20

On my way home, the sky grew darker. More than a typical storm was brewing. This was the kind of squall that had the power to clear streets. The temperature took a nosedive, and a whoosh of air shook my car. I leaned forward, peering at the clouds and trying to determine whether I’d make it home before the sky unleashed its wrath. I got my answer in no time. Scathing gusts of wind began to rip apart the tin roofs of miserable shacks packed with the poorest residents of Bamako. Metal scraps and plastic bags soared through the lightning-laced sky like birds of ill omen. A dense rain beat down, bombarding my Toyota, studding the ground with small geysers and filling the gutters with muddy water. I had to put on my brights. It looked like nighttime in the middle of the afternoon. All motorcyclists had stopped under the bridges. Suddenly, I was blinded by a set of ultra-powerful headlights in my rearview. I blinked, cursed, and readjusted the mirror. When I turned around, I saw a large black SUV on my tail, just inches from my bumper.

It was the same vehicle that had followed me before.

They were back.

It was about time.

Clever tricks wouldn’t get me out of it this time. Anyhow, I didn’t want out. I got off the main route at the first intersection, committing myself to the suburbs of Bamako. Driving over the rain-ravaged dirt roads, I passed the deserted Kalaban-Coura market, with that damned SUV still goosing my tailpipe. I was in a state of feverish exhilaration, wavering between yellow-bellied fear and white-hot anger. I thought about Drissa, and hatred welled up in me. A hatred so pure, so ample, so perfect, I felt like a suicide bomber putting on his explosives vest. I pulled out my Glock, turned around, and tried to aim despite the jolting of my car as it sped over the ruts. Finally, I made an educated guess and fired through the rear window of my poor Toyota.

The crack of the bullet made my ears ring. The glass shattered in intricate crystals and landed all over the backseat. The black 4x4’s windshield looked star-spangled. I pulled the trigger two more times.

Whistling was all I could hear in my right ear. Behind me, the vehicle swerved and crashed into a brick wall, which collapsed on it. The engine howled like a wounded animal. Shrieking victoriously, I slammed on the brakes, and my car skidded to a stop. I opened the door and jumped out. I had something of an out-of-body experience as I looked at the scene. In no time at all, the street had become a muddy torrent. Water was up to my ankles, and gusts of wind whipped my face. How had my old Toyota made it this far? I didn’t have time to mull it over. I slogged over to the SUV. With my still-fuming Glock in hand, I opened the driver’s-side door. The man was vomiting blood. One of my bullets had hit his throat. The other guy had hit the windshield. His head was bobbing, but he was still lucid, and he was struggling to open the glove box.

I rushed to the other side of the car. When I put my hand on the handle, he shoved the door open and sent me flying. I wound up on my back in a deep puddle. I dropped my Glock and swallowed a huge mouthful of thick mud. I sat up and spit the stuff out. I was still trying to catch my breath when an enormous figure appeared in front of me. He leaned in close, his face dripping blood. The passenger and the guy with the machete were one and the same. I desperately grappled for my weapon. But before I could find it, the monster grabbed me by the neck and threw back his other arm. I saw his coconut-sized fist coming toward me and lowered my head. The cranium is the hardest bone in the human body and those in the hand are the weakest. Still, it was an incredibly rough blow. My brain bounced in my skull like a pinball machine. The guy howled and released me, leaving me to fall flat on my belly. He straightened up, holding his hand. For sure, it was fractured.

I kicked and flailed in the thick muck, and then my hand grazed something hard—the butt of my Glock. Re-armed, I was hoping to turn things around, but the muscleman had grabbed me by the ankles and was dragging me along. I swallowed more mud. Half-choking, I managed to turn on my back. A remarkable kick to the side sent me flying. I landed in the puddle again, groaning and on the verge of losing consciousness. The man was now straddling me, holding a huge rock in his good hand with the obvious intention of smashing my skull. Luckily, I hadn’t let go of my weapon. I fired twice. The first bullet went soaring into the wilderness. The second struck his knee. He wailed and staggered as he tried to balance himself, still holding the menacing rock.

“Motherfucker!” I yelled.

I aimed and shot at his elbow. Bull’s-eye. The rock fell right between my legs. I strained to get up and look him in the face. The giant, who was gushing blood every which way, emitted a strange flutelike cry. Yelling, I thrust myself on him, grabbing his neck as my knee dug into his gut. He tumbled like an uprooted tree and pulled me down with him. I emerged from the water coughing and spitting up. Now my opponent was vomiting out his insides. I crawled over to him and planted myself on his chest. As I sat on him, he lifted his head toward me, his eyes pleading and tearful.

“His name was Drissa,” I rasped.

The giant looked confused.

“The guy whose hand you chopped off.”

A faint glimmer flashed in his eyes, and he smiled. “The old guy,” he said.

With my hands around his neck, I pushed his fat head under the muddy water and held it there. He thrashed, but with little energy. He had lost a lot of blood. He puked again as I brought him back up.

“His name was Drissa, and he was my only friend,” I said.

“Drissa,” he repeated, nodding weakly.

He was trembling like a child, but I didn’t give a shit. In my head, I was watching the machete swoop down, the dark blood burst from Drissa’s raw stump, and the terror rush into his eyes.

“Who was that toubab who was with you that day?”

“He’s my boss.”

“I know he’s your boss. I want his name.”

“Rafael.”

“Rafael what?”

“Rafael, that’s it.”

I could read in his eyes that this was all he knew. No surprise there. Strongmen like him could be picked up in dozens of Bamako weight rooms. For a little money, they’d kill anybody, no questions asked. I wouldn’t get anything else out of the guy. I dunked his head under water, and as he thrashed listlessly, I whistled a nursery rhyme that Marion used to sing to Alexander when he had a hard time falling asleep. I could feel the water rushing into his lungs like a wineskin filling up.

My car had agreed to start after wheezing, sputtering, and spitting out a plume of black smoke. Soaked and shivering, I was finally driving on a paved road. On the passenger seat, I had thrown a business card found in the glove compartment of my followers’ SUV. I had to search their vehicle quickly, as I feared the police would show up at any moment. The card, which had been lying under the unused black revolver, bore the logo of Cartagena Export Mining and Trading—the company Stéphane Humbert worked for. On the back was a scribbled cell phone number. I was trying to think, but my mind was in a spastic state, and I realized I was muttering a string of incoherent thoughts like a crazy person. I tried to pull it together. Eventually I started to calm down. What I needed to do now was go home, warm up, and figure things out. Atop the Monts Mandingue, sunlight was peeking through the shreds of gray clouds.