The blow ricocheted off Carroll’s shoulder before hitting his head. But the boy had swung the rifle butt with enough force to knock him out of his seat. Carroll was vaguely aware of a woman’s shrill voice—“Kill him …”
The driver pulled the bus to the side of the road and turned off the — headlights. Carroll could hear the brakes groaning through the floorboards. A sour smell assaulted his senses. Was it the tattered rubber floor matting? He pretended unconsciousness, trying to push away the fuzz swirling through his head. All the passengers were awake, jabbering and shouting, undecided and confused.
“Kill him.” It was the same woman’s voice. No one seemed to be listening to her.
“Move him,” a male voice said. “He’s blocking the aisle.” Four hands picked him up and shoved him into a seat.
Carroll didn’t move, his chin on his chest. The fuzz was shredding, leaving a splitting headache. He could feel the right side of his head throb. What the hell had happened? He could hear most of the passengers clambering off the bus, anxious to get away and not be involved. The padding under him shifted — he was in the same seat. The side of his head didn’t feel warm or moist, apparently he wasn’t bleeding. Only the woman’s voice dominated the conversation around him and no one seemed to be listening to her repeated demands to kill him. There was no one in charge. He listened for traffic, tried to figure a way to escape. Now he was sure they were on a deserted part of the highway. But what had given him away? He decided to risk a groan.
“Kill him—” the woman said again—“my sons, my husband, martyred, and now this foreign devil lives, filth on the earth—”
“His name is Javad Khalian,” the man who had been sharing the seat with Carroll said. “He is a sergeant in the commandos of the Revolutionary Guard. He is one of the elite.”
“You believe him? He is the man the Council of Guardians is looking for …”
“And how many suspects have they already hung?” another voice said.
Carroll decided it was time to become a player before someone with a clue took charge. He moved and groaned again, opening his eyes. A black-shrouded figure hovered in front of him. He blinked at the woman and she jumped back. A twelve-year-old boy held his AK-47, the muzzle pointed directly at him. Was he the one who had knocked him down? “Point it at the ground,” he told the boy. “Only raise it when you intend to kill in the name of Allah.”
“Kill him now,” the woman carried on.
The boy did as Carroll said.
“The devil speaks English in his sleep. What more proof do you need?” the woman said.
At least she had given Carroll his answer.
Slowly Carroll raised his hands, looking at the boy like they were playing a game. “My papers are in my shirt pocket.” He pointed at his left pocket with his chin. The boy propped the AK-47 against a seat and reached for his pocket. “No,” Carroll ordered, “you are the guard. Hold the rifle ready to use if I make a wrong move. Order someone else to search me.”
The boy grabbed the rifle and pointed it at Carroll before he remembered to drop the muzzle. A man made his way through the small crowd and pushed Carroll back against the window, ripping the identification papers out of Carroll’s pocket.
“Now search me,” Carroll ordered. He shouldered the man back as he stood up, testing the newcomer. The man pushed back but not hard enough to make him sit down. “I said search me.”
The man awkwardly patted him down. “I will be the one to pull the trigger,” he told Carroll.
Carroll shrugged the man’s hands off before they reached the knife taped to the inside of his calf or the coiled wire in his thigh pocket. “This is the way to search,” he said, and pulled off his camouflaged shirt. He pointed to the long scar on his stomach that was a reminder of a bicycle accident in the sixth grade. “I was wounded four years ago in front of Basra.” He pointed to a burn scar on his right shoulder, the result of brushing against a hot exhaust pipe when he was working under his first car. “From a phosphorus shell. Now show me your scars.”
Even the woman was silent as Carroll established control.
“Enough of this, let’s finish it. You have my papers. Where is the nearest unit of the Guards? Which of you is going to call Abbas Gharazi of the Saltanatabad Revolutionary Committee in Tehran? He will describe me to you.”
The crowd was silent — Gharazi was well known as a dedicated butcher.
“No,” Carroll said, “you do not walk away from this. You knock me to the ground”—he could see the boy wince—“and you demand my death. You say you will pull the trigger”—he stared at the man who had searched him—“and I say enough, where are the Guards headquartered around here?”
The bus driver, standing at the rear of the crowd, wanted nothing to do with this angry commando. “Sixteen kilometers behind us.”
“Good. We will delay you no longer. This brave man and woman who only bear imaginary scars in their heads will take me to them.” He gestured at the two. “We will walk or commandeer a passing car—”
“But he speaks English in his sleep,” the woman persisted.
“I am an interpreter and I also speak Arabic and French. I must have been dreaming. In which language was I speaking?”
No one was really sure. They only knew he had been speaking a foreign language that sounded like English. The woman seemed momentarily subdued but hardly convinced.
“You,”—Carroll nodded at the boy—“must make a decision. Either give my rifle to this heap of shit”—he nodded at the man who had searched him—“or keep it. It has served me well in the holy wars against our enemies. It will serve you well. Or you can turn it in when you reach home and explain to the authorities how you got it.”
The bus driver had returned to his seat and started the engine, urging them to get off his bus and let him escape this business. “I’ll need the rifle to guard him,” the searcher said, reaching for the AK-47. The boy shook his head and backed up, clutching the assault rifle.
“Here, take this,” another passenger said, shoving an old pistol at the man, eager to be rid of him and the commando.
“My bag,” Carroll said, and reached under the seat. He threw the shoulder bag at the woman and led the way off the bus, putting his shirt back on. The woman started to protest but the other passengers shoved her out and threw her suitcase after her. The man picked up his bag and followed, hurried along by shouts.
“I will use your rifle well,” the boy called from the bus.
“Insh’ Allah,” Carroll replied.
The bus driver snapped the door close as he ground away, kicking up a cloud of dust, leaving the three standing beside the road in the dark.
“Kill him now, before it is too late,” the woman said. “He is trouble—”
“But what if you’re right?” Carroll said. “Ten thousand dollars in gold?” Greed lit up in the man’s eyes. The three sat down and waited for a car. After a few minutes Carroll stretched out, waiting for his headache to ease its pounding. He even fell asleep.
“Ray, you smell.” Lorrie set a mug of beer on the bar in front of the sergeant. “Don’t you ever take a shower?”
“Get off my back. Take showers all the time.” Staff Sergeant Raymond Byers was the only customer in Piccolo Pete’s Pizza Palace in Alamogordo, New Mexico. He had worked a late shift at Holloman Air Force Base getting his F-15 ready for an early morning flight and had stopped for a beer on his way home. Byers had dogged Hydraulics until they fixed the leaking speed brake actuator to his satisfaction. As usual he had spent another half hour cleaning up their mess after the technician had signed off the maintenance forms. He kept the best jet in the wing.