“You’ll be a different person after this.”
That’s what the man in red said. He said it behind strips of red thrice-holied linen that wrapped up his face like a wound. He said it beneath a red, wind-battered cloak that covered red tunic and pants. He said it and looked without looking at Kilo.
A flaming bottle descended from a ghetto balcony. Kilo watched it spin overhead. It clinked and shattered against the blue lightning-finger of the phalanx-shield. The energy dissipated in a moment; the haze lingered in Kilo’s pupils.
“The weapon of the desperate,” the man in red said. “A team will come through in an hour.”
The phalanx surrounded him: eighteen men in armor, collapsed spears on their backs, fingers on can-rifle triggers. Kilo and the man in red marched in the middle of that square and listened to the hum of the shield generator.
It was night. It was dry and tense. People whispered behind their windows. Fathers spoke in the forbidden language and told their children to lie on the floor.
The front-right man held up a fist. It was here: one story tan building. Blank walls. Sign outside: “The Red Cat.” Intelligence said “Café frequented by subversive elements.”
The man in red said “This is yours. I won’t interfere.”
“Go ahead,” Kilo said, and the men kicked the door open, and the shield generator kicked off, and the rifles kicked to shoulders.
Spilled coffee dripped from tabletops; broken pastries stuck in floor cracks.
Kilo strolled in. The place was pacified. A bunch of quivering bodies. He didn’t look them in the eyes. He found the owner. He had a gun to his temple and slumped against the bar.
“Where are they?” Kilo said.
The man shook his head. Soldier #13 broke his jaw.
“Where are they?” Kilo said.
But before Soldier #13 could break something else, Kilo saw the door. He pointed.
“Downstairs.”
It was dark, and the score of people stayed seated on the floor when they saw the soldiers flood down. The women wore veils. The children were crying.
Kilo had his men poke around. The man in red kept his arms crossed at the threshold. Kilo could feel his eyes.
The front-right man came back. “Nothing.”
“Where’s the contraband?” Kilo asked to the one man who looked back.
“We have nothing of harm to anyone.”
“Well, now you do.”
Kilo tossed a scroll into the middle of the terrorists. It was written on one side with the forbidden tongue; the other was scrawled by Maji Satyana back in intel with choice phrases like “Death to the Hathak.”
One of the women stood up. The soldiers went vakata nivuma:
“Whoa whoa sit whoa or I’ll be forced down ma’am ma’am hey to we’ve vaka got a please down sit”
The woman ripped off her veil; Kilo gawked.
“Zhul-Takromav,” the man in red said. “You know this terrorist?”
Kilo’s ribs felt numb. His tongue filled his mouth.
“She’s my wife.”