“It’s not true,” the man insisted. “No … no.”
The two were so intent on their denials, they didn’t even seem to notice what else was happening in the room.
Tariq had taken a plastic canister to the sink and begun mixing a small amount of the white powder into two glasses of water. Now he was using someone’s pink toothbrush to stir each one into a cloudy mixture.
He carried the glasses over to the couple on the bed.
“Don’t make a fuss,” he said. “Just drink this down. Have some dignity.”
There was fear, but also anger in the fat man’s eyes. “Or what? You’ll shoot us?”
Hala said, “It’s preferable that you do this quietly, but if you need encouragement, I’m supposed to remind you of your family back home.”
“But this is a horrible mistake!” the wife babbled on. “We haven’t done what you said. We are loyal to the cause.”
“That’s very touching,” Hala said. “But it doesn’t matter to me or to The Family. Not anymore. Now I’m going to count to five.”
“Please —”
“One.”
“I’m begging you! Sister?”
“Two.”
The man snatched both glasses from Tariq. He pressed one into his wife’s hand. “We have no choice, Sanaa. Think of Gabir. Think of Siti.”
“Think of three,” Hala said as she continued the countdown. She had no pity for these people. They were disloyal, and they were weak. This mission was too important to risk a mistake. “Four.”
The man tilted his head back and shot the mixture down like whiskey. Then his hands were on his wife’s, helping her to do the same.
The woman gagged, sobbing as she drank the milky liquid, but it went down. Enough of it, anyway. Right away, her lips went pink. Her breath started coming in sharp rasps. “I’m dying,” she whispered. “Why? Why must I die?”
The husband looked up at Hala with hatred in his eyes. “Assassin,” he said.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Hala told him, and gestured at the empty glass in his hand. “You’re no murder victim, you fool. You’re a suicide statistic.”
Tariq took the two duffels and carried them to the door. Hala stayed where she was. There was pleasure in watching these people die, but it was also her job to see it through.
The wife was the first to spasm, violently, bucking and kicking until she collapsed to the floor. The husband, maybe twice her size, hung in longer. He watched Hala with huge bug eyes — as she calmly watched him. His sense of taste and smell would be gone by now, no doubt. The eyesight would fade next. Then the hearing, just at the very end —
“Hala!” Tariq raised his voice. “It’s done. Let’s go. Please, let’s go!”
She picked up the weapons case and slowly backed toward the door, observing all the way. With one last spasm, the fat man lurched forward. He landed facedown on the carpet and was still beside his wife.
“Now it’s done,” Hala said, and turned to leave. “I thought that went rather well. We’re getting better at this, don’t you think?”
I WOKE UP in a bad mood that morning. Grumpy, cranky, in need of caffeine. Unusual for me, but there it was.
Most days, Nana and I spend breakfast talking about the day ahead, or debating some foolishness from the headlines. But it was the headlines that were making me angry now.
I hid behind my Post and steamed, reading about how the “authorities” weren’t getting anywhere with the four-day-old Coyle kidnapping.
Somewhere around my second cup of coffee, I heard a little tap on the other side of the paper.
“You learning anything new in there?” Nana said. “Or just stewing?”
“I’m stewing. I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.