"The loan of a knife," said Suriyawong.
"But he has a gun!" cried Achilles.
"I expect you to solve your own problems," said Suriyawong, "without getting any of my men killed."
"Shoot him!" cried Achilles. "I thought you were my friend."
"I told you from the start," said Suriyawong. "I serve the Hegemon." And with that, Suriyawong turned his back on Achilles.
So did all the other soldiers.
Now Bean understood why Suriyawong had worked so hard to earn Achilles's trust: so that at this moment of crisis, Suri was in a position to betray him.
Achilles laughed nervously. "Come on now, Bean. We've known each other a long time." He had backed up against a wall. He tried to lean against it. But his legs were a little wobbly and he started to slide down the wall. "I know you, Bean," he said. "You can't just kill a man in cold blood, no matter how much you hate him. It's not in you to do that."
"Yes it is," said Bean.
He aimed the pistol down at Achilles's right eye and pulled the trigger. The eye snapped shut from the wind of the bullet passing between the eyelids and from the obliteration of the eye itself. His head rocked just a little from the force of the little bullet entering, but not leaving.
Then he slumped over and sprawled out on the floor. Dead.
It didn't bring back Poke, or Sister Carlotta, or any of the other people he had killed. It didn't change the nations of the world back to the way they were before Achilles started making them his building blocks, to break apart and put together however he wanted. It didn't end the wars Achilles had started. It didn't make Bean feel any better. There was no joy in vengeance, and precious little in justice, either.
But there was this: Achilles would never kill again.
That was all Bean could ask of a little .22.
20
HOME
From: YourFresh%[email protected]
To: MyStone%[email protected]
Re: Come home
He's dead.
I'm not.
He didn't have them.
We'll find them, one way or another, before I die.
Come home. There's nobody trying to kill you any more.
Petra flew on a commercial jet, in a reserved seat, under her own name, using her own passport.
Damascus was full of excitement, for it was now the capital of a Muslim world united for the first time in nearly two thousand years. Sunni and Shi'ite leaders alike had been declaring for the Caliph. And Damascus was the center of it all.
But her excitement was of a different kind. It was partly the baby that was maturing inside her, and the changes already happening to her body. It was partly the relief at being free of the death sentence Achilles had passed on her so long ago.
Mostly, though, it was that giddy sense of having been on the edge of losing everything, and winning after all. It swept over her as she was walking down the aisle of the plane, and her knees went rubbery under her and she almost fell.
The man behind her took her elbow and helped her regain her legs. "Are you all right?" he asked.
"I'm just a little bit pregnant," she said.