“It doesn’t tickle,” I admit. “But I will live.”
“Why did he shoot you?”
“To make a point,” I say.
“What’s that mean?”
The guard gestures at the door, and I walk over to it, resting against the doorpost for a moment, dizzy from the pain, and then shuffle out into the hallway, trying to keep my arm immobilized against my stomach, each movement causing agony.
Yelena follows, and then moves up beside me and takes my good hand. “You can squeeze if it hurts too bad,” she says.
I give her hand a little squeeze—guilt wracks me, because in this moment, with excruciating pain lancing through me, I’m glad for her company. Her little hand in mine, her quiet, serious voice…I’m glad I’m not alone. And I feel even more like shit for thinking such a thing.
We reach our cell, and I collapse onto the bench. Yelena sits beside me, on the side opposite the wounded arm. Leans against me.
“My daddy tells me it’s okay to cry if I got a boo-boo.” She looks up at me. “Are you gonna cry, ’Pollo?”
It hurts so bad, I could. “No,” I say through gritted teeth. “I am going to be okay.”
A long silence, as I work to contain the agony as it radiates in thrumming, pulsing waves.
“’Pollo?” Her little voice, so quiet, so small.
“Yes, Yelena?”
“Are your friends still going to rescue us?”
I have to give her hope. Even if I myself, deep down, wonder how even they will pull this off. “Yes, they will.”
“I don’t wanna be ex-cuted.”
“You won’t be. Nor shall I. My friends do not fail. They will not. They will come for us.”
“Will they make the bad man go away?”
“Yes, they will.”
“’Pollo?”
“Hmmm.”
“I wanna go home.”
I remove my T-shirt and tie it as tightly as I can bear around my arm, barely suppressing a groan as I do so.
“Me too,” I murmur, gasping as the wave of pain passes, somewhat. “Me too.”
8
No Going Back
We walk along the dusty, hot, crowded streets of Carthage—you learn about Carthage in ancient history class, mostly in relation to Rome; what they don’t tell you is Carthage is still around, now a residential suburb of Tunis, in Tunisia, on the northern coast of Africa. It’s bizarre and oddly disorienting to walk these streets, a place which has been occupied since the ninth century B.C.E. It boggles the mind, to be honest. It’s hard to not feel like a tourist, even if I’m here on deadly serious business. The buildings are low blocks, mostly whitewashed to reflect the punishing African sun. Duke is beside me, Alexei just ahead. We’re meeting a contact of Alexei’s.
We reach a particular building and enter—within, it’s dark, with low ceilings and fans slowly, lazily stirring the air, which smells sweet, slightly acrid. Groups, trios, and pairs sit at low tables, sharing hookahs, which is the source of the smell, and the writhing clouds of smoke. It’s nominally cooler in here, for which I’m thankful. Alexei weaves through the hookah cafe to a back corner table.
The man at the table is Black, about my age or a few years older, with a thick, well-groomed beard and a shaved head, wearing olive green cargo pants, combat boots, and a black tank top. He’s enormously muscled, and glinting with a sheen of sweat. He idly scrolls on a phone as he periodically puts a mouthpiece to his lips, hollows his cheeks, and spews out the smoke. He looks up, spies Alexei, and juts his chin upward in greeting.
“Alexei,” he says, his voice pitched low—he says itahhh-LEX-eeee. “How are you, my friend?”
