Part 31 (1/2)

I looked at her, and she did appear surprised and shocked that she had shot the man. She looked down at him and p.r.o.nounced something in Arabic. But her tone sounded a bit harsh for an apology; in fact it sounded like a threat, and he quickly muttered something in reply that resembled a wounded animal mewling.

I said to Bian, ”Whatever you're doing . . . stop now.”

She ignored me and prodded the man on the ground with her boot. She said something with a harsh undertone in Arabic.

He said, ”Okay . . . yes, yes . . . I speak English. Not good, though. Do not shoot me again, please.”

Bian stepped back from him and asked, ”Which of these men is Ali bin Pacha?”

”Uh, oooh, you have ruined my knee . . . Ow, I am in great pain . . . I--”

”Answer me. Which one?”

”Who . . . who is this name?”

”Ali bin Pacha. Point him out.”

The man rocked around a bit, holding his knee and contemplating his pain, which appeared to be considerable. Finally he said to her, ”Me. I am this man you search for . . . this Ali bin Pacha.”

”Liar.”

”No, American lady. This is truth. Please, not to shoot me again. Please--”

”You're not not bin Pacha. If you don't point him out, I'll blow your brains across the floor.” bin Pacha. If you don't point him out, I'll blow your brains across the floor.”

On the one hand, I should yank her out of the room; on the other hand, I wanted to hear this guy's response. Possibly, his shooting was an accident, and while that act was unfortunate, sometimes good comes from bad. On the other hand, what if it wasn't an accident? Was she really ready to blow this guy's brains out?

She jammed the barrel of her weapon down hard on the man's wounded knee. He cringed and howled with pain.

That answered it. I quickly stepped toward her, intending to take the weapon out of her hands.

But Hardy Harda.s.s had the same idea, and he was closer. He lunged at Bian, who was ignoring him, and had carelessly allowed herself to get too close to the prisoners.

Before I could take a step, his arms were wrapped around Bian, and he had her M16 across her throat.

He was pulling it upward, screaming, ”Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar.” Bian's feet were off the ground. She was struggling and kicking, but he was large and strong, and she looked a rag doll being shaken in a mad dog's mouth.

I drew back my M16, then shoved it forward, b.u.t.tstroking the center of his forehead. There was a nasty cracking sound and his head jerked backward, but he did not loosen his grip. Now ugly gurgling sounds were erupting from Bian's mouth.

I once again drew back my weapon, b.u.t.tstroked him harder, and I knew I had hit the sweet spot, because a loud ”Ooof” popped out of his throat. He released Bian and sank to his knees, groaning.

Bian also collapsed to her knees, heaving and coughing.

Now Sean Drummond also had stopped paying attention to the threat in the wings, and I swung around and directed my weapon at the two men against the wall who were edging toward me. ”Don't.” They seemed to understand, if not my words then Mr. Automatic Rifle, because both froze.

Eventually, Bian pushed herself off the floor, stood, and straightened up. She picked up her weapon and turned her gaze to Hardy Harda.s.s, who was transfixed by his own problems, such as the torrent of blood flowing down his forehead. She said something short and sharp in Arabic. Slowly he stumbled to his feet and moved back against the wall. I asked Bian, ”Are you okay?”

”I'm . . .” That answer stopped in midsentence, and she stared off into s.p.a.ce.

”Are you--”

”Yes. I'm fine. A little dazed . . . out of breath . . .”

Before I could say another word, she swung to her right and-- bang, bang, bang--first one, then another prisoner crumpled to the floor. I looked at her, and I looked at them. Two of the prisoners, like Nervous Nellie, now lay on the floor holding their hands on their left knees, writhing and howling from pain. The other, Joe Cool, sort of sank to the floor, staring at Bian, in no apparent pain, just mildly surprised.

I, also, stared at Bian. She avoided my eyes.

”What did you just do?”

After a moment without a reply, I told her what she had done. ”You just shot unarmed prisoners.”

She glanced at me, and for a moment I wondered if I was next.

”Hand me your weapon, Bian.”

She did not hand me her weapon but did say, ”I didn't kill them.”

”Your weapon--now.”

”I did what was needed. And it worked.”

She straightened up and for a moment seemed to contemplate what she had done. I examined her face, and did not like what I saw; she should have looked shocked, or enraged, but instead she struck me as completely in control of her emotions and senses. Aloof, actually. Finally, she said in a surprisingly calm tone, ”Sean, please. Go downstairs. Tell Eric we need him and his men up here right away.”

”You go downstairs. I'm not leaving you alone with these men.” go downstairs. I'm not leaving you alone with these men.”

Instead of addressing that thought, she said, ”Give me your chador, please.”

I thought she was going to use it to sponge or stem the flow of blood from one of the men she had just shot. So I handed it to her, keeping a spring in my step and an eye on her weapon. Instead she bent over and used it to gag Nervous Nellie, who was making whiny noises and looked ready to empty his bowels into his pants.

Then the door burst open and the argument was settled about either of us going downstairs. Eric and two of his men came barging through the doorway, weapons directed at us.

”It's safe,” I yelled before anyone made a nervous mistake. ”We're in control.”

Eric lowered his weapon and examined the bodies on the floor. He said, ”What the f.u.c.k?”

He was not expecting a reply, and continued, in a furious tone, ”Didn't I tell you two to keep your weapons on safe? Holy s.h.i.+t--those shots were heard for ten blocks around.”

I looked at him, then at Bian, and suddenly I understood what-- and more to the point, why why--she had done what she'd done. The message from Charabi to Daniels had described Ali bin Pacha as having lost his left leg, and therefore Bian had fired into their knees, a field expedient method for determining whose legs were real and whose were not.

I faced Eric and said, ”Dress their wounds, and cuff and gag all of them.”

”The h.e.l.l with that. Those shots alerted every jihadi in this sector. Time to leave--now.”

”Do it.” I pointed at Nervous Nellie, and then at Joe Cool--aka Ali bin Pacha--who was observing me with a look of calculation from the floor. ”They're the lucky two getting the all-expenses-paid trip.”

”Are you nuts? Listen, in about two minutes the whole city is going to kick our a.s.ses.”

I stared at him. He stared back.

He shook his head and turned to his two men. ”All right. Hurry.”