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far away, just like you,” said Musa.
    And their bombardment continued. These kids and their families had next to nothing and they depended on outside help. His fight wasn’t with the Janjaweed. He wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for Ares.
    “Are you here to help us?” asked Adam.
    Fox couldn’t avoid looking into their pleading eyes. “You shouldn’t need any help. After all, you just said that they haven’t been seen in a long time. You should all be safe. Now run along and play with your ball.”
    The boys didn’t appear to be convinced.
    “The last time they were here they scared everyone with their guns,” said Ibrahim.
    Musa’s ball slipped from his hands, but he was quick to pick it up. “They took clothes that my mother was selling at the market and didn’t even pay for them.”
    Adam nodded. “I heard they set fire to villages.”
    Fox looked past them, in the distance, where he thought that he heard something. He waved the boys away with his arm. “Run along.” Fox walked off and left them. This is their civil war, not mine, who am I to get involved? I’m just here to fuck Ares over. I would’ve done the same had they gone to Somalia or Zimbabwe . He didn’t dare look back at the boys. They would only make him go soft, and he couldn’t afford another blunder such as the one in Groznyy.
    He rubbed his forehead with his sleeve, wiping off some sweat. He then took a swig of cold water from his canteen that he had well hidden under his robe.
    Fox turned to the sounds of a diesel engine gunning, and saw thick, black smoke belch into the air. A truck with a small open-end payload drove around the stalls, into the town square. Following it, on horseback, were five more men in army fatigues. The Janjaweed—the devils on horseback themselves—were here.
    The bustling market came to a complete standstill as the men passed through. But Fox’s focus was on the truck and its cargo. His facial scarf began to drop and he fixed it to cover above his nose, as he dashed through the crowd, keeping his eyes on the truck.
    During his pursuit, he saw a stall with women’s clothing. He reached inside his robe and took out a few bills without counting them. He tossed them on the table in front of the merchant saying the standard Arabic greeting, “Izeyik.” Simultaneously he grabbed three garments off the rack. He didn’t hear any protest from the merchant.
    The Janjaweed drove about a hundred meters past the marketplace and stopped in front of an old, school building that had seen its share of assaults—from the dilapidated rooftop to the pockmarked outer walls.
    Two men hopped out from the back of the truck. They waited as two more inside handed them an object on a tripod, and then a metallic briefcase. The driver came around back to help them and they all carried everything into the single-storey structure. Three of the horsemen doubled back towards the marketplace. The other two dismounted their horses, walked them to the side of entrance, and stood guard with their assault rifles.
    Fox hid from sight as the horsemen rode by. He kept his face covered as the sand and dust that the horses kicked up blew about him. Before the dust settled, he was meters away from the men that guarded the school entrance. He had the green, red, and blue garments in each hand, holding them high for them to see.
    “Izeyik, Izeyik. Quay-Seen?” Hello, hello. Are you well?
    The two men didn’t answer, but approached Fox, their rifles pointing downward.
    “I’ll offer you an excellent bargain on these beautiful robes for your wives or mistresses. Name your price,” Fox said in Arabic.
    “Get lost. We’re not buying anything from you,” grunted one of the men in the same language.
    “All right, all right. I won’t sell. I’ll offer these free and then half price on the rest of my merchandise. Anything you want.” Fox held the robes high enough to block their view.
    With the clothes dangling in front of them, they