Page 68 of The Art of Dying

Matt was getting antsy, the cries of women and children almost too much for him to bear. I tried not to hear Dylan and Emily’s voices in those screams, but I knew the sounds would haunt me forever. We’d been pushing hard for days to catch up with Nooh, already running low on supplies. We finally had them in our sights, and the villages along Nooh’s path would be spared, the children taken freed. It made every grueling step, every minute the African sun beat down on us, every night soaked to the bone from the rain, every sticker, and every blister worth it.

We’d come across women and children who’d seen a brutal end, and the worst part was there didn’t seem to be any reason for it other than just violence. Those people didn’t have much, certainly not enough to warrant killing them over. They were being systematically wiped out, their daughters suffering unimaginable fates, their young sons absorbed into Nooh’s militia, and we were the only ones with means to stop the violence—the very people who were responsible for its onset.

“Bravo Team in position,” Hawk whispered.

“Copy, Bravo Team,” Trex said.

With his hands, Trex directed Harbinger and Sloan to the west side of the village. Martinez and Abrams to the right. He signaled for me to follow him down the center. From one hut to another, we cleared and then moved forward until we were at the far side where Nooh’s men were celebrating another night of senseless bloodshed.

Sloan set up a hundred yards away, and after Trex gave him the green light to release the first shot, the flames from the burning huts seemed dim from the bright flashes of gunfire. The militia scattered, and it was hard to discriminate between soldiers and the kidnapped children, making my aim more cautious and precise.

Once the surprise wore off, the higher-ranking men began calling their soldiers back. In fear of being shot by their own men—they returned, organized, and went on the offensive.

“On me! Go! Go! Go!” Trex said, advancing to the last hut not engulfed in flames.

I stood with my back to a thick mud wall, crouched and ducking each time a wave of bullets pelted the rudimentary barrier. As it happened, wet dirt dried under Sudanese sun—even in monsoon-like conditions—turned out to be solid anti-penetration blockades.

Martinez breathed out a laugh. “It’s in weird moments like this I wish Naomi was here to bail us out, sending them all running with her middle finger in the air.”

One corner of Matt’s mouth turned up. “You and me both, brother.”

“Lock it up,” I said. “They’re moving in.”

Nooh shouted orders from behind trees a couple hundred yards out.

“What’s it look like out there, Abrams?” Trex asked.

Matt popped his head out and then rested his head back against the pocked wall, looking up. “Fuck,” he said, breathing hard. “He sent the kids.” Matt looked at Trex, pleading with his eyes. We needed a plan fast, one that avoided shooting boys who—had they been born elsewhere, the youngest of them would’ve been asleep after a long day of kindergarten.

They stepped forward cautiously, their knobby knees and bare feet stepping over rock and brush toward our hut, their rifles held in front of them with tiny, shaking hands. It was evil. If they didn’t follow orders, they’d be shot on the spot. Moving in—armed—toward elite US soldiers was the safer option.

“Trex,” I said.

“I’m thinking.”

“Fifty yards,” Sloan whispered over comms.

“Copy,” Trex said. “Aim low. They’ll close their eyes. The more noise the better.”

Matt shook his head.

“Abrams? Focus.”

“I didn’t sign up to shoot at kids,” he said.

Trex frowned. “Your job is to stop Nooh from taking more. We’ll do what we can.”

Matt closed his eyes and whispered, “Heavenly Father, please give me supernatural sight and perfect my aim so your little ones are spared. Put your arms around them, Father God. Protect them.” His eyes opened, he sniffed once, then held tight to his rifle.

Just like Trex said, we stepped out and began to fire at the ground. Sniper shots from somewhere in the dark landed in front of little feet, stopping the boys in their tracks. We were yelling while Martinez lobbed smoke grenades. As expected, most of the kids hit the deck, but one stood, pointing a rifle at us.

Matt yelled in Arabic for the boy to lay down his weapon, but the kid squeezed the trigger, the bullet flying through Trex’s shoulder.

“God dammit!” I growled.

I aimed low and fired my weapon while Martinez grabbed the back of Trex’s collar and pulled him back to the hut.

I checked enemy position while Martinez checked Trex over.

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