I tried to pull away, but, as before, the men behind painfully gripped my arms as Zuberi slipped his blade into the flap of my coat and sliced through the fasteners as though they were made of cheese.
My arms were released long enough for one of the men behind me to yank my opened coat down my back, further pinning my arms to my body. When my upper arms were restrained again, he held his knife to my neck.
I saw deep pleasure on Zuberi’s face as he placed his blade precisely at the V-neck of my scrub shirt and cut straight down. Fabric parted with a whisper as the sharp steel divided my shirt, the center of my bra, the elastic of my pants, along with a layer of my skin from my clavicle to my belly.
I screamed with all the air in my lungs and struggled to get my arms free, but I might as well have been nailed to a wall. I knew what was going to happen to me. People were routinely beheaded in South Sudan. I’d seen the decapitated bodies outside the gates. I’d seen detached heads on the killing field.
I tried to send my mind to God, but I was distracted as the monster sheathed his knife and mumbled, “Now, let me see.”
He grabbed a fistful of my clothing in each hand and tore my scrubs apart in one movement.
The entire front of my body was naked and exposed.
The Gray soldiers laughed and hooted and gathered around. Instinctively, I tried to cover myself, but it was futile. The man behind me pressed his blade to my throat. I couldn’t move.
Zuberi laughed.
“You look better with clothes,” he said. “No. I don’t want to screw with you. I want whatever your stinking government will pay to get you back alive. A million dollars U.S., at least. Thank you, Brigid Fitzgerald, for coming to Magwi.”
“They’ll pay nothing!” I shouted into Zuberi’s mocking face. I was helpless. Humiliated. He had won. All I had was the spit in my mouth, a very poor weapon, but I let it fly.
My saliva hit Zuberi between the eyes.
It was a feeble gesture, but Zuberi went crazy, wiping frantically with his sleeve as though I’d flung acid in his face. He cursed me in a language I didn’t know.
And as I expected, the man standing directly behind me grabbed my hair and pulled my head back, baring my throat to the leaden, drizzling sky.
He growled, “Do you love life? Apologize to Colonel Zuberi or die.”
I had written to Sabeena, I’ll be back by dinner. That had been a wish, a prayer, and, although I had been bluffing, I had visualized my triumphal return.
I had thought too highly of myself. I had thought I could do the impossible. I saw that now. No more than three minutes had passed since Zuberi’s men had grabbed me from the line outside the post office. I’d accomplished nothing. I never had a chance.
Dear God. Forgive me my trespasses. I’m ready.
Chapter 43
I FLUNG the doors of my mind wide open to God and braced for death. But He didn’t speak to me. Rather, I heard pops of gunfire, and in a pause, a distinctly American voice shouted, “Drop the knife!”
The blade bit into my neck and I fully expected to feel it slide across my throat. Instead, there was more gunfire. The man with the knife grunted and fell to the mud at my feet. The one holding my arms also dropped, moaning and coughing out his last breath.
I didn’t hesitate.
I dove for the ground and covered the back of my neck with my hands.
There were more shots, and then a heavy-duty vehicle tore around the corner from the main street and braked within yards of me. I stayed down as bullets strafed the street. A third man, part of Zuberi’s armed guard, ran, and he too was cut down.
I lifted my face and saw Zuberi, along with several of his men, zigzagging around the bodies and running toward the odd assortment of vehicles parked across the street.
Another salvo of bullets chattered, and someone grabbed my arm. I wrenched it away.
I heard, “Lady, it’s me.”
It was Kwame. It was Kwame.
He helped me to my feet, and we ran to the side of the post office. From there, I saw a truck swerve to avoid a pedestrian and collide with a car, which in turn skidded into another car. In the midst of the chaos, Zuberi had reached his Land Rover and had gotten in beside a driver.
Kwame yelled, “He’s going now!”
Zuberi’s Land Rover rammed into a parked car in front, then backed into a truck behind it. The driver was trying to make an opening, an avenue of escape, and, in fact, the nose of the vehicle now had a clear shot at the road to Torit.
But as the Land Rover lurched ahead, two U.S. Army Humvees roared up and blocked it.
American soldiers poured out of their Humvees. Bullets sprayed Zuberi’s ride, killing his driver. Zuberi stuck his hands up and shouted, “Stop shooting! I give up!”
Soldiers pulled open the doors and dragged Zuberi out of the Land Rover, then slammed him across the hood and stripped him of his weapons.
I heard Kwame saying, “Lady. Look here.”
He had taken off his long, boxy shirt, and after peeling off my raincoat, he stuck my numb arms through his shirtsleeves. I couldn’t manage buttonholes, so Kwame closed the shirt for me, picked up my raincoat, and draped it over my shoulders.