The house had shielded the well from the worst of the blast. Hunter dropped the bucket into it and waited for a splash. It clanked as it hit the dry bottom.
He pulled the rope, hoisting the bucket back to the surface. The well was shallow, not more than twenty feet deep. Since mud coated one side of the bucket, water couldn’t be too much deeper. The rope was long and it didn’t seem too badly frayed. Peering into the dark pit, he knew what he had to do if he didn’t want them both to die from lack of water.
Hunter tied the rope to one of the date palms. Jackie sat watching him, her arms crossed, rocking herself. No way was he going to leave his AK with the unstable lady. It was going down the hole with him.
He kicked off his sandals and threw his leg over the side. His man-dress caught on a broken brick. He couldn’t stand maneuvering in the awkward thing any longer. He had no doubt why the man-dress had never gone over in the West. They totally sucked. Man-purses like some Europeans carried at least had some practical advantages he could understand, but not the mandress. He vowed never to give a woman a dress as a gift again. It wasn’t right.
Hunter turned to Jackie and shouted. “Look the other way, okay?”
She shook her head and didn’t turn away as he propped the AK-47 up against the side of the wall and peeled off the dishdashah. He reached for the gun again, then talked himself out of taking it with him. It would be an extra hassle and it was very unlikely that a target would lean over the top and into the very narrow range of fire he’d be afforded from the bottom of the well.
He lowered himself unarmed and naked into the well. He liked fast-roping, but not without protective gloves, so he kept his descent slow.
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.