On The Riverside Of Promise

by Vasileios Kalampakas

  * * *

  The voice on the small speaker sounded worried and uneven.

  “What’s wrong? Why couldn’t you wait for the courier?”

  “There’s a problem.”

  The matter-of-fact voice on the microphone was a woman’s voice. It had a bit of an accent.

  “What kind? It doesn’t sound like you to talk around things.”

  “I’m not sure if it’s exactly a problem. I might have stumbled on your brother.”

  “My what?” said the man, his voice full of disbelief and shocked surprise.

  “I met a man today who posed as a journalist by the name of Richard Owls. Long story short, he says he’s your brother, Ethan. We were talking and I showed him your cross, playing the widow part. Thought your death might look good on a paper. He showed me a cross with his initials on it, E.R.W. He also told me a story about some priest and how you got these crosses. Is it really him? Strong, red-haired fellow. Has these piercing blue eyes. Medium height.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued. Nicole spoke once more into the microphone with some reservation:

  “Andy?”

  “That’s Ethan alright. Listen, you need to keep him busy while I think of something to throw him off course. He might mean well, but he can be a very single-minded idiot when he wants to. And Nicole?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Strict radio silence from now on. He mustn’t get a whiff.”

  “You know me.”

  “But you don’t know my brother.”

 

  Blood-red dawn

  The hills around the monastery blossomed golden under the first rays of the sun. The cold, wet night edged away, hiding under the jungle treetops. The bell of the monastery started to ring, calling for the morning prayer. A few of the sisters started to gather in the small temple, rosary in hand. Their lips moved at a shallow, serene pace, mouthing hymns and eulogies to their God, Lord and Savior.

  Ethan had been awake since before the break of dawn. He was watching the procession from a small, pane-less window. The night had been short but courteous; nothing but the distant sounds of wildlife had bothered him. Again, his sleep was dreamless.

  There was a knock on the door; the stars above shone their last light for the night. Ludwig stepped hesitantly inside, holding two cups of tea; it was his way of apologizing. Ethan offered him a cigarette in kind. They sat together in the small room. Ethan stood upright in his bed cot, Ludwig pulled the single chair. They left their cups of tea to slowly cool off on the window sill. Ludwig cleared his throat, breaking the uneasy silence:

  “We might head back.”

  Ethan simply nodded and sipped quietly from his cup. His nostrils flared from the aroma, but he said nothing. Ludwig went on:

  “We’ll talk it over once everyone’s awake. I think we should press on, otherwise these people would have gone through all this for nothing. The rest though are probably scared out of their minds.”

  “Can you blame them?” said Ethan and stood up, stretching. Ludwig continued, tapping his foot nervously, his tone somewhat apologetic:

  “In any case, some should stay behind and help the monastery, at the least. It might be just as good as setting up camp elsewhere.”

  Ethan’s response was terse: “Makes sense.”

  “Not a lot of it makes sense to me, Richard. I want to help, but this mess…”

  “Having second thoughts?” Ethan said, staring blankly at the rose red morning sky, hands on his waist.

  “Wouldn’t you? I mean, after everything is said and done, is it worth it? I want to help, these people want to help but… How can anyone weight that? One’s own life against another?”

  Ludwig gulped down a mouthful of tea greedily. He didn’t seem to bother that it was still too hot for comfort.

  “Did you get enough sleep?”

  Ludwig shook his head wearily. Ethan perched himself on the window sill and told Ludwig in a very business-like fashion.

  “If you want to move on, you need to get past what’s happened. If you can’t, you should head back while we’re still not on the deep end here. Otherwise, chances are more people will get hurt for nothing.”

  The doctor nodded in agreement and lit his cigarette. He took a few puffs, drew the smoke in deep. He seemed to relax a bit, the care lines on his face evening out.

  “What… What about you?” Ludwig asked with just a hint of hesitation, as if the answer might not be forthcoming, as if it were dangerous to know.

  “What do you want to know?” replied Ethan while tapping a cigarette out of his pack.

  “I just think it might be safer if you came along. That’s all I need to know.”

  “I’m going in as far deep as you are willing to go. But at some point…” Ethan’s voice trailed off as he drew on his smoke heavily. Ludwig closed his eyes and nodded before he replied:

  “I think I understand.”

  Silence ensued between them. The sound of chanting rose suddenly out of the temple’s open doors just when a swath of sunrays melted away the morning haze around the small patches of greenery. The heat was building up rapidly; soon they would be sweating again. Ethan suddenly turned and looked Ludwig straight in the eye. There was a frown on the doctor’s face, a mixed expression of fear and hope. Ash from his cigarette fell on the dirt floor.

  “My name’s Ethan. I don’t think knowing that puts you in any more danger than you already are. I mean, you’ve trod on a minefield already,” Ethan said and smiled sheepishly.

  Ludwig grinned thinly and said to him: “No, I don’t think it does. I knew when I saw you that you’re a good man.”

  “You don’t want to know the half of it, doctor,” Ethan replied and offered his hand. As they shook hands, they heard a dull but disturbing, faint echoing sound that Ethan recognised all too well: a gunshot.

  “That can’t be good,” said Ethan dryly.

  “Gunfire?”

  Ethan just nodded and rushed to the doorway to peek outside. He could see through the wide open monastery gate. In the distance, he could make out a couple of open-top Rovers slowly coming up the hill. A barrage of rattling sounds echoed; assault rifles on full auto. They were soon lost behind the first turn around the hillside. The gunfire went on, echoing faintly.

  “Some kind of firefight,” Ethan said to Ludwig as he reached for his backpack.

  “Government or rebels?” asked Ludwig with startled apprehension, as he took a look for himself.

  “Probably neither. Rebels wouldn’t be so frivolous with their ammo. Government troops would have a column of vehicles, squads of men fanned out on the roadside, carriers. That sort of thing.”

  “Then who are they? Who’s shooting at whom?” asked Ludwig, his voice anxious, unsteady.

  “That’s not really important. It’s people we need to run away from, right now,” Ethan said as he pulled out a Browning High Power pistol from his backpack and drove home a clip.

  “You have a gun?” asked Ludwig, as if he had never imagined he’d see one up close. Ethan loaded a bullet in the chamber and clicked the safety off.

  “It’s American but it’ll do nicely. Gather your people and just go. Pack nothing, just follow the ravine eastwards till nightfall. If all goes well, I’ll try and meet up with you by morning. If not, wait it out another day before coming back,” said Ethan with a grave expression. The echoes of gunfire grew apart in time.

  “What? That’s preposterous, we can’t leave everything behind! What are you saying?” exclaimed Ludwig, arms raised in dubious protest. Another rattling sound echoed, this time stronger, closer than before. The sound of motors revved up high could be heard, faintly but clearly.

  “I’m saying these folks are trigger-happy bastards. Can’t guarantee they’ll just take your stuff and leave.”

  Ethan felt like he had to shout to make the doctor listen: “You’re wasting time, go! Now!”

  Ludwig hesitated for just a single moment, but then ran to the door. He barel
y paused in his stride to ask:

  “What about the wounded and the sisters? What about you?”

  Ethan wiped the sweat of his forehead, gun in hand: “I’ll sell them bastards a front-page story they can’t refuse. I’ll do my best, promise. If it comes to it…” he said and nodded at the gun. “Now go!” he shouted. Ludwig nodded and ran off. He could be heard rousing people, urging them to put on their boots and just follow him. Dumbfounded, groggy voices mixed with the shuffling of feet, thuds and protests. From the sound of it though, they were on the move.

  The gunshots could be heard, growing weaker and further apart. The fight was dying out. Ethan packed a couple of clips in an ankle pocket. He grabbed his Leica, and tucked the gun away in his trousers, behind his back. He went looking for Nicole; he knew that his real priority would be to keep the two of them alive, if it all came down to that.

  The chanting from the church had stopped. A few of the sisters were crowded together outside the church doors. They stared through the wide open gate at the hazy hillside, as if waiting for some sign. Some were praying softly.

  The sound of roaring motors had became clearly closer. Mingled with the sounds of churned dirt and gravel from the Rovers’ tires, it was an uneasy, threatening sound in its own. The absence of gunshots meant they were moving up towards the monastery again, unhindered.

  Nicole rushed outside the small hall where the wounded and the sick lay. She was wearing a plain work apron, her hair tied up in a bun. Ethan saw her then and rushed towards her, his camera swinging wildly from the strap around his neck. She barely seemed to take notice of him; she was staring at the shabby road and the approaching rovers with a cold, crisp fixation. Anger seethed clearly through her. Ethan told her with urgency in his voice:

  “You need to keep calm. I think I can handle this. Follow my lead when you can, and don’t just hand over everything. If they sense we’re scared shitless, they’ll stop at nothing. I’ll try and sell them a news story, front page on the Times. You just stay firm. They might want to check up on the infirmary. Let them.”

  “Keep calm? That’s your advice? Stay firm? What makes you think you can talk things over with them? We can’t. We can’t just talk.”

  Ethan was taken aback. It was an unwelcome surprise; he hadn’t expected her to be so rigid. Feisty was one thing, but not playing ball when guns were involved was childish, even stupid and possibly lethal.

  “Listen, the head doctor is already trying to make a run for it in the ravine. They’ve left everything behind. Maybe all that stuff from the caravan will be more than enough to keep them satisfied. There’s morphine in there and lots of canned -”

  “You think they’re looking for a fix? And some corn beef? You just take care now, Ethan.”

  She gave Ethan a cold dismissive look and shook her head slightly, disapprovingly. Ethan frowned and was about to say something when a Rover zipped past the gates haphazardly. A dozen men armed with AK-47s rode on the back, most of them wearing combat fatigues. Few piece of clothing matched their size and most were certainly at least a size or two larger.

  Only a couple of them wore shoddy boots; the rest rode barefoot. They had grim, lean faces. They were mostly skin and bones like on the edge of starvation, but their red-shot eyes shone with a cruel, alarming intensity. In the back of the faded green and grey rover lay two dead bodies, the white of their feet marred by the red of their blood.

  The sisters stood motionless, following the example of the mother superior, who was looking at the band of marauding bandits with contempt that bordered on hate.

  Another rover passed through the gate. It braked badly and skid for a few feet on the courtyard dirt. Ten more men, slightly yet markedly better fed, better equipped. Some wore sunglasses, some berets and caps. Ethan noticed a big brute of a man sitting in the co-driver’s seat. Once everyone else had jumped off the rover, he stepped out. He was wearing spotless combat fatigues as if they had just been pressed. He wore the insignia of a Major. It was a good thing he didn’t seem familiar at all.

  “That’s their leader; if we get to him, the rest will follow,” he said to Nicole who was eying the bandits with seeping, fervent anger. She did not answer; she gave Ethan a sharp accusing look and simply turned away. The next moment she vanished inside the impromptu hospital room.

  Ethan called after her, but she ignored him. It was at that point when he attracted the attention of one of the armed men, who pointed his rifle at him and shouted something incomprehensible; it sounded like Igbo but not a dialect Ethan could understand clearly.

  Ethan put his hands up and grinned like an idiot, trying to look the part of a mildly insignificant, completely harmless fool of a journalist. The armed bandit was still aiming the rifle at him, shouting incoherently, looking back and forth nervously. Ethan thought it could be he was asking ’should I shoot him?’; it could be he was asking ’can I shoot him?’. It would’ve made little difference had that been the case though.

  The burly man was overlooking the sisters with one hand cradling a short-barreled AK-47; the paratrooper version. In his hands, it looked little more than a large handgun. He motioned with his free hand and half a dozen men fanned out two by two’s, going inside the rooms and halls on the west side of the monastery.

  The rising heat added to the tension; Ethan was sweating. He was hoping Ludwig had gotten everybody out in time; more people would mean more problems to solve. He was also hoping Nicole wasn’t thinking of doing anything stupid. Stupid tended to pile on stupid and that had a propensity to make people end up dead or worse.

  He was searching for a sight of her, but to no avail; for the first time the thought entered his mind that perhaps she was already running away. It wouldn’t help him much, but it wouldn’t make things harder either.

  Ethan’s self-appointed guard had stopped shouting; now he was grinning, showing a cave of a mouth. He was still aiming his gun though and Ethan thought it was time to make his move. He shouted, “Look, Press!” and pointing at his Leica he reached with the other hand at his vest’s chest pocket, fumbling for the press pass.

  The guard instantly drew back the AKs loading arm carefully, waiting for Ethan to make the mistake of flinching. For a bunch of ragtag bandits, they exhibited quite the streak of a rather unexpected professionalism; stupid nervous people with guns would’ve shot him dead. Ethan glanced at the leader who was quietly coming his way, while the rest of his men loitered near the sisters pointing guns and casting leery glances. That man, Ethan thought, was probably the sole reason why these wretches behaved themselves almost like soldiers.

  The leader approached Ethan gracefully, making sure his insignia was prominently visible. He silently reached at Ethan’s vest pocket and pulled out his press pass, signed and stamped by the IPA and the UN in one of the British embassy’s cultural attache’s offices. The leader took a look at it and read aloud with a thick, grossly cacophonous accent:

  “Richard Owls. London Times. Lost?” he asked with a grin that showed perfect white teeth and more than a couple of gold casings.

  “Just doing a story,” replied Ethan and added “Major, sir,” with an afterthought, hoping to feed the man’s ego. Indeed he smiled when he heard the rank and offered Ethan his press pass back. He took a quick look around him, the sun glinting off his black Ray Bans. Whoever the man was, he was turning in a profit, Ethan thought. When he spoke again, he wasn’t smiling anymore:

  “I’m a moody person. Lost two men on the way. Why are you here? What’s so important about nuns?”

  Ethan didn’t have a very hard time faking intimidation. The man was imposing enough. Reminded him a bit of his friend James, only without the redeeming qualities. He replied with some difficulty, trying to find the words:

  “The missionary work… Taking care of people in the middle of a war. Their stoic manner; really good press back home. Good press anywhere, really. Takes the focus away from the British involvement, too. Wins points with my editor.”

 
The brute looked at him as if examining a weird kind of exotic fly; it was a distant, focused stare. “Politics, journalists. Same shit, eh?” he said suddenly and laughed out loud all alone, his laughter echoing faintly in the relative silence of the monastery courtyard.

  “Just doing my job, Major, sir,” replied Ethan with a faint smile, his eyes still trying to steal a glimpse of Nicole; she must be really gone, he thought.

  The sisters were huddled close together, as if waiting for a verdict on them. The mother superior was eying him and the leader of the bandits intensely. Maybe she was thinking of doing something stupid herself. That would complicate things right when he was trying to achieve a sense of rapprochement, if anything like that could be achieved with the likes of these people.

  “I’m no major, Dick. I’ll call you Dick. No Major Yuembe anymore. I’m King, King Yuembe!” shouted the so-called Major, triumphantly raising both arms in the air. He fired off a couple of shots, eliciting a response of wild gunfire in the air from his men who cheered and eyed the sisters with venomous stares. They looked barely able to hold themselves; another example in forced discipline. He laughed heartily once more, before settling down his gaze towards Ethan again. Ethan pitched the idea of the story he had been working on in his mind:

  “I think you’d make the perfect story, really. I could show the world your living conditions, the way you’re defending your freedom. Add a bit about your back-story, where you came from, what made you quit the army. It’d be a fantastic piece, a world first,” Ethan said and aimed the camera at Yuembe. He took on a haughty pose like a model, indeed the kind of self-gratifying stance photographers tend to think is fit for nobility portraits. The camera clicked and Ethan rolled the film a couple of times, taking a few more shots. Then Yuembe yanked the camera off its straps suddenly and Ethan felt his plan wasn’t working the way it should.

  “I’ll keep that film. I like pictures; but I don’t like the publicity. Understand?”

  Ethan nodded, frowning warily. He replied carefully:

  “No problem. I can see it could hamper your activities; I can do a text piece only, full page with stock photos or something,” he said, insisting on trying to stroke the man’s ego. He knew it wouldn’t work when the man took the film out of the camera, tucked it inside a pocket and then just threw the camera away, breaking the lens. He then asked Ethan, edging his face closer to his the way a boxer might before a fight:

  “You think we are freedom fighters?” he said through almost clenched-shut teeth. Ethan’s frown became a deep, long furrow. Looking distraught and casting glances around him, he seemed completely at a loss. To complete the show, he said weakly:

  “Well, of course.”

  Yuembe broke down in laughter and said something in that dialect Ethan couldn’t quite get. All the men laughed along in earnest, pointing at Ethan like a freak exhibit. Maybe writing up a story wouldn’t hold, but the stupid journalist ploy still had something in it. Just maybe, Ethan thought to himself.

  Some of the men that had been searching around the monastery called out, grabbing Yuembe’s attention. They had found the caravan’s Rovers and supplies. Yuembe and his men exchanged a few words from a distance, more like shouts. Then he picked a few of them by eying them alone, motioned with a hand and another half a dozen men left their guns behind. Soon they started loading the crates bearing the sign of the Red Cross first onto their own trucks.

  The mother superior was talking with some sisters in a low-keyed voice; they seemed somewhat relieved. It was beginning to look like the bandits would simply loot what they could and leave. Organised and disciplined as they seemed to be, they were nothing more than dangerous, cruel thieves.

  Yuembe then took out a camouflage-patterned handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. He took off his glasses and wiped the lenses as well; his round black eyes were big and calm, the eyelashes almost delicate. They belonged to a man who should’ve become an artist or a doctor, maybe even a priest. In any case, they didn’t look like the kind of eyes that belonged to a professional lethal parasite.

  That grin of his gave him away; Ethan had seen that grin once too many. He knew even himself had sported such a grin at times past. The thought disturbed him and for a minute he was out of character, looking grim and serious all of a sudden. Yuembe saw the change on his face; he was instantly intrigued. He looked at Ethan from head to toe, scanning him slowly, measuring him up. He asked him then, hands around his waist, the Ray Bans dangling from his chest pocket:

  “You do not approve? Wouldn’t look good on your story?” he said and then made a motion in the air with his free hand, stopping at the mention of each word like showing off a neon headline sign: “Former Nigerian Army Major Pillages Monastery.”

  Ethan simply shook his head. Yuembe went on with what he had in mind:

  “I am not a man of the press, like you. But I know what spices up a story,” he said, winked and nodded towards the sisters who were still clutching their rosaries. Some of them were praying on their knees, some of them were simply staring at the men who guarded them straight in the eyes, as if they thought shame alone could turn them away.

  “Major, there’s nothing more to gain here other than those sacks of rice, those crates of medication and the canned food. That’s all there is,” Ethan said, thinking he should at least try and reason with the man, even though he seemed to be toying with ideas that went beyond looting.

  “Been here long enough, Mr. Owls? Are you sure that’s all? Maybe you and I have different taste in things,” Yuembe said with a devilish grin and then barked an order.

  Half a dozen men complied and went inside the eastern blocks of the monastery. Pretty soon, one of them shouted back from the impromptu hospital. Another one was holding a vest with a red cross painted on it. Some groggy voices and malformed protests were put down after a few slaps and kicks laid the patients back on their beds for good.

  Yuembe shouted back more orders, looking pissed off; veins shot out from his temples and neck. He didn’t seem to care about the red cross or the infirmary and the people inside. That was good; it mean Ludwig and his people were probably safe and not a moment too soon. Probably Nicole as well. He had thought she might help him sound more convincing, but she was still nowhere to be seen. Maybe she’d have been a problem anyway, Ethan thought.

  His thoughts where cut short when he suddenly heard a shout from one of Yuembe’s men and then saw bloodied pieces of skull bounce off a door, the rest of the bandit’s body slumping against it a flick of an eye later, when the gunshot was heard. A high velocity rifle. Though a familiar sound to Ethan, he had been more than just surprised to see its effects so vividly at that point.

  Everyone froze still; it was the sisters panicked shrieks and loud prayers that roused everyone back into frenzied random activity. Ethan hesitated; if someone had stayed behind trying to be a hero, should he go all out and take a shot at Yuembe right now? What about the sisters? They were completely exposed. No, he decided he couldn’t risk their lives.

  Yuembe aimed his AK nervously at Ethan and shouted at his men infuriated. They quickly aimed their guns at windows and doorways, covering their comrades; a couple of them grabbed the sisters by force one by one and started to tie their hands together.

  A few of the sisters tried to resist, spitting and kicking furiously. Yuembe’s men used the AKs stocks like clubs; the nuns suffered. A few cracks were heard; bones were broken. The mother superior’s proud facade had collapsed; she was now begging the men in whatever dialect ran through her tongue, with what few words she knew. Their captors seemed to enjoy their work, smiling as they heard the wailings and sobs of the hapless sisters. Yuembe shouted at the top of his lungs:

  “Come out now and I won’t hurt the sisters. I’ll let you and them live, just as soon as I get what I came for. You and I both know I want the-”. His voice became little more than a gurgle as his head exploded violently, pieces of shrapnel from his skull flying away in all directions.
His body fell backwards from the overwhelming force of the bullet, the AK falling off his limp hand on the ground with a thud.

  Ethan’s eyes were scanning for the shooter while his hands instinctively went for his gun. He was already moving towards the cover of the nearby arches. There was no hope in hell that he’d talk his way out of this: for one thing, he didn’t even speak that damnable dialect and for another, they were already letting off a blind hail of bullets at the mud-and-hay brick walls of the monastery, trying for the shooter. All they accomplished though was leave behind large pockmarks on the walls, splintered doors and spent bullet casings.

  The bandits shouted at each other, confused and dismayed. Some looked like they were itching to just shoot the sisters dead. One of them cried something like a war shout and let off a single round that went through one of the nuns like a hammer through ice. The bullet took apart almost her whole left side; blood, bone and guts spilled freely through tattered robes. She crumbled like a rag doll on the dirt before the church gate, twitches and spasms running through her body. Her dying throes were little more than a wet cough, deafeningly loud among the silence of the sisters.

  A man with a beret knocked some teeth out of the shooter with his rifle’s stock, rendering him unconscious. The rest fired off wild shots at windows, more or less blindly.

  The sisters started to weep. The mother superior held her cross in hand, tears running down her cheek; still she whispered the dead sister’s rites softly in her ear.

  Another gunshot was heard; it missed a bandit on the back of one of the Rovers by an inch. The ricochet bullet grazed him behind one ear and caused him to fall on his back down on the ground.

  Ethan was now working on instinct and training alone; he would pick his targets, going in for the kill. He pulled out his gun and rushed towards the Rover parked in front of the sisters and the church. He silently thanked God and his good fortune that Yuembe and his men had fallen for the journalist trick, sloppy enough not to bother actually checking him for weapons.

  One of Yuembe’s men saw him appearing behind one of the arches, purposefully coming towards them. He pointed with one hand and shouted a warning, instead of shooting. Two rounds went through the bandit, and threw him off his feet a couple of feet away. The shots left his chest in ruins; his lungs and heart a ruptured mess.

  Ethan switched targets and went for one of the men wearing a beret. He let another couple of rounds fly, the Browning nine millimeter pulsating in his double-action grip with body-shaking force. Years of experience and shooting training brought Ethan’s aim lower to compensate for the recoil; aim slightly below center of mass, double-tap the trigger, swing the body and aim another. Repeat. It was as easy as riding a bike if one didn’t stop to think about the killing involved.

  As he swung to take down another one, there was a sharp whizzing sound. He felt a hot rush of air near the back of his head. He turned around to look and saw to his right a man down on the ground, trying to grasp his neck with both hands. He was bleeding profusely, his legs flailing wildly as spurts of blood turned into a red fuzzy mist through his fingers.

  The shooter was good; a professional from the looks of it. He had probably just saved his life, but there wasn’t time for allowing the thought to cloud his senses. Another bandit appeared from behind a half-wrecked window and let off a ripple of bullets from his AK. He kept shouting like a crazed madman while shooting, aiming at nowhere in particular; the kick of the AK sent the bullets plainly at the old, pitted and stained tiled roof, breaking away and chipping whole sections.

  Still firing away and before emptying his clip, he was blown back by the force of two bullets, one hitting him square in the stomach and another in his chest. If his heart didn’t stop outright, he’d have time enough to meet God when his gut wound ate his insides.

  The sisters were busy untying themselves amidst the confusion. They rushed to the inside of the temple, trying to carry their dead sister with a modicum of decency. They lifted her up, hugging her spilled entrails in their lap.

  As they did so, their former captors and guards let off another hail of fire from their AKs trying to take Ethan down; they were controlled, but badly aimed bursts. Yuembe would have probably made good soldiers out of them if it wasn’t for their horrid aim and their complete lack of cover discipline.

  Out in the open with every part of their body exposed and firing from the hip, their chances of hitting Ethan laying dirt-low behind a series of arches, were slim if not none. Their chances became zero when a bullet went through one of them in the shoulder; the exit wound was the size of a basketball, turning his spine into a shredded ruin.

  The other one of the pair knelt and raised his rifle to take aim at the direction of the shooter. Ethan rolled out of cover and popped three shots at him; one caught him in the leg, tearing up his calf. Another one hit the dirt and the last one went through his armpit and neck, cutting an artery open. It left him a dying man, unable to even flinch at the scorching sun casting its glare at his fading eyes.

  Ethan leaped to his feet again and rushed towards the sisters and the church, attracting a very unhealthy amount of fire from the west wing of the monastery. The bandits that had been on search detail there were now laying down covered, taking pot shots whenever they thought it was prudent. The shooter had put real fear in their hearts.

  A couple of those who had left their guns behind to carry sacks and crates tried to make a run towards the Rovers for their AKs. One of them fell stone dead, leg-first, as if he’d hit his head while running, another excellent shot from the unknown shooter. His mortal wound was remarkably clean; the bullet had went straight through the heart, imploding it and settling down the exit velocity to a lot less damaging value. The other one just dashed towards a low-walled flower fence and jumped over, creeping away back into a semblance of adequate cover.

  Ethan went past the church’s entrance and saw the sisters hugging around the body of the dead nun. He grabbed the mother superior by one arm, while she was clearly paying no attention to her surroundings, her face deathly pale, her eyes without focus. Instinctively she tried to shake him off. He caught her stare and tried to convey a sense of calm. Panic wouldn’t get them anywhere; it could only lead to senseless death. He told her then while stray shots seemed to edge dangerously close judging by the plaster and chipped wood flying around them:

  “Lie down, and spread around. Throw the benches for cover. And pray, sister!”

  She nodded then as if magically awaken from a deep slumber. He couldn’t help noticing her wrinkled, bloodied face looked strangely attractive for someone her age and stature. Ethan bowed his head to her hand and whispered “’er grace,’” and then carried along. He stood for a few moments by the temple door. When he heard the distinctive bolt-action gunshot of the mysterious shooter he decided to sprint away to a better location; one of the Rovers.

  He placed three shots at the windows up on high on the western edge while running. He wasn’t hoping on actually hitting anything, but he was sure these guys would instinctively duck when they heard the shots, sparing him a precious couple of seconds to make a more or less safe passage. He’d heard the gun go empty; he’d need a chance to reload soon.

  When he reached the Rover, he saw the flash of a scope barely visible near the church bell tower. He couldn’t make out who it was; the sun was still rising directly behind him, blinding those who dared to take a shot. Clever, natural cover. Still, down on the courtyard from near the makeshift hospital, two more of the late Major Yuembe’s men appeared, firing on full auto towards the bell tower as they went.

  Those on the western dormitories felt like contributing, so they popped out of their covers and placed single shots against the bell tower, rather blindly. The shooter let one shot fly; the cracking echo of the bolt-action came right after the thud of the dead body on the ground. But no other shots followed.

  Ethan peeked from behind the Rover; the other man was still on the courtyard, nervously trying to find
cover while surveying the rooftop for the shooter. Those on the west side had no clear target, and decided to take their chances at Ethan.

  He switched the empty clip with a new full one; if this kept for much longer he’d need to pick one of the AKs lying all around for himself. A cacophony of bullets ricocheting off thick metal engulfed him; the Rover’s thick chassis was as good a cover as any. It wasn’t impervious, but it was good enough for such a tight spot. Maybe half a dozen men took shots at him from the western dormitories; perhaps more lurked somewhere in the eastern wing. Worse still, the unknown shooter had been forced to reposition. Less cover for him then for another couple of minutes.

  Ethan slithered slowly towards the front of the Rover. The engine block would provide better cover. As he did so, he kept his gun trained towards the eastern rooms. If a head or a gun popped from somewhere out there, he’d simply squeeze the trigger.

  He then suddenly saw the one that had come running towards the bell tower underneath the first Rover, trying to aim his AK at him while flat on the dirt. Ethan thought he saw him grinning but he wasn’t sure; he simply brought his Browning in front of him and fired three shots in rapid succession; the man let off his own shot but the sight of Ethan’s gun alone opposite him was enough to let his aim stray.

  Still, the bullet grazed Ethan slightly over his left shoulder; his third shot went wild and punctured a tire. The second and first though went through the man’s neck and spine. He lay there under the Rover, paralyzed and bleeding, choking on his own blood.

  A small pin-prick of a flash made Ethan turn around, gun in hand ready to shoot. As the blinding light turned away from his face for a moment, he saw more clearly now the unknown shooter. The gun was an M1903 bolt-action, sniper variant with scope. And the shooter was, much to Ethan’s surprise, no-one else but Nicole, now standing in front of the infirmary.

  He didn’t have time to think about that revelation for long; another hail of wild gunfire forced her aside, behind a thick wide arch. He heard indistinct shouts in that unknown dialect, and then more gunshots were heard. None of them landed anywhere near him or Nicole. He sacrificed some cover for a better view, quickly scanning for targets. He couldn’t see any. He decided to make a move then. He shouted:

  “Nicole! Cover me!”

  He sprang up then and ran without aiming his gun. He just ran towards the west wing; a single shot was heard. One of the bandits wanted to take the opportunity against Ethan, but Nicole’s aim had proven a lethal discouragement for Yuembe's men.

  When Ethan reached the low-walled fence, he jumped over it and rolled sideways. He scanned aft and fore and saw no-one. The Rovers were still sitting there, half-loaded with the caravan’s supplies. Behind him, a flimsy wooden staircase led to the upper floor. There were pools of blood dripping down the staircase, and traces of wounded bodies being drawn inside rooms.

  He looked in Nicole’s direction. She was giving him a thumbs up. He went inside each room methodically, pushing the door open and then peeking inside before rushing inside in a crouch. He saw bodies of Yuembe’s men. Most were shot in the back. Two of them had shot each other, their bodies laying against opposite walls. It seemed to Ethan like the paper-thin veneer of what little camaraderie and professionalism these bandits seemed to exhibit crumbled when Yuembe’s head got blown off. Their panic and their petty squabbles had undone them completely. Some might’ve fled on foot, but they’ve left no reason behind to return.

  The search on the upper rooms yielded the bodies of those who had felt lucky or proficient enough to take down Ethan or Nicole. When he felt it was safe, Ethan shouted from an open window to Nicole, “All clear!”. She gave a thumbs up and disappeared back into the infirmary.

  What a firefight, Ethan thought while overlooking the courtyard from that higher vantage point. He began counting bodies without even being conscious of it and then he saw one of the bodies actually moving towards the church with a gun in hand. He raised his gun to aim clearly and fired away without his usual control; the bandit though still had time enough to let off a ripple of fire before the bullets struck home.

  He slumped down on his knees and fell face down on the dirt, blood oozing around him. Ethan ran down the staircase shouting at the top of his lungs:

  “Nicole! Check the church!”

  As he did so, Nicole had already reappeared, this time with a Beretta in hand; she moved along hugging the walls with all the care in the world.

  Ethan could see the sunlight etching shadows inside the church, but not a shadow moved. As he came closer he yelled:

  “Sisters! Mother superior! Is everyone alright?”

  As he reached the church door, he saw the trembling figures of a few of the sisters. Some of them sat still, frozen in shock. Two of them lay down, around a pool of blood. One of them was the mother superior; her sisters had closed her eyes and covered her with cloth from the Holy Table. The other sister was a young thing, perhaps the younger of them all. She was lying in front of the mother superior, her body mangled horribly; she had thrown herself in the way of the bullets but that had not been enough. It never really is, Ethan thought almost cynically.

  Nicole was breathing laboriously when she came next to Ethan. He spared a glance at her, but said nothing. As her breathing returned to normal, she lowered her Beretta and slumped herself against a large wooden chair, drenched in sweat and dirt. She had the smell of gunpowder about her.

  One of the nuns, still bent over the mother superior’s body turned to him and asked Ethan with a croaky voice:

  “Is it over?”

  He nodded almost absentmindedly. Then he turned to look at Nicole and asked her with a deep frown and an almost unforgiving stare:

  “I thought you would do something stupid.”

  She shook her head and looked him squarely in the eye. He saw the truth behind that glazed look and those weary words, when she said:

  “Have some decency. Let’s talk outside if we must.”

  Ethan nodded, made the sign of the cross and walked outside towards the Rover. The sun was starting to fill most of the courtyard. As the adrenaline rush wore off, the smell of blood and gunpowder assaulted his nostrils. He tried not to inhale too deeply and focused his stare on the church tower, ridden with bullet marks. He heard something drop behind him; he turned and saw Nicole on her knees, heaving her guts. He fought the compulsion to do so as well.

  He approached her and helped on her feet. She got up, tucked the Beretta in one of her pockets and walked to a water basin on a wall recess near the church. Ethan followed close behind her. He noticed she had a slightly limp gait; she was hurt. He asked her:

  “Bullet grazed your leg?”

  She shook her head and said without turning:

  “No, sprained ankle probably.”

  “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

  She shrugged and cupped her hands full of water from the basin. She washed her mouth and spat in the dirt before she replied:

  “Algiers.”

  “You mean, the Battle of Algiers?” Ethan said as if finding it difficult to grasp.

  She nodded slowly, leaned her back on the wall and untied her hair. The grit and sweat had turned them into a mess. She looked at him with a weary smile and replied:

  “That’s where I lost my faith, Ethan.”

  He looked at her with puzzlement and asked her:

  “I mean, how?”

  “It so happened the aid station I was volunteering got in the way. For two nights, we had to fight for our lives. Every able bodied man and woman,” she said, folding her hands together.

  Ethan shook his head and bit his lip. He took a look around him and then gazed at the church as if it were miles away. He said to Nicole then, his voice carrying a thoughtful tone:

  “So you’ve got your own share, then.”

  “My share of what, Ethan? My share of blood and guts?” she retorted with a flush of anger.

  He looked at her through a flutter of his eyes and
said with a shallow, gritty voice:

  “Your share of guilt.”

  Her face softened and the edges of her lips fell flat. She stood away from the wall for a moment and then started walking past Ethan towards the infirmary. He watched her as she put a hand in her eye, wiping away a tear. He then looked at the church and the bell tower before closing his eyes and letting the warm sun touch his face, inch by inch.