. Come on, baby. Walk to Daddy.

Wasn't she the cutest thing you'd ever seen?