Blue Warrior by Mike Maden

leaders, do you remember your orders?”
    “Yes, sir!”
    “And the rest of you? Are you ready to cleanse our land of the Tuareg filth that has covered it?”
    “Yes, sir!”
    “Do you hate the arrogant Tuaregs as much as I do?”
    “Yes, sir!”
    “Their white skin?”
    “YES, SIR!” Now their faces broke into smiles. Some of them stood, shouting and throwing their fists.
    Number Two shouted, “Mali for Africans! Mali for Songhai!” The bus rocked violently.
    “Mali for Africans! Mali for Songhai!” they echoed. Naddah pumped his fists in the air and shouted with them.
    Number Two shouted louder, “MALI FOR AFRICANS! MALI FOR SONGHAI!”
    “GANDA KOY! GANDA KOY! GANDA KOY! GANDA KOY!”
    —
    T he boy drank the ice-cold Coke greedily, sweat still pouring down his small, handsome face. Ibrahim loved that small face. It reminded him so much of his daughter, long since dead.
    Ibrahim laughed. “Not so fast, you’ll get cramps.” He owned one of the few small refrigerators in the village, along with one of the few kerosene-burning generators to power it. He loved that boy with all of his heart. Everything he had was his, in time.
    The boy drained the last dark bubbles from the bottle, then grimaced. “Wee-ya!” He laughed, eyes watering with the Coke burn in the back of his throat.
    Ibrahim roared and clapped his old, dark hands. He was tempted to offer him another. But the sound of the whooshing air brakes outside and the squeak of heavy leaf springs invaded the magical moment. Was it a truck? What would a truck be doing here?
    Ibrahim and his grandson exchanged a glance, each asking the same questions with their eyes.
    Ibrahim stepped over to the doorway, his grandson at his side. Ibrahim saw an old bus, faded white. Saw the black words painted on the side. Words that nearly stopped his heart. His worst fear.
    Ganda Koy.
    The bus’s front door snapped open with a clang. A dozen black men with rifles and machetes poured out. The rear emergency gate swung open, too, and still more men with guns and machetes leaped into the dirt. Women with guns, too. Strange, he thought, his feet frozen in terror.
    A wild-eyed Songhai man in a faded military uniform pointed andshouted at Ibrahim. Three men in mismatched camouflage pants and soccer shirts put rifles to their shoulders.
    “Run!” Ibrahim grabbed his grandson by his shirt and dragged him away from the door as the rifles exploded behind them.
    “The phone!” Ibrahim pointed at the cell phone charging on the car battery, but his grandson didn’t need the direction. He snatched the phone up on a dead run, snapping the charging cable in half. No matter now.
    The rifles opened up again. Bullets splattered the canned goods on the shelves in a spray of peaches and milk, then stitched the wall above their heads as they dashed passed it, shards of mud brick stinging their faces. His grandson yelped but kept running toward the back of their little house. They spoke often of escape plans should such a day arrive. Ibrahim had put a door in the back of the kitchen for access to the little courtyard and outhouse, but also as an escape route. His grandson bolted for the door and yanked it open as Ibrahim reached into a drawer.
    “Run! Find Mossa!”
    “No! Not without you!”
    “RUN!” Ibrahim flung the skinny young body out the heavy wooden door and slammed it shut. He turned as heavy feet pounded through his front doorway, an ancient French army revolver now in his trembling hands. He pointed it at the doorway, pulling the trigger as fast as he could at the screaming faces spilling through, guns blazing. Fists of molten lead slammed him against the door, clawing his chest open like a hoe turning wet earth after a storm. His body tumbled into the dirt, blocking the exit, the boy’s name on his lips like a prayer.
    Maputo International Airport
Maputo, Mozambique
    Pearce and Hawkins stood by the tall glass window of the new Chinese-built international terminal. Pearce