The incessant rain continued the next day. It had slowed some, turning more into a steady drizzle than a downpour. Either way, John hated it. He blinked some of the water out of his eyes and focused on the path below. He had worked out a plan with Bangor early that next morning. He hadn’t gotten enough sleep, but there was no time to indulge like he wanted to.
The village chief would inform the American soldiers that John, Ali, and Neesha had been spotted moving towards the village. Hopefully, the two soldiers would walk through this choke point on their way to set up an ambush. He fully intended to ambush them first.
He and Ali had been sitting in the rain for three hours up to this point. They had limited ammunition, but they had the trail well covered between the two of them. He still worried about Ali’s effectiveness. The boy was not trained for this type of warfare. Still, he doubted he could take care of both soldiers easily without him.
He studied the trees and the path below. It had been quiet. The rain kept most of the animals huddled up in whatever shelter they had retreated to, and not even the sound of a bird reached his ears. The rain did keep the plague of insects away, and that, at least, was something to be grateful for. Unfortunately, the rain also drowned out any of the sounds two men approaching the ambush sight would make.
Some sixth sense warned him that something wasn’t right. He looked closer at the tree line below. He let his eyes graze over shadows and hiding spots, trying to register something—anything—that wasn’t right. He swore to himself. Without actually seeing anyone, he knew his ambush had been spotted. He and Ali were being hunted.
Probably they had seen Ali first and were now looking for him. There were only so many places one could go to observe the path below, so no doubt he would be located swiftly. A small, imperceptible motion caught his eye, and he immediately rolled to his right. A line of bullets stitched the dirt where he had just lain.
He returned fire immediately, not to hit anything, but to force the attacker down. He slipped into the underbrush, moving quickly. He needed to reposition. He looped quickly through the think underbrush trying to confuse his attacker as to his exact whereabouts. An exchange of gunfire reached his ears and he stopped.
Ali.
He cursed again, hoping the young man somehow managed to survive. Keeping to the underbrush and shadows he made his way down the slope. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have surrendered the high ground, but he needed to check on Ali. When he managed to work his way to where he had left the young man, there was nothing there except a blood stain.
Swearing under his breath, he looked around. The boy was injured. Where would he go? He peeked around a tree trunk and nearly got his head blown off for his efforts. Bullets struck the tree next to him. He jerked back as splinters bit his cheek. He rolled out the other side and unleashed a flurry of gunfire at the spot the attack had come from. He rolled again behind another tree, got up and swung around, lining his sights up on the spot.
A still and irregular shape lay near a low bush. He studied it for some time before moving towards it, keeping low. He kept his rifle trained on the shape, just in case. When he got there, he found the dead American with a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. That was a lucky shot, he mused. One down. One to go.
His head came up at the sound of a single gunshot. American military. He darted into the trees, closing in on the position. He came to a small clearing where one man stood over another. The man standing was dressed in full battle armor. He had his sidearm drawn and pointing down at the still form of a young man.
Ali.
“Drop your weapon!” John ordered, moving into the clearing from behind the soldier.
The man froze and for a long second, John though he would try to spin and shoot, but finally the gun dropped and the man held a single hand up. The other was pressed to his stomach.
“Take five steps backwards and get on your knees,” John ordered again. The man complied without saying anything. “Interlace your fingers behind your head.”
This time, the man complied more slowly, and when he brought his second hand up, John saw blood. Moving around the man, he went to check on Ali, but a single glance confirmed the worst. Ali was dead. It looked like he had taken several bullets.
He turned to look at the soldier, who knelt in the mud and rain. His face was pale and he had taken a wound to his abdomen. Ali hadn’t gone down without a fight. Good. “He was just a boy,” he whispered to the solider. “You didn’t have to kill him.”
The man swayed some on his knees. “Orders. Where is the girl?”
“She’s dead too,” John lied. “She was in the hut you blew up.”
The man nodded shortly. “What are you going to do with me?”
John looked at the camera attached to the man’s helmet. “It’s over,” he said, knowing the entire world was watching. “Every one of you who watched this farce of a game is guilty. Every one of you who laid down a bet or cheered when someone died is guilty. These young people committed no crime. Their violent inclinations were purged. What about yours and the governments who sponsored this violence?” Knowing that his little speech was doing no good to a world that didn’t want to hear it, he added, “And where is your money now? Who’s got it?”
Reaching out he plucked the camera from the lone surviving soldier and destroyed it.