envisioning the middle-aged Japanese importer who ran a small martial arts supply business out of his clothing store not far away. He didn’t need to come by, but he often did. I was honored he felt that way. Mr. Kenshi loved to sit in my office, share a story or two or three, and laugh his deep abdominal laugh.
“Oh,” Jon went on, “I think we may have a new student. She’s tall, has long blonde hair and an amazing smile...a junior at Hopkins. And let’s just say that if you need help teaching her, I’ll be there for you. No problem. She saw our demonstration at the student union. About teaching her, really, I can give the intermediate students to someone else, and I can help her get started. She’ll probably be by tomorrow.” There was a pause, then, “That’s it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Did you get her phone number?” I asked the machine.
“Oh,” Jon’s voice came back on, “her name is Evy, and I got her number. Bye.”
Click.
The second and final message was from the 7th grade teacher whose class I was covering. She just wanted to remind me about class and where she was leaving her lesson plans.
I turned off the machine, then gathered my material for tomorrow’s class. I had some notes, a copy of the 7th Grade text — a two-inch thick hardcover volume called The American Nation — and a game of Monopoly. I knew the teacher; she wouldn’t mind if I digressed from her plans, as long as I covered her material. I was glad she was flexible that way.
Finally, after I procrastinated enough, I took a final look around the room, turned off the light, and headed upstairs.
3
The lone sentry, dressed in army fatigues and a checkered kaffiyah, walked along the edge of the roof, easily drifting into the crosshairs of my nightscope. The early morning hour was black, moonless...perfect for what we had to do.
I shifted slightly. I was lying on my belly amidst the rubble of a demolished building, waiting for the little signal that would go from my brain to my right index finger, now lightly caressing the trigger guard. I thought about it, but didn’t think about it. Not yet. Not yet. The moment wasn’t right.
The sentry, I could see through the telescopic sight, was clean-shaven and had a strong jawline. Though I couldn’t discern his eyes, I imagined they were hard with a fair amount of anger and hate in them. He stood atop a three story building, one of two structures still intact in a neighborhood filled with mounds of broken concrete and protruding rods of reinforcing iron. Between where we had taken cover and the sentry’s stronghold lay 100 yards of flat, open street, illuminated by the stark white glow of halogen floodlights.
I had expected more guards, considering what was inside. There’d be plenty, I knew, just on the other side of the ground-level door facing us. My Sayeret Matkal team would deal with those men soon enough.
The night air was completely still and totally silent. A cool Mediterranean breeze would have been welcome, but that was fine. I didn’t want even the hint of a breeze altering a millimeter of my shot’s trajectory.
As I watched, the sentry up on the roof reached the end of his walk, turned around and moved back the way he had come. The crosshairs in my sight stayed on his head every second. He stopped about halfway to the other side and scanned the deserted street below him, looking first to his right, then taking a long look to his left. After he was satisfied nothing was amiss, he continued his circuit.
He had taken just one step when it happened — the entire neighborhood went dark. One moment there was light and then... nothing. There were no streetlights, no lights inside buildings, no floodlights. Just blackness. The building itself seemed to vanish into a void.
But not the guard in my sights.
I took a breath, let it out slightly, then squeezed the trigger. There was a muffled puff, but there was no sound as the guard was knocked off his feet. He wouldn’t be getting up. As I emerged from between two broken cinderblock walls, three men stood up to either side of me. Kadima, I thought. Forward. We began to run toward the building.
Our footfalls barely made a sound on the old paved road. As we ran, I quickly looked right and left beyond my men. No enemy soldiers, no pedestrians, no one was there. In five seconds we were halfway to the building, crossing the center of a street that had been ablaze with white light just moments ago. The block-like structure ahead grew larger.
A figure appeared at the door in front of us. To my left there was a muffled burst of weapons fire, and the figure at the entranceway was thrown backwards, a cluster of dark spots blooming over his chest.
Another figure appeared at the door and then, before anyone could react, the entire area exploded with light.
The building’s lights had come back on, and with them every floodlight in creation suddenly turned the street scene to daylight. We were totally exposed — seven figures in black in the center of a barren, white no-man’s land. They weren’t supposed to have generators.
Oh God.
Automatic weapons opened up from every window in the building. The explosive torrent overwhelmed me.
The men to my left were hit — two in the chest, one in the head. I didn’t see what happened to the others, though peripherally I saw they were all down. I ran, zig-zagging toward a pile of rubble beyond the downed men on my left. Glass and pebbles crunched beneath my boots.
The pile of debris ahead of me wasn’t a pile; it was a mountain. It didn’t matter. I needed cover. I scrambled up the front, while chunks of stone were blown apart inches from my head.
The peak was too far away. I clawed at the rocks and pushed with my legs. Any moment a torrent of 7.62 mm rounds would tear through my torso and skull. The shots could be on their way right now.
The top got closer. A rock next to my head shattered at a bullet’s impact. My face suddenly tingled and I knew I had been hit by shards of stone.
I pulled myself over the crest and let myself roll to the other side.
The rubble gave way under me, creating an avalanche. I began to roll and tumble. Somehow I lost my weapon.
As I fell, cascading dust and powder masked everything around me. It was a long way to the bottom, much longer than it logically should have been. With every tumble, I felt sharp stones cutting and jabbing my arms and legs.
Finally, thankfully, I stopped rolling.
At the bottom of the stony heap, I didn’t move for a full five breaths. With my eyes closed, I mentally checked my joints and appendages, then flexed my fingers and moved my legs. My left arm hurt at the elbow, but I could still move it. After waiting another moment, I stood up, looked at the mound that was now sheltering me, and listened.
The night was quiet again. No weapons fire, no voices, no footsteps.
I turned to find my way around the debris and came face-to-face with a man holding an AK-47. Stars flickered over his head. He was dressed in army fatigues and a kaffiyah. He was clean shaven and had a strong jawline. He was the man I had shot on the roof. I knew I had shot him just behind his temple, but there wasn’t a mark on him. I looked past his assault rifle to his eyes. I had been right: they were filled with anger and hatred.
He smiled coldly and raised the weapon, pointing it at my face. My mouth went dry.
As
