Newton’s Fire

III

Benyamin had vowed to attend every minute of the trial of the four young Palestinian men who’d murdered his wife, two daughters and seven others. But it had proved a farce. They hadn’t even offered a defence. At least, their defence had been a simple political statement: they were soldiers fighting a war in which they themselves had lost parents, brothers, sisters, children and friends. And there’d been no trials for those killings. No justice for their bereavements.

To his surprise, Benyamin had found this line of defence deeply disturbing. It had troubled him enough that he’d skipped the foregone conclusion of the verdict and the sentencing. It was easier to hate people when you didn’t know them; it was easier to believe that your lust for vengeance was somehow different, nobler. But it wasn’t different. He saw that now. He saw it in the sheer ugliness of Avram’s expression as he released the safety and made to press the trigger.

Benyamin didn’t even think. He simply hurled himself at him and they tumbled together onto the Foundation Stone. The impact knocked the remote from Avram’s hand and it skittered away across the Kevlar blanket. They both went after it, scrambling on their hands and knees, while everyone looked around to watch.

That was when it happened. All the windows burst open at once, raining glass on the floor. Stun grenades exploded in midair, a compressed storm of light and thunder. Figures swathed in black swarmed in through doors and windows, firing as they came, punishing each and every hint of resistance with instant death. The shock of it made Benyamin falter, allowing Avram to reach the remote first. He raised his hand and was bringing it down to slap the trigger when the fusillade of high velocity rounds shredded him and flung him onto his back, his eyes wide and staring upwards, so that the last thing he’d ever have seen was the Dome towering high above him, still standing.