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around the man and rode him like a beast.
"You came here," Tafari said, "to my place. To take my life. That is
unforgivable. Now you will pay for that with your life."
"Don't! You can't do  !"
Tafari rested the edge of his blade against the man's throat. "I can. You
can't stop me."
Squealing in horror, the man tried to run, aiming himself toward a tree.
Taking gleeful pride in the man's fear, Tafari rode him, hanging on despite
the man's efforts to pry free the arm around his head. The man's teeth gnashed
as he tried to bite his tormentor. He grabbed for the knife. Tafari raked the
sharp edge across the man's palm, slicing it to the bone. Blood sprayed
everywhere, slung off by the man's exertions.
The man howled again and rammed Tafari into the tree. The impact hurt, but
Tafari only drew himself more tightly to the man and laughed in his ear.
"Now," Tafari snarled, "you will die." He clamped his teeth on to the man's
ear, tasting the man's blood. When his victim reared his head back to try to
tear away from the teeth, Tafari slit his throat and felt hot blood cascade
over his hand and arm.
Tafari rode the man to the ground as he died, never once letting him forget
who had killed him. When it was over, he stood and hacked the dead man's head
from his shoulders.
Holding the man's head by the hair, Tafari stood and presented his offering to
the dark gods he worshipped, telling them this was a sacrifice he had made in
their honor. If a man had to sacrifice to the gods, Tafari believed it had to
be in blood. There was nothing else so precious.
At that moment, a large pharaoh-eagle owl glided across the round face of the
silver moon. The bird's tawny, white-and-black feathers gleamed in the light.
A dead mouse hung from its talons.
"Both of us were successful hunters tonight, brother," Tafari told the owl. He
felt certain the bird's presence was an omen, a promise of good things to
come.
The winged predator made no response and quickly disappeared from sight.
Kneeling, Tafari wiped his knife clean on the dead man's clothes, then stood
and gave a loud whistle. In the distance, an engine started and headlights
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sprang to life. He walked toward them, holding on to the head.
The driver pulled the jeep to a stop in front of Tafari. Three other men, all
young and armed with assault rifles, sat in the back. Most of them wore tribal
tattoos and necklaces of gold and ivory. They flaunted their wealth, because
in West Africa wealth meant power.
"You've finished your hunt," Zifa stated. He was young and hard, a man not to
be trifled with, though most didn't realize that until too late. Scars covered
his arms and there were a few on his handsome face. When he had been younger,
in his teens, he had fought with knives for prize money in Dakar. To lose was
to die. He had never lost, but he had been cut several times.
"I have." Tafari plopped the dead man's head on the front of the truck. The
other heads he'd taken were already tied there, all of them bloated and
turning black from the heat. When he was done with them, he intended to have
them returned to the man who had hired them.
One of the men in back clambered out with elastic ties. He quickly secured the
head to the jeep's hood, then stood back and admired his handiwork.
Tafari waved the man into the jeep. He pulled himself into the passenger seat.
"Have you heard from Ehigiator?" he asked the driver.
They had communications equipment at their base. Some of the younger recruits
had been to college and had learned about such things. Tafari prided himself
on being able to use the knowledge they had for his own agenda.
"No." Zifa put the jeep into gear and pulled around in a tight turn. Then he
was following his headlights, using the vehicle's bumper to chop through the
brush. There were few roads in northwestern Senegal. Most of the ones off the
main thoroughfares were trails villagers used to get from one market to
another.
"Perhaps it is too early." Tafari studied the landscape.
"Perhaps." Zifa drove easily, at home with the vehicle as it crashed through
the brush. "There is another matter."
"What?"
"The Hausa village to the north."
Tafari knew of the village. Over the past few weeks, the people living there
had become a thorn in his paw. "What about them?" he asked.
"They continue their rebellion."
Tafari thought about that. In the overall scheme of things, the village wasn't
much. It was like a raindrop in a monsoon. But it had the chance of becoming
something much bigger if those who lived there persisted in their defiance of
him.
"Why haven't you dealt with this?" Tafari demanded.
Zifa didn't react to the anger in his voice. He focused on his driving, and
that angered Tafari further. He had placed Zifa second in command, had killed
a man who had been with him longer but didn't have the cunning Zifa did.
Failure in that position wasn't an option.
"Jaineba is there," Zifa said. "You said you wanted to deal with her."
Tafari cursed and spit. He didn't want to deal with the old woman. Nor did he
want anyone else to deal with her until he knew for certain how he was going
to handle her.
"She is there now?"
Zifa nodded.
A trickle of fear seeped through Tafari's bowels. He still didn't know what to
do about the old woman, but he couldn't put it off. He glanced at the line of
heads bouncing on the jeep's hood. He'd made his offering to Ogun, chief among
the orisha  the sky gods  and appealed to that god's sense of vengeance,
praying that all of his enemies might be struck down in the days to come.
Still, Jaineba was a person of power. Ancient and withered, the old woman was
tied to Africa in ways that Tafari still didn't understand.
But he couldn't put off dealing with her if she was getting in his way.
"Take me there," he commanded.
Zifa brought the jeep around, churning dirt as the wheels chewed into the
earth.
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Reaching back over the seat, Tafari took the Chinese assault rifle one of the
men on the rear deck handed him. If he had his choice and the situation
demanded it, he would rather kill the old woman with the knife. But she [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]