DATE: September 1, 1993

LOCATION: Sarajevo

The sharp stucatto crack of the rifle lasted only a second, but it echoed in Dragomirs ears for what felt like hours. Ugly, grey pieces of what was once Mirovics face splashed his own, and he shut his eyes tight.

“Idiot! I told him about the sniper! Anyone else want to be a Goddam cowboy?”

“But…Father Srdjan!”

“Dont Father Srdjan me anything. You stand up, you die. I have no say in the matter. God has no say in the matter. So dont whine to me like mewling puppies, I can not help her, okay?”

He cast an uneasy gaze over the sandbags, out into the clearing rimmed on all sides by low buildings. In the center of the clearing, a teenage girl, probably about fourteen, lay howling and bleeding from the stomach wound
that would inevitably claim her life without medical attention. The troop had been listening to her screams drone into pitiful wails for two hours now. She was bait. He knew it, the sniper knew it–hell, the girl probably knew it.

“Father Srdjan, the Muslims are moving!”

He hated being called that. He was Sargeant Srdjan Dragomir of the Serbian Nationalist army now. He scowled and snatched the binoculars from the teenage private. Sure enough, There was movement among the Muslims holed up down the street. No one knew who the girl was. The Muslims may have been just as eager to get to her as they were. The sniper could have been Muslim, Serb, Croat, Albanian, or just psychotic. He bit down hard.

Suddenly, a lone figure leaped from the Muslim side as his troops sprayed bullets up into the windows. The lone Muslim made a heroic run and grabbed the girl by the wrist , hoisted her up and…-

Crack!

Srdjan watched with no emotion as the Muslim fell to his bullet. He went to reload, and suddenly, the world dropped. He heard the boy cry out. He knew the voice.

“Dusan? Dusan!”

All rationality fled him like water draining from a sponge. He leaped over the sandbags–deaf to the roar of the machineguns–and bolted to the center of the clearing.

“My God, Dusan, No! NO, no, no! I thought the Muslims had killed you for sure, Oh, no, no…”

He fidgeted with the straps on the boys jacket, pulled back the shredded cloth to reveal the boys face.

“Hi… dad…”

The boy smiled up at him, all pain erased from his features. The sea of blood on his chest moved less and less as his breath slowed. He blinked once, and stared at heaven.

Srdjans screams shook the glass in the windows. He felt no pain, no loss, nothing but rage. A bullet tore through his knee–from above, of course–but he did not stop screaming. He cursed God. Over and over. Again and again and again. He realized he did believe after all. There was no way random fate could be so cruel. As the sun set over Sarajevo, and the helicopters buzzed in the distance, Father Srdjan Dragomir wept his rage over the body of his
fallen son.

DATE: May 16, 1994

LOCATION: Ntarama, Rwanda

Jed looked the rusty jeep up and down and kicked it sharply on the door. No gas. Of all the places and times. He felt stupid, and that made him angry. He would be late, and that was woefully unprofessional. Unprofessional equaled dead in his line of work. Trying not to think about it, he reached in, pulled out his duffel and started walking down the dust jungle road toward town. It
wasnt far, although that was hardly a comfort.

He was absolutely sure not to show any fear at all. It was an ugly, ugly time here. The entire country was awash with blood and no one, Hutu or Tsutsi, had many qualms about adding a random white man to the body count. He knew that people in a genocidal rage were animals, and would attack if they sensed fear. Bronson had seen it in Southeast Asia, in Eastern Europe, and here in Africa.

“Mzungu!”

He put down his duffel and whirled around aiming a huge pistol into the air, every muscle in his arm tight with the possible necessity of death. Mzungu was the Kinyarwanda word for white man.

“What do you want?” He growled in French.

“Mzungu, please! ”

He had leveled the gun at a thin, dark woman wrapped heavily in tattered rags. Tutsi by the look of shock and horror in her eyes. She had been a victim–he could tell. She fell to her knees, accepting the gun.

“Stand.” He said, expressionless.

“Do you have food, Mzungu?” She quivered. He regarded her and relaxed his stance, not taking the gun off of her. That would be taking far too much for granted.

“Kingali. I need to get to Kingali. Do you have gas?” He normally wouldnt ask, but he couldnt afford to pass up any possibility.

She cast her gaze downward to answer him. He started walking.

“Mister, please!” she called quietly.

His brow furrowed. This didnt make sense. He turned around.

“The forest is full of food. You have either been living out here for a while or you just escaped the Interahmwe. Either way you should be able to…”

She reticently lifted her wrap revealing her swollen abdomen, giving him a pathetic look.

“Oh, Jesus. Jesus Christ.”

“They killed my husband, they… they cut off my daughters arms. I have nothing left. Please, Mzungu. You have things. Mzungu always have things they can spare. Please.”

He tried to keep walking. he had already heard far too much of this womans sob story. She was a member of the group he had been paid to came here and kill, for Christs sake.

“Mzungu, please! I cant follow you to Ntarama! Please! For one woman, please! One poor woman!? Consider your mother! Your Mother?”

He scowled and kept walking.

“Please sir. Your…Your daughter? A daughter?”

He stopped as though slapped. He sighed deep, reached into his duffel and withdrew a long rifle. He turned to her, and she bowed her head. He reached into the duffel, pulled out the clip, and popped it into place, striding
angrily toward her. He thrust the rifle into her hands.

“Heckler and Koch G-3 assualt rifle. German made, bought in Columbia. Seven point sixty-two millimeter twenty-round box magazine. Triggers here, safetys here. If you can get to the border, tell the Hutu guard there that Jed Bronson demanded that you be taken to Kenya. Forty miles that way if you can make it. Keep the jeep if you can find a way to gas it up. Good luck.”

The woman held the gun quietly for a few minutes. Jed gave her a half-smile, and started to walk toward Ntarama, thinking sadly about his daughter.