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The bottom of the well was cooler and slightly damp, a virtual spa. The mud felt somehow comforting as it squished between his toes. For a moment, he was a kid again, skinny-dipping and running up a muddy river bank in the Ozarks. He smiled to himself as he got down on his knees and started using the bucket to dig. At least there was enough sunlight for him to see what he was doing.

He dumped pail after pail of mud alongside the wall. Each successive load was wetter than the previous one. He paused to take a break, straighten up and look at the sky and remembered his grandmother telling him stories of well diggers being in such darkness that they could see stars. When he glanced back down at his hole, water was seeping into it.

Back on his knees, he cupped his hands and drank. The water was sweet—silty, but sweet. He laughed as he splashed it all over himself.

Several buckets of mud later, the well was running with enough clear water to fill the pail. He drank all he could, and then poured a bucket of it over his head. He refilled it and started to climb up the rope, using the wall for footing. Then he thought he heard a car. The higher he climbed, the louder the engine sound became.

Fazul
.

 

Fazul stared at the rubble of his former safe house, his mouth agape. It had vanished, as if Allah had scooped it up and left only a few handfuls of dirt and stone behind. A swarm of flies buzzed near the ground and hundreds more covered something in the sand. He shooed them away from a strip of pink flesh.

“May Allah bless them and grant them peace,” Fazul said.

Omar made eye contact with him and Fazul nodded. Omar understood it was the twins.

The American whore perched under a tree, rocking herself, watching him. She was no threat. He would deal with her later—like he should have long ago. He scooped up a handful of sand and spilled it out, covering what was left of the twins.

After the last grain of sand had left his hand, he turned toward Mecca and raised his arms. “
Allahu akbar
.” Omar did the same. They folded their hands over their breasts, the right one on top of the left. Both men stood as they recited as much as they could remember of the
Janazah
.

 

Hunter paused, hanging on the rope about six feet below the top of the well as a car door slammed shut. It was followed by the sound of a second one, which made no sense to him. Maybe it wasn't Fazul. His toes dug into the earth on the side of the well as he grappled for something firm enough to help him support his weight. His muscles burned as he hung there, listening to sounds that didn't make sense. Fazul's voice was distinct and he seemed to be praying, even though prayer time had passed.

Hunter climbed hand over hand further up the rope. Straining to hold on, he pulled himself high enough to peek over the edge. Fazul and a tall man had their backs to him as they recited a funeral prayer. He hoisted himself over the side, teetering on his belly while he reached down to where he had stashed his gun.

It was gone.

 

Hunter looked around and saw Jackie Nelson slowly wading through the debris. She held the AK at her side, aiming it at Fazul. Their loud prayers masked the sound of her approach. They appeared unarmed. Hunter shifted his weight to pull himself over the rim of the well.

“Jackie, no!” Hunter shouted and waved his arms, not bothering to cover his nudity. “Don't do it. Keep it pointed at them and bring the gun back to me.”

The Iraqis spun around, but neither drew a weapon. Fazul knit his bushy black eyebrows and glared at Hunter. Hunter snatched up his dishdashah and slipped it over his head.

“You can't shoot them in cold blood.” Hunter approached her slowly. At least when the tangos held an AK, he knew what they were going to do with it. She was so out of it, she could spin around and shoot him without warning.

“Stop. Stay right where you are or I'm taking them both out.” She looked over her shoulder at Hunter, then back at Fazul. “You, get undressed.”

“I don't think he speaks English. And he's not going to do that,” Hunter said.

“Before he dies, he's going to get a taste of how he humiliated me. Tell him to strip.”

Hunter translated.

Fazul laughed and spoke in heavily accented English. “No woman commands me.”

“Take it off, you fucker.” Jackie fired a burst at his feet, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Fazul tore his clothes off, then put his hands over his genitals as fast as he could.

“Don't do this,” Hunter said. “You're not thinking straight because of the dehydration. It's not right to execute an unarmed man. You don't want that on your conscience all your life.” Hunter walked around her, careful to stay within her line of sight so he didn't startle her.

“I don't want to spend my whole life regretting I didn't kill the fucker who kidnapped and raped me. We all know there's no justice in this fucking country.” She continued toward Fazul. When she was fifteen feet away, she fired a burst into his groin and the hands covering it. Blood gushed from what remained of his genitals as he collapsed to the ground, moaning loudly.

The lanky Iraqi screamed, then threw his hands into the air. “I have eleven children. I have four wives to care for. Please.”

Flies lit on the meat as Fazul pawed at himself with the stubs which were all that remained of his hands. He let out an eerie howl that sounded more animal than a human.

“For god's sake, finish him off. No man deserves to die like this,” Hunter said as he edged closer to her. The other Arab didn't move, even though she kept the gun trained on Fazul.

“No. You know he made me watch while they executed a German oil worker? The little fucker held Wolfgang's feet while he begged to be the one to chop off his head. What kind of people are they? You know what they did to me!” Tears streamed down her face.

Hundreds of flies crawled over Fazul as he writhed on the ground, moaning. The sand turned dark from the blood. Hunter looked away. A buddy in Afghanistan once bled out from a groin wound and Hunter knew death took a hell of a lot longer in reality than it did in the movies. The guy had the worst twenty minutes of his life ahead of him.

“I have much children. Please,” the Iraqi said in English.

“It's over. They can't hurt you anymore.” Hunter slowly walked up beside Jackie, put his hand on her shoulder, then grabbed the barrel of the gun with his right hand, spoiling her aim while his left hand came off her shoulder, took hold of the stock and pulled it to him.

He jacked a round, aimed the AK into the tango's kill zone and squeezed the trigger.

The wailing stopped.

Hunter lowered his head and turned away. Earlier in the day he had actually looked forward to the moment when he would kill Fazul for what he had done to Jackie Nelson and for what he had made Hunter do to her. Now there was neither revenge nor justice in what he did, only mercy and mercy made him feel a little more human in a place where he didn't want to feel anything at all.

Anbar Province

The sun was finally lower in the sky and the temperature was only moderately miserable when Hunter and Jackie climbed into the old VW Beetle that Fazul had returned in. The lanky Arab was slumped against the date palms, fingering Muslim prayer beads and muttering something to himself. Hunter had taken his cell phone, but had assured him that he would call one of the numbers on speed dial and tell them where to find him after they made their escape. He turned the key, but the car didn't make a sound. The only thing that seemed to be going his way was that Jackie was snapping out of it and she didn't seem to have any association between him and the repeated rapes. Unfortunately he did.

He got out of the car and slung the AK over his shoulder. “You know how to start it by popping the clutch?”

“Yeah, I had one of these when I was in grad school.” After slurping down most of the bucket of water, her voice was stronger. She crawled into the driver's seat, stomped the clutch and shifted into gear.

Hunter hiked up his man-dress and dug his feet into the sand and braced his hands on car. The metal was almost too hot to touch, but he would've picked up burning coals to get out of there. Hunter pushed, but felt resistance. “Steer it away from the loose sand.”

The car gained traction and started rolling faster.

“Pop the clutch! Now!”

The engine started.

Hunter glanced back at Omar. He was still fiddling with the beads, probably praying. He opened the driver's door and threw the AK into the backseat.

“Move over,” he said. “You still need a lot more fluids. Dehydration affects judgment.”

“That didn't really happen, did it? Oh my god. You're not going to tell anyone?”

“I have nothing to tell and no one to tell it to,” Hunter said. If only this were the first time he had had this conversation. Iraq had a way of testing morals and sooner or later, everyone failed. Revenge was too easy, the opportunities too many. Multiple combat tours had taught him that it only took a moment of righteous rage to guarantee a thirst for justice that would never be quenched and a faint taste of blood that would never leave his lips.

Hunter stuck his head out the window and spat, even though his mouth was dry.

The insurgent's safe house was in the middle of the desert with no real road leading to it, only a trail that had been packed firm from years of constant use. In spots the desert rippled across it, hiding it from view. So much of Iraq was covered with hard, baked sand, but in this area it was as loose as it was in Saudi. The late afternoon sunlight cast shadows that made the path even trickier to follow. He couldn't believe that anyone was foolish enough to bring a vehicle with such low clearance through the desert. The road forked and he chose what appeared to be the firmer path. He navigated between ruts and drove as fast as he dared—which was only a little faster than he could've walked it.

A nearly full water bottle rolled out from under Jackie's seat. “Hey, the gods are finally smiling on us.”

She opened it and drank, then passed it to Hunter. He drank less than he wanted to and handed back the bottle without looking over at her.

“You haven't told me your name,” Jackie said.

“Ray.”

“Is that your real name?”

“Real as it gets.”

“So you're CIA?”

“Don't overestimate the Agency. Most of them are cocktail party pimps. It's their local whores who screw the
muj,
not them.” His voice was clipped.

“Somehow I didn't think my husband Brian sent you.”

“He might have sent someone, but it wasn't me.”

“Then what were you doing there, posing as one of them?”

“It's complicated.”

She sighed and turned away from him. “I liked you a lot better when you first rescued me.”

“I liked me a lot better then, too.”

After a half hour of silence, Hunter spotted a line of palms, then he saw trucks and cars moving by, but the closer they got to the highway, the more loose sand covered the road. He stopped and got out to make sure that he was still on it. He was. A hundred meters later, the wheels spun in the sand, digging deeper and deeper.

Don't you have that guy's cell phone still in your pocket?” Jackie said.

“You want to call AAA?”

“I could call my husband.”

“You really want to give the
muj
your home number when their cell phone bill arrives?”

Hunter walked around the car, then ahead where he thought the road was, but his feet sunk into the soft sand. He returned to the car.

“We're going to have to walk to the road,” Hunter said. “Even if we get it out, we can't get through this. We'll get stuck again. I don't know how the hell he got it here, unless maybe we should've taken a left back when the road branched.”

“I don't know if I can make it,” Jackie said.

“I'll get you there.”

He dug through the junk in the Arab's backseat, then through the trunk searching for food or water. The guy had stashed away a bottle of whiskey, assorted porn magazines, but no more water. “You did the right thing letting the other Iraqi live. The guy's not al Qaeda. At least I don't think this is one of their training manuals.” Hunter held up a dog-eared copy of
Playboy
.

 

With Hunter carrying the AK, they set out for the highway. Lingering alongside a highway in twilight was not his idea of a good time. With their night vision equipment, the Americans ruled the night, but twilight was happy hour for the insurgents—time to lob off a few mortar rounds or ambush a convoy rushing back to the safety of a green zone. The weak, shifting light of dusk played tricks on night vision goggles and Black Hawk pilots and others patrolling the main convoy routes could easily be confused. Friendly fire was the last way Hunter wanted to go.

“So what are you doing here in Babylon?” Hunter said.

“I came with my husband. He's an oil exec.”

“I thought this was one of those posts where they didn't allow spouses.”

“He's got some kind of pull. I'm a soil scientist and there was going to be all kinds of work for geologists because of the oil. Petroleum is not really my thing, but I've got the degrees.”

A herd of camels grazed in the distance. Hunter couldn't tell if there was anyone with them or not. “The work didn't come through or what?”

“Oil here is a disaster. They're not back to prewar levels and if anyone tries to tell you they are, they're lying. There's no need for geologists here. No one's looking for new fields. They need engineers to get things running again and to keep patching them up after they're sabotaged. They could also use about a billion guards to protect the pipelines and the facilities.” Jackie stumbled and Hunter caught her by the arm before she hit the ground.

“You okay?”

“More or less—how far away do you think the road is?”

“Couple miles. Not too bad. I can carry you, if you don't think you can make it.”

“I'm okay. But one question, what do we do when we get to the highway?”

“Hitchhike.” Hunter gave her a thumb's up. “Except we won't use our thumbs—that gesture can get you in trouble in these parts. It's the local version of giving someone the bird. And I'll have to ditch the AK first.”

“And how do you think we can get Americans to stop for us when we're wearing these things?” She tugged on her dishdashah.

“They won't, unless you do something crazy like pull your off dress. They'd probably stop for a naked lady. We're going to have to hitch a ride with the locals and take our chances.”

“Then I'm stripping.”