Page 24 of War

The air is still full of the smell of meat, and for a moment, all I can think of are the dead bodies that littered the ground when I entered Jerusalem yesterday. It smelled like meat then, too.

I follow the scent back to the clearing. This terrifying place seems to be where breakfast is served. My eyes move over the sheep being turned on a spit and the trays of fruit and nuts and bread that are spread out before me.

I wander over to the line for breakfast and try not to think about where all this food came from. Armies need to be fed, and one as big as this one … well, raiding cities would be the lesser of the atrocities they’ve committed.

By the time I’m at the front of the line, I spot a familiar face. The man from yesterday, the one who grabbed his crotch and pointed his blade at me, stands on the other side of the clearing, wearing a keffiyeh and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. He runs his fingers through his short beard as he chats with the men around him. But his eyes are on me, and no matter how long I stare back at him, he won’t look away.

The weight of the dagger at my side is some small comfort.

I break eye contact first, grabbing my food and leaving the clearing.

I head to the edge of camp, finding a relatively quiet place to sit down and eat. As I do so, my eyes drift over the mountains that surround us.

It would be so easy to slip away unnoticed.

I pause, mid-chew, surreptitiously glancing along the outskirts of camp for any patrolling guards.

I don’t see any.

Setting my plate aside, I stand up. I have to fight the urge to look around me and check that no one’s noticed my behavior. That’s the quickest way to alert people you’re up to no good.

Casually, I begin walking away from camp, holding my breath as I do so. The seconds tick by, and the general buzz of camp life continues on, gradually fading away behind me.

I’m actually doing it.

It’s only when I’ve passed half a dozen trees, however, that I exhale my relief.

I did it.

That was easier than I thought it would—

“On pain of death, stop!”

Damnit.

I come to a halt, positive there’s an arrow aimed at my back.

Sure enough, when I turn around, a man is striding over to me, an arrow trained on my chest.

“All deserters face the executioner’s block,” he informs me.

I’ve been in a tight position more times than I’d like to admit. With the Muslim Brotherhood, with the Palestinian guard, with other raiders who caught me off guard. The key to getting out of these situations relatively unscathed was to have a convincing story and to follow Rule Two—stick to the truth.

“I make weapons,” I say quickly. Tamar had mentioned that the camp could use a weapons maker.

The soldier squints at me. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

“I use the wood from trees in this area to make bows and arrows,” I say slowly, like this whole situation should be obvious.

“You expect me to believe you’re out here collecting some goddamn wood forweapons?”

To be fair, he has a point. I have no bag to collect branches, and my holstered dagger is hardly useful for chopping wood. I look like an escapee, not a worker.

“I cleared it with War.” The lie rushes out of me.

Immediate regret.

So much for sticking to the truth—I just threw that rule right out the window.