AMIRA by Matthew Betley (feel good books to read .TXT) 📕

“Then why do this?”

Amira moved back as if perplexed by the question.  “Because this is what I do.  Because you’re the bad guy, and I’m the good guy sent to stop you.  It’s all very simple.  Now, listen to me very carefully.  You attacked the wrong facility.  You should’ve never shut down the oil supply.  It was very short-sighted of you, but you’re a self-proclaimed freedom fighter, I’m sure.  You bastards never really think things through on the macro level.  And for that, you’re going to pay the ultimate price.”

“Oil?  You’re an American,” the man spat back.  “It’s always about the oil with you people.  How much blood have you spilled in the Middle East over it?  You’re no different than me, no matter what you say.”

Amira knew he had a point.  “You’re not totally wrong, but I don’t make policy.  I just carry it out on a very tactical level.  But it’s irrelevant.  Here’s the bottom line: one of you is going to die right now, and because you’re in much better shape than your friend, here, I’m going to leave it up to you to decide.”

Amira watched the dawning horror on the man’s face as he realized the unthinkable decision she’d just placed in his hands.  “You can’t,” he said, his voice suddenly acidic with hate.  “Asim and I grew up together as brothers.  Kill us both.  I’d rather die.”

“It’s okay, Omar,” Asim said.  “You should…carry on…the cause.”

They were the last words Asim spoke, as Amira quickly raised the SIGSAUER and shot him in the forehead from only a few feet away.  The loud bark of the suppressed pistol felt magnified in the darkness, and Omar screamed in anguish, an honest, mournful cry that made Amira feel slightly guilty about what she’d just done.  Don’t.  These men are monsters.  God knows how many lives they’ve taken.  This is justice.  Real, hard, African justice. 

“You…bitch,” Omar said, tears streaking down his face.

“You didn’t want to make a choice.  So I made it for you.  And now, it’s your turn,” Amira said coldly, holstering the pistol.

Amira bent down and deftly rolled him over, his hands and feet secure.  He struggled and squirmed on his stomach, cursing her, but she ignored it.  An expert in judo, she mounted his lower back and easily manipulated his body with her strong legs.  She bent down and whispered into his right ear, “Put your hands over your head, or I’m going to use this machete to cut your throat.”

Omar continued to buck beneath her but realized quickly he had no leverage.  He stopped struggling, and said, “You’re going to burn for this.”

“Maybe, but I’d like to think that if either one of us is going to burn for our sins, it’s you.  Now, place your arms over your head, slowly.”

Omar rolled slightly to his right and removed his arms from under his chest, rotating his shoulders until his secured hands stretched out above him.

Amira grabbed his hands and placed them on a large, flat rock.  He tried to keep his hands balled into fists, but she slammed the butt of the machete into the back of his hand, not hard enough to break bones but hard enough to reflexively cause his fist to open.  She grabbed his left ring and pinky fingers in her left hand.

“I have to know,” Amira said in a low voice, taunting him, “how many people have you killed with this blade?  It’s sharp, cared for, the way I care for my stilettos.  I see a few dark spots on the leather handle.  No doubt that’s blood.  I dread to think whose.”

Omar remained silent, which was an admission of guilt in Amira’s eyes.

“That’s what I thought.  Monsters like you never acknowledge their misdeeds.  You’re nothing but a criminal and a coward,” Amira said, baiting him.

“Coward?” Omar spat out from beneath her, his face in the dirt.  “I’ve killed more people with that weapon than you can imagine, and every one of them deserved it.”  His voice rang true with self-delusion, justifying the horrors for which he was responsible.

“You know, I thought you’d say something like that,” Amira said, quickly extending his two fingers flat on the rock.  “And I’m really glad you did.”

“Why is that?” Omar asked, confused.

“Because then I don’t feel so badly about this,” Amira replied, and brought the machete swiftly and forcefully down.

Chapter 16

Paolich Airport, Southern Sudan

0623 Local Time

The dim morning light increased in intensity as Amira Cerone walked back across the runway of the Paolich Airport towards the camp the USAID workers had established.  She’d driven back towards the pumping facility, abandoned the Hilux outside the north perimeter, retrieved her backpack, changed clothes, and begun the several-mile hike back to camp. Her adrenaline from the firefights and mission accomplishment had energized her for the long walk.  She’d contemplated her final conversation with Omar, her only regret that her leadership wanted him alive.

“You know, you’re lucky.  If it were up to me, you’d be in the afterlife with your friend,” Amira had said as she’d thrown some QuickClot on the stubs at the first joints of his two fingers and bandaged them.  “But you’re a message, and I need you to understand that.  But even if you don’t get it, I’m sure others will.”

“And what is that?” Omar had asked, cradling his mutilated left hand in his right, his wrists still zip-tied together.

“That you should’ve never taken the pumping station, that you should’ve let the referendum play out next month.  South Sudan will get its independence.  Everyone knows it.  Your soon-to-be country didn’t need you, no matter what your ego thinks.  It will be here soon enough, and this is the critical part – if you or any other group decide to attack that or any other pumping station, it won’t be just me that comes