Page 3 of War

“Move along,” I say.

The shadowy figure is maybe ten meters away. They raise their hands, stepping forward a little.

“I just wanted to know what a girl like you was doing out this late,” the man calls out.

So, the individual’s not a prostitute and probably not the police either. That leaves the Muslim Brotherhood, a local gang member, or an ordinary civilian willing to pay for a woman’s company. Of course, he could also be a fellow raider looking to poach my finds off of me.

“I’m not a prostitute,” I call out.

“I didn’t think you were.”

So, not a confused customer.

“If you’re with the Brotherhood,” I say, “I’ve paid my dues for the month.” It’s the cost of moving about the city with impunity.

“It’s alright,” the man says. “I’m not with the Brotherhood.”

A raider then?

He takes a step towards me. Then another.

I pull my bowstring back, the wood of my bow groaning.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He says it so kindly that Iwantto believe him. But I’ve learned to trust what people do rather than what they say, and he’snotbacking off.

A criminal then. Honest people don’t just sweet talk their way into getting closer unless they want something from you.

And whatever he wants, I doubt I’m going to like it.

“If you come any closer, I will shoot,” I warn.

His footfalls pause, and the two of us stand there for several seconds at an impasse.

He’s standing in the shadows between the gaslit streetlamps, so it’s hard to make out what he’s doing, but I think he’s going to leave. It would be the wise thing to do.

His footfalls resume—one, two, three—

I close my brown eyes briefly. This is no way to start a day.

The man begins to pick up his pace as he gains more confidence that I won’t shoot. He’s completely unaware that I’ve done this before.

Forgive me.

I release the arrow.

I don’t see quite where it lands in the darkness, but I do hear the man’s choked gasp, and then I see him collapse.

For several seconds I stay where I am. Only reluctantly do I lower my bow and walk over to him, a hand hovering near the dagger at my hip.

As I get close, I see my arrow protruding from the man’s throat, his blood darkening his skin and the ground beneath him. His breathing is wheezy and labored.

I stare at his face for several seconds as he grasps at the projectile. I don’t recognize him, not that I assumed I would. I guess that’s a relief. My eyes go to the bag he was carrying.

Crouching down, I open it up and rifle through his things. Rope, a crowbar, and a knife. A murder’s starter pack.

Unease skitters through me. Most people who do bad things have their motives—greed, power, lust, self-preservation. It’s unnerving to cross paths with someone who plans on hurting you not as a means to an end, but as the end itself.

The man’s choking breaths slow, then stop altogether, his chest going still.

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