What the shooter couldn’t know as he armed his weapon was whether his target would be wearing protective garments, a possibility he had accordingly anticipated by aiming high. But complicating matters, each of his missiles arched in a slightly different trajectory. Of the select few he had brought with him, the one he now readied seemed to fly most true. He waited for a confederate’s cue to shoot that came more abruptly than expected. Forced to launch prematurely, knowing he would have no second chance, silently mouthing God Is Great, he inhaled deeply and gave his best shot.read more...
Saya had not decided whether to let Olafson see Ambon. She left him tied up in a water-filled pit that was lined with bamboo spears, not so much as a test but merely to keep him occupied for a few hours. He stared at her, wild-eyed with fear, and she disappeared into the rainforest.
She had not visited the spice plantation for more than two weeks, not since the day she had taken possession of Olafson. The home where she had grown up, what was left of it, was much higher upland than the cannibal hamlets and the hidden kamp where Saya now slept.
“Look at these people,” said Arif pointing at the television. “Look at the way they talk and talk.”
“Well, isn’t that the point?” I asked.
“The point of what?”
Arif’s face turned bright red.
“What this country needs is a monarch,” he said, “a kind and benevolent monarch.”
He removed his eyes from the nightly news to stare at me again.
“None of this democracy mess.”