Mike Maden - River of Gods

Ibrahim laughed. “Not so fast, you’ll get cramps.” He owned one of the few small refrigerators in the village, along with one of the few kerosene-burning generators to power it. He loved that boy with all of his heart. Everything he had was his, in time.

The boy drained the last dark bubbles from the bottle, then grimaced. “Wee-ya!” He laughed, eyes watering with the Coke burn in the back of his throat.

Ibrahim roared and clapped his old, dark hands. He was tempted to offer him another. But the sound of the whooshing air brakes outside and the squeak of heavy leaf springs invaded the magical moment. Was it a truck? What would a truck be doing here?

Ibrahim and his grandson exchanged a glance, each asking the same questions with their eyes.

Ibrahim stepped over to the doorway, his grandson at his side. Ibrahim saw an old bus, faded white. Saw the black words painted on the side. Words that nearly stopped his heart. His worst fear.

Ganda Koy.

The bus’s front door snapped open with a clang. A dozen black men with rifles and machetes poured out. The rear emergency gate swung open, too, and still more men with guns and machetes leaped into the dirt. Women with guns, too. Strange, he thought, his feet frozen in terror.

A wild-eyed Songhai man in a faded military uniform pointed and shouted at Ibrahim. Three men in mismatched camouflage pants and soccer shirts put rifles to their shoulders.

“Run!” Ibrahim grabbed his grandson by his shirt and dragged him away from the door as the rifles exploded behind them.

“The phone!” Ibrahim pointed at the cell phone charging on the car battery, but his grandson didn’t need the direction. He snatched the phone up on a dead run, snapping the charging cable in half. No matter now.

The rifles opened up again. Bullets splattered the canned goods on the shelves in a spray of peaches and milk, then stitched the wall above their heads as they dashed passed it, shards of mud brick stinging their faces. His grandson yelped but kept running toward the back of their little house. They spoke often of escape plans should such a day arrive. Ibrahim had put a door in the back of the kitchen for access to the little courtyard and outhouse, but also as an escape route. His grandson bolted for the door and yanked it open as Ibrahim reached into a drawer.

“Run! Find Mossa!”

“No! Not without you!”

“RUN!” Ibrahim flung the skinny young body out the heavy wooden door and slammed it shut. He turned as heavy feet pounded through his front doorway, an ancient French army revolver now in his trembling hands. He pointed it at the doorway, pulling the trigger as fast as he could at the screaming faces spilling through, guns blazing. Fists of molten lead slammed him against the door, clawing his chest open like a hoe turning wet earth after a storm. His body tumbled into the dirt, blocking the exit, the boy’s name on his lips like a prayer.

Maputo International Airport

Maputo, Mozambique

Pearce and Hawkins stood by the tall glass window of the new Chinese-built international terminal. Pearce watched Johnny’s aluminum shipping coffin scissor-lifted up to the cargo bay of the Boeing 737. He had booked the first commercial flight out he could get for Johnny, a thirty-hour transshipment from Maputo to London, then LAX. The family had enough to deal with without having to wait another week for the next available flight. He would have flown Johnny home on one of the big jets in the Pearce Systems fleet, but they were all deployed on other missions. Like everything else on this trip, bad timing was kicking his ass.

“His sister asked me to thank you, by the way,” Hawkins said.

“For what? Getting him killed?”

“For making all of the arrangements. Paying for the flight. She was grateful. Nice woman.”

“I wish I could’ve done more.” Pearce still felt guilty about his friend’s death. Sandra’s, too.

“I know.”

The two men watched the ground crew shut the cargo bay door and secure it.

“Still no leads?” Pearce asked.

Hawkins shook his head. “The locals are running the investigation now. Told us to stand down. I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”

The scissor lift began descending as the ground crew disconnected the fuel line.

“What’s next for you?” Hawkins asked. He turned to Pearce.

But he was gone.

The village of Anou

Kidal Region, Northeastern Mali

4 May

Captain Naddah leaned in the doorway of Ibrahim’s shop and took a long pull on the Lucky Strike, draining the last of the sweet American tobacco smoke into his lungs. He held his breath, then exhaled slowly, through his nose, savoring the aroma.

Naddah checked his watch. It was just after two in the morning. He had finished his turn in the rape house about an hour ago, then made his rounds in the village, checking on the sentries. He found them all awake at their posts, eager to get another go in the rape house before they pulled out at dawn. His new orders targeted a village thirty kilometers to the north.

How long can those women keep wailing? Naddah’s men had been raping them for hours, each man taking his turn. Naddah’s favorite was the young girl with the long, angular face and pale brown eyes that spit fire at him.

Naddah started to pull another Lucky Strike out of a crumpled packet but changed his mind. His throat was dry. Instead, he popped the can of cold Coke open and took a long swig.

He crossed back over to the doorway and stood there, staring at the house on the left, hearing the cries. He checked his watch. Time enough to go back to the house before dawn. He would like one more turn with the girl with the pale brown eyes and—

Naddah’s left kidney exploded with fire. He dropped the Coke as he screamed, but nothing came out of his mouth. His throat was clamped shut by a powerful hand that pulled his entire body backward, deepening the knife thrust.

Naddah’s legs buckled, but the powerful hand gripping his throat kept him standing long enough for the blade to be pulled out and thrust again into his lower back, severing the spinal column. His bowels gave way and he felt the shame of that. The hand let go.

Naddah fell. His skull cracked on the hard dirt floor, eyes exploding with light.

Naddah drew his last breath, a whimper.

Because he knew.

There is no paradise for a man covered in his own shit.

Northwest Polytechnical University (NPU)

Xi’an, China

Xi’an was a city with a long memory and an even longer history. Home of the fabled terra-cotta warriors, the ancient city at the headwaters of the Silk Road was the wealthy capital of more than a dozen Chinese empires in antiquity. Commerce between East and West flowed along the courses of the Silk Road, but equally important, so did technology. Europe acquired many Chinese inventions over the centuries thanks to the Silk Road. It was only fitting that the flow had now changed directions.

Beijing was the nation’s capital today, but Xi’an considered itself to be the intellectual and cultural soul of the Middle Kingdom, as it had been for centuries. Hundreds of Western corporations recently established themselves in the thriving metropolis. Some of China’s leading military, security, and space research facilities were also located there, as were fourteen universities, including NPU, one of the most prominent in the nation.