The Knife (2015) by Ross Ritchell

Author:Ross Ritchell [Ritchell, Ross]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, War & Military, Literary, General
ISBN: 9780698185623
Google: Gh4LBAAAQBAJ
Amazon: 0399173404
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2015-02-04T11:00:00+00:00

4

The head of al-Ayeelaa sat in his upstairs bedroom, with the window open, puffing on an American cigarette. He’d seen footage of the raid in his city, in the very compound he owned, on the TV from his house nearly an hour away. Had he looked out the right window at the right time, he might have been able to see the smoke rising into the sky. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his fingers. The smoke of his cigarette trailed out the window, reaching toward the morning sun.

“Should we be worried?” his wife had asked him earlier.

Images of explosions and screaming masses flashed on the TV behind her. He knew many of the faces on the TV. She had her hands on her hips.

“No,” he said. “We shouldn’t.”

“You’re sure.”

“Yes.”

“You’re positive.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

She walked out of the room and tried herding her three children outside to play on the tire swing in the front yard. He had left the TV and climbed the stairs, sat on the edge of his bed.

He smoked only upstairs and had chosen Marlboros exclusively for the last decade, no matter how hard it was to get them. When he’d fought the Russians he smoked only Sobranies. He sat with his legs crossed, a wrist balanced elegantly over his knee. He looked at the leather bracelet on his wrist. A hunk of marble mountainside blasted by a Soviet rocket that had literally landed in his lap was fashioned between the dark leather straps. Pieces of the rock had lodged in his legs when the rocket hit, nearly killing him. He’d packed the rock in his sack and steeled his men and they held out and the Spetsnaz retreated. The man had called it a victory, though he probably knew it just hadn’t been a defeat. He had bracelets made up from the hunk of rock for his nephews and nieces, and their eyes lit up when they saw the flecks of ruby in the smoky rock. It made him smile. One of the nephews he’d given a bracelet to—his favorite and the only one who’d fought with him—was dead and another was missing. He vowed to care for the dead nephew’s wife, so he had her remarried to one of his top lieutenants. He hadn’t made it to the family pass yet to speak with his brother and formally grieve. Make peace.

The morning’s fight in his compound would complicate things. He and his wife had talked about what she would do if he was ever taken by the Americans. There would be one call from the phone buried in plastic in their compost pile out back. The family would wait, he hoped he’d return, and then they would have to go into hiding. They hadn’t had to yet, but he knew that probably wouldn’t last.

Most of the other cell leaders were arrogant and dead, or soon to be. They made videos claiming responsibility for attacks, and doing so restricted their movements. Meanwhile, he had been able to walk around, live a normal life with his family.

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