Inside Straight

Lohengrin moved, kneeling to help her pick up the moaning, half-conscious Fortune. “No,” Michael called to the ace. His throat openings ached and the words grated. “I’ll get him for her.”

He lifted Fortune in his many arms. With Kate alongside him, stroking Fortune’s bloodied hair and crooning encouragement, he walked from the battlefield with the rest of the injured, his own great wound invisible.

Melinda M. Snodgrass Blood on the Sun

Golden light strobed across the white plaster walls as Bahir teleported into the room. The young soldier, his cheeks downy with the fragile growth of his first beard, gave a grunt of alarm, and the machine gun dropped from his nerveless fingers. Bahir caught the weapon before it could hit the floor and discharge. He handed it back to the boy, and felt the stitches in his right shoulder twinge.

“Go,” Bahir said. He had to repeat the command to be heard over the panicked shouts from the street below, the whine of a helicopter engine ramping up, the occasional chatter of gunfire, and the moaning wail of the wind tugging at the eaves of the mansion. The boy gulped and left.

The bedroom looked like the erstwhile ace Simoon had swept through. Carpets were missing. The silver coffee set that had been Abdul’s pride—and the source of so many tantrums when the coffee had been poorly prepared—was gone. The Caliph himself lay on the wide bed shrouded by the white mosquito netting, writhing and rolling, biting at the corner of a pillow, and emitting shrieks of rage and grief.

The door to the room flew open, and slammed against the wall. A panicked officer rushed in. “Caliph, we must flee. The aces may come.” He broke off and blurted, “Bahir. The battle … ?”

“Lost.”

There was a moan from the bed.

“We’re safe for the moment, but I would not linger.”

Abdul quailed before the burning gold eyes.

“Retreat?” the officer said.

“Yes,” Bahir said, and waved him out. He crossed to the bed. A broken mirror on the floor gave back a crazy kaleidoscope image of himself. The usual brilliant gold and red luster of his hair and beard were dimmed by a coating of sand, and the edge of his golden cloak was stained with blood and dirt. Blood also stained the front of his shirt where the cut from Lohengrin’s sword had broken open again. Bahir dropped onto his knees at the side of the bed. The rank smell of fear-driven sweat stung Bahir’s nostrils.

“Lost. Lost. Allah turns his face from me.” The Caliph’s voice held the same moaning wail as the wind that shook the windows with a booming hum.

“The Djinn was powerful, but you are the son of the Nur. Let us exact vengeance on the West.” It was a subtle push. It was never wise to let the Caliph think you were instructing him.

Abdul-Alim sat up and mopped his face on his sleeve. He was an unlovely sight, with his swollen, reddened eyes and red nose dripping snot. There were painful welts on his cheeks where he had been stung by the American ace’s wasps. “The UN secretary-general,” he said. “You said to invite him. If he hadn’t been here I couldn’t have seized him.” Abdul’s tone was querulous.

“Well, now we can use him. You can show them the justice of the Caliph.”

Abdul stood up and paced. The broken mirror cracked beneath his booted feet. “Yes. Yes. I warned them what would happen. His blood will be on their heads. I think I should kill him, yes?”

Bahir bowed his head. “What is your command?”

“Yes, yes, kill him.”

Bahir felt a momentary flare of joy. At last. “It will be done. But, my lord, you must tell me where you have hidden him. When last I checked, he had been moved. I hope at your command.”

The narrow lips stretched in a cunning, self-satisfied smile. The Caliph rested a hand on Bahir’s head, then slid it down and across his cheek. The palm was moist with sweat. Bahir felt his own sweat trickle like an insect crawling through the hair at his temples, and burn in the sword cuts. Each throb of his pulse counted the passing seconds. “I hid him in the burial chamber of the Great Pyramid.”

And as Bahir swept his golden cloak around himself, and felt that nerve-deep stretch and pop, he reflected how the choice of hiding place exemplified everything that was wrong with Abdul-Alim.

~ ~ ~

His arrival never made a sound. When he left a space there was a faint pop, like the bursting of a soap bubble as air rushed back into the space previously occupied by his body, but the arrival was soundless. There was no warning for the four guards who sat around a card table on folding chairs. Their Uzis leaned against the legs of the chairs or were slung by their straps. A softly hissing propane lantern threw its yellow glow across the massive cut stones. Jayewardene sat on the floor. His hands were tied behind his back, his ankles bound, and his head was covered by a hood.