The Lost Puzzler. Eyal Kless

new symbols and patterns were fascinating, and Dominique was nice, despite her gruff ways, but he missed home and he wanted his family back. He was surrounded by unbelievers, ruffians, ladies who walked about with their bits showing and kissed men who were not their husbands. The bar was full of drunks and sinners, but somehow—and this was what irked Rafik to no end—they were all nicer than most of the people back in his village, and definitely happier. How could that be? Could it be that Master Issak was wrong about the scriptures?

      Rafik tried to chase from his mind these blasphemous thoughts and dutifully completed his nighttime prayers. He undressed, washed his upper body, and tried to fall asleep. Yet somehow, the fatigue that had hounded him all day was replaced by restlessness.

      After tossing and turning for a while, Rafik got up and paced the room, looking for patterns in the floorboards and the walls. Eventually he got bored, opened the door, and asked Martinn if he could go downstairs. Martinn relented, and they both went downstairs to the bar.

      There were a few regular patrons and a few new ones. Soon Martinn was talking animatedly to a young woman he apparently knew and seemed eager to get to know again. Rafik spent his time making a few coins by bringing drinks to drunks.

      He was so used to the sounds of the passing trucks now that he didn’t pay attention to the roaring noise of the engines, and maybe that was why no one else noticed Jakov and the great bicycle riders until they were inside the bar. They were dressed in black and carried guns, except Jakov, who carried a power pistol in his human arm.

      It took precious time for people inside the bar to realise that the armed men who’d just walked in were not coming for a drink. Jakov spotted Rafik handing brew filled mugs to two fat truckers and pointed a metallic finger at him.

      “Grab him.”

      That was the only order his guards needed.

      One of the men approached Rafik, snatched him by his collar, and began pulling him towards the exit. Rafik’s squeal of alarm alerted even the two very drunk truckers nearby that something was amiss.

      “Hey man, where’re you takin’ the boy, I ain’t tipped him yet,” one of the truckers said as he rose lazily to his feet. The man pulling Rafik stopped and turned, and with a casual motion he shot both truckers in the chest. The blasts completely deafened Rafik, so he didn’t hear the cracking noise of a bottle as it smashed into the shooter’s face. He ducked instinctively as broken glass mingled with drops of blood and beer that cascaded on top of him. The shooter let go of Rafik, who turned to see Jakov and another man shoot Dominique. There was movement, flashes of light, and bits of glass flying everywhere in a deadly chaotic swirl, which had no pattern.

      Rafik ran without looking back. He rushed upstairs and, without remembering how, found himself in the room where his uncle and brother had negotiated with Khan. It was the wrong place to be, he realised, as there were no windows and no place to hide. Rafik leaned on the door, breathing hard and trembling, tears running freely from his eyes as images from the carnage below kept playing in his mind. He bit his own fist to stop the whimpers escaping his mouth.

      Hide.

      Rafik took several steps into the room, trying to find somewhere that would conceal him, but before he could get his bearings the door burst open and Radja, Jakov’s bodyguard, filled the door frame, a heavy gun in his hands. Rafik froze. All he could do was just stand there, his entire vision focused on the bloodstains on Radja’s leather armour. When he was satisfied that the room was empty save for the boy, Radja hefted his gun, extended his arm towards Rafik, and said something. At least his mouth opened and closed several times, but for some reason, no sound came out. Rafik awoke from his stupor only when Radja took several steps and grabbed him, but by then it was too late to escape. Still he resisted, but it was like trying to stop a horse midgallop. Radja trapped Rafik in a one-armed choke hold. Putting a knee to Rafik’s back, he pushed the boy forward one step at a time.

      Rafik fought for air, but the man’s arm was like steel. He could not recall later how Fahid’s knife was suddenly in his hand. He pressed the small button, felt the handle shake as the blade sprung out, and stabbed with all his might at the arm that was choking him. Radja roared with pain and loosened his grip. Rafik ducked his head under the arm and was suddenly free.

      He bolted forward, just when Martinn stepped through the door, holding a pistol in each hand and firing them in unison above Rafik’s head. As he passed by Martinn, Rafik saw a flash of bright light scorching the wall near the door. He heard more shots, and Martinn howled in agony. But Rafik did not look back. He kept on running and was almost at the stairs when someone grabbed him from behind and pulled him into a room. “Don’t make a sound!” he heard Khan’s voice in his ear. “Where’s Martinn?”

      Rafik pointed towards the broken doorway.

      “Don’t move, kid,” Khan whispered. He peeked around the corner, holding a pistol with both hands, then signalled for Rafik to follow him. They stopped near the broken door, and Khan bent down and quickly looked inside. What he saw, however briefly, was enough to make him pull back and gag, holding a hand over his mouth.

      Khan swore several times, then turned and pushed Rafik through another doorway and into the room he slept in. They made for the window, but when Khan looked out he saw that one man was already climbing up to it. He leaned out and shot twice, missed, then ducked back inside as a barrage of bullets blasted through the thin walls and ceiling.

      “We’ll have to do it the hard way,” he said, more to himself than to Rafik. They moved back to the corridor and edged towards the stairs. They were halfway to ground level when the man who had first grabbed Rafik appeared. He was holding a combat rifle and pointed it straight at Khan. Half of the guard’s face was a bloody mess, but he still managed to say, “Let go of the kid, Rustfuck.”

      Before they could react, the man jerked violently, bits of his flesh spraying everywhere as his body flew sideways and through the kitchen’s swinging door. A shotgun appeared, followed by the bulk of Dominique. She pumped it using her left arm and kicked open the kitchen door. “No one aims a weapon at my man but me,” she said and shot again, then looked up at Khan and Rafik. “I need a vacation,” she said, breathing hoarsely and leaning on the wall next to the still-swinging kitchen door.

      Only when they were standing next to her did Rafik and Khan realise how badly hurt she was. Her blouse was torn and drenched in blood, and her shoulder was dislocated. There were cuts and burns all over her face, and a part of her right ear was missing.

      “Rust,” Khan swore softly, “let’s get you to a Mender.”