I wrapped my hands in their third pair of socks, checking to make sure my scarf was securely wrapped around my neck.

My cap was on, goggles secure, headset in place. My jacket was buttoned, tucked in- I wished I had brought more clothing, wished that I had foreseen what was going to happen. It wasn't too unexpected, really, that Ben Gurion's airstrip was completely obstructed by abandoned aircraft, swarming with the thousands of people who had tried to escape, but there was no time to seek a safer alternative. The pilot brought the plane back, running out of fuel as we rounded Tel Aviv, locking the plane in as we prepared to jump. There was precious little we could do to protect ourselves from the elements, but we wouldn't have to deal with the temperature for long. I looked to my left, observing the mechanic's clothing; he seemed even less prepared than I was, without anything but the collar of his jacket to protect his face. Past him, Nogah and the pilot were checking each other's reserve parachutes. I turned back to the pallet behind me, retrieving my rifle and satchel, securing the former to my pack and throwing the latter over my shoulder, adjusting the strap until it was pressed tightly against my thigh. The muffled thuds of the engines completely obscured the pilot's footfalls as he went back to lower the cargo bay door. I shuffled slightly, fighting the urge to gauge the readiness of the other men around me- It would do me no good to know that they felt unprepared. The pilot shouted something unintelligible as the cargo bay door began to descend. The mechanic went first, starting a jog towards the door and looking back at us for a half-second before jumping off of the side. In an instant, he was just a dot. I looked to my left and gave Nogah a slight nod; he followed the mechanic out into the day. I glanced over my shoulder at the pilot, who was busy unclasping the straps that held the pallets of materials down; I supposed he thought they would survive the fall and still remain of some use to us. I looked back at the sky ahead of us and, with another brief breath of thin air, sprinted straight at the edge of the plane and leaped out into oblivion. It was bitterly cold at 25,000 feet. I didn't appreciate the temperature of the air until I found myself floating in it, flailing about in endless nothing for a heart-stopping instant before righting myself. The exposed skin around my goggles and ears rapidly became numb from the temperature and the wind, but I didn't have much time to appreciate this before the time came to deploy my parachute. I jerked down hard on the cord, feeling the parachute deploy, but there was no hard tug. I didn't bother checking to see what the problem was- I partially unzipped my jacket at the top, plunging my hand in and tugging my knife free, cutting the parachute free and deploying the reserve. A departure from what I should have done, I packed and checked my own parachute; perhaps this was because I had lived for years by myself, choosing to ignore the values of teamwork that the Sayeret Matkal had instilled in me, but below the level of conscious thought I knew it was because I had little intention to attempt to regroup with the others. As I shed my loyalty to America in favor of loyalty to Israel, I chose to forgo my loyalty to Israel in favor of loyalty to myself. I landed some time later, immediately ridding myself of my parachuting gear and loading my rifle. I tried to hail the others on the radio, but I received no response through my headset. I removed it, letting it rest around my neck as I rid myself of the extra clothing I had put on to lessen the effects of the temperature when I jumped from the airplane. My training was kicking in; I was alert, vigilant, aware of my surroundings. I may be home, but I was also in hostile territory, and I was alone. I vacated my landing site as soon as I was able, following my compass and heading towards Jerusalem. Before, I was too harsh; I never intended to completely abandon Israel, or fight on the side opposite. No, I intended fully to assist Israel in her endeavours. But I had priorities, too. Double arm block above face to counter open-palm forearm strike. Counter with left foot stomp on right toe to follow up with knife-edge hand strike to locked right arm joint.

I had been tracking their group for days. They were Arabs, that much was certain; four men, two wives, one pregnant and the other with two small children. Assorted firearms, a watchdog, and several camels carrying their supplies, which amounted to several portable tents and a fair amount of food and ammunition. The men rotated watch cycles every 4 hours, but the dog was always there- I supposed they didn't want it around the children, or they didn't care for it much. It was nearly dark when they set up camp; the children found kindling for their fire. They set up their tents surrounding the one housing the women and children, typical of certain African animals when they feel threatened, but that only told me where the men were going to be when the shooting started. I hunkered down past an outcrop, my rifle loaded, remaining absolutely silent in case one of them decided to scout the surrounding area before returning to camp. They had never done it before, but people were unpredictable, especially Arabs. Left-handed heel strike to base of jaw. Counter blind left jab with open-palmed right hand block; grab wrist and apply force 90 degrees opposite normal rotation. It was nearing midnight when I peered over the shrubs blocking my vision, eyeing the camp below. Their fire was still blazing, and I had a feeling they'd keep it that way throughout the nightThey'd done it before, and from what I could guess it gave them a certain sense of comfort to know that warmth and family was but a feet away. The clothing they hung by their fire to dry gave me the wind's direction, and the light cast shadows across the insides of their tents. I could see the figures move about, performing their nightly rituals; see the bulge of the woman's pregnancy silhouetted against the fabric as her lover comforted her with a gentle kiss before her sleep; see the children tease their mother as she lay them down to bed. I braced the rifle in a small furrow I had dug for myself prior, glancing over my shoulders briefly before looking through the scope. I had cleaned it as best I could while I waited, but the smudges were still visible, and it was darkNothing I hadn't dealt with before, certainly in more trying circumstances than this one. I gauged the wind; a light, dry gust cutting horizontally across my path. My position wasn't too far from their camp- The wind barely concerned me. Despite my confidence, I adjusted the rifle as delicately as I could, returning my eye to the scope and searching for any signs of movement within the camp. The dog was emaciated and clearly abused; I could see the knife scars cutting across its muzzle, see the lighter-colored patches of fur where it was bound with twine and crudely beaten, crosshatching marks across its flanks. I almost felt pity when I lined up its center-of-mass and pulled the trigger. Almost. Open-palmed left-handed heel strike to solar plexus. Counter right knee jerk with full-body left forearm block. Return to stance; drive knife-edge of right hand into carotid artery. The report of the weapon was hardly muffled at all. The dog spasmed briefly from the force of the round, then collapsed into the dirt beside it. The crude iron chain around its neck made an audible ringing noise as it suddenly slackened. The man on watch observed this, stunned; by the time he started to get to his feet, I had already cycled the bolt and lined up another shot. The shot struck him below the stomach, knocking him flat to the dirt; blood oozed from the wound, and I cycled the bolt again. Three more rounds before it was time to advance. The tent on the far left near the dog moved as someone struck the top of the fabric- Moments later, a weary Arabian man emerged, his left hand holding a rifle, his right scratching his stubble as he stupidly looked around, only then noticing his fallen comrade. He made a half-step towards his friend before the bullet struck him in the throat, sending him tumbling back into the tent. Screams were starting to be heard as the rest of the people in the camp began to realize that they were being attacked. I cycled the bolt again, firing a round through the back of the tent closest to me at the shadow making a low run out of its entrance. The fire briefly went out, flickering as something heavy fell over it, then off again. I could see the upper body of the Arab as he rolled past his tent, his upper body smoking from his dive into the fire. He was dead. I cycled the bolt a fourth time, taking aim at the final gunman, who had taken up a position behind one of the camels that was struggling to

get up. The bullet blew neatly through his left eye, exiting the base of his skull. He was dead before he hit the ground. Drive right knee upwards to strike abdomen; force target to ground. Clasp both hands across opposite sides of neck, brace thumbs against windpipe. Apply pressure. I cycled the bolt again, leaving my rifle and pack behind. The extra weight would hinder my movement, and a rifle would be of no use to me in close-quarters fighting; I was on my own. I advanced carefully to the tent, checking every man for signs of life as I went along. The camels were already as far away from the encampment as their tethers allowed, making sounds of confusion and discontent. I ignored them- They could be of some use to me later, if only for sustenance. I stepped over the fire on the way to the final tent, my left hand moving towards my jacket's pocket as I did so. I heard the sounds of fear coming from behind the tent flap as I reached out to brush it aside. Suddenly, a figure burst from the tent, charging directly at me in blind rage. He swung his forearm directly at my head, hoping to catch my jaw or at the very least stun me to attempt further action- Double arm block above face to counter open-palm forearm strike. Counter with left foot stomp or right toe to follow up with knife-edge hand strike to locked right arm joint. Left-handed heel strike to base of jaw. Counter blind left jab with open-palmed right hand block; grab wrist and apply force 90 degrees opposite normal rotation. Open-palmed left-handed heel strike to solar plexus. Counter right knee jerk with full-body left forearm block. Return to stance; drive knife-edge of right hand into carotid artery. Drive right knee upwards to strike abdomen; force target to ground. Clasp both hands across opposite sides of neck, brace thumbs against windpipe. Apply pressure. I could hear the pop as his Adam's Apple was crushed beneath my thumbs, his dark, Arabian eyes staring blankly into my own as I ended his life. I stood, turning to face the tent once moreThe two women cowered in the back of the end, one vainly trying to claw her way through the fabric of her tent. The two children stared at me with abject fear, pressing themselves as close as possible to their mother's swollen belly. She, too, stared at me with terror as I ducked through the opening of the tent, my breathing heavy but rapidly returning to normal. I called out a command in Arabic at the woman trying to escape- She didn't listen. I yelled it again with more force, and she finally fell silent. I clenched and unclenched my fists; my palms were wet and sweaty. I blinked as spots clouded my vision, obscuring the faces of the women and children in front of me. I shut my eyes, trying to block out the spaces my mind automatically filled; images of my wife replaced those of the pregnant Arabian woman. Those children could have been my children- The children I was never able to have with the woman that I never had the chance to love. I reached into my pocket, gripping the handle of my knife. Charles Manson would have been proud. I left eight bodies behind.

The beating of drums was becoming more pervasive, filling the air with their rhythmic pounding, each downbeat a fresh assault on my ears. I cringed inwardly as I snaked up the ridgeline, my figure shrouded in various items of clothing I had stolen from the corpses of the men I had killed just days before. I had done my best to scrub out the blood, but the stains were still visible- Fortunately, the mass of humanity below me seemed to care little of hygiene. Spirits were high below

me, voices raised, calling out various phrases in Arabic above the general din. A group of musicians were playing near a hastily-constructed stage around the tent city, their features shrouded in hooded garments and shapeless clothing. The drums continued to beat as I slowly brought up my rifle, eyeing the Arabs below me. There were close to eighty of them conversing in the space between their tents and the stage, a respectable number- I could not hope to kill them all flatout. I looked around for some sort of communal food storage, but found none; typical of Arabs to be selfish. I slowly brought my rifle around, unwilling to expose my position with a careless flick of the barrel, eyeing the camels tied about the tents. Each family seemed to own several, with two gaudy tents having visibly more. I wondered briefly if the camels were traded as currency, used, or merely kept as a status symbol; either way, I didn't plan to let the community leave the next day. There had to be some way to stop them from leaving abruptly in the night.
It was only from the actions of the Arabs themselves that I found the key to what I was looking for. Over the course of the party, men broke away, heading towards their tents and leading their camels back around a low hill. It took me some time to understand what they were doing; I was thankful for the rifle's Leupold scope when I finally realized that the camels' faces were damp when they returned. I finally had something to go on, although I had no chemicals to poison the pond with. Finding the materials to create a dispersable, toxic substance was unlikely in any situation, let alone a temporary Arabian commune; there would have to be another way to rid the area of its transport. I mulled over various methods I could use to murder dozens of people effectively, with seemingly no remorse for the events of the past week. I was there to accomplish a mission, and these people were the enemy- They had invaded a country during a time of crisis, and seemed intent on staying. It was up to me to remove them and restore Israel to her former glory; the Arab would no longer be a common site in Israel. I was Sayeret Matkal, the sword and shield of Israel, her greatest weapon and her greatest defense against the enemy; it was the enemy I faced now. The crowd began to fall silent shortly after the drums stopped beating. The musicians hurriedly gathered their instruments and headed off towards the tents, nearing the back of the encampment before disappearing from view. I turned back towards the crowd; they were waiting for something eagerly. I inched my view back towards the stage, steadying the rifle as I prepared to watch the proceedings. A large, overweight man stepped out on stage, prompting the crowd to erupt in shouting and applause. He was gaudily dressed, a large turban perched atop his head, his facial features shrouded by a dark growth of beard. Lengths of golden chain and jewels adorned his neck and chest, and around his waist sat a jeweled belt, a ceremonial knife dangling from it. A young boy of about ten years of age stood next to him, his expression proud and confident; this was a child bred for royalty. I searched the bearded man's face, hoping would spark something in my mind, some vague recollection or connection that I could use to justify his murder; I found none. My finger curled around the trigger as I judged the shot's distance- There was no wind. I took several deep breaths, barely aware of the sheikh's speech as I curled my finger around the trigger, lining up the shot that would end his life. The drums began to beat again as I began to depress the trigger, but what I saw in the corner of the scope quickly caused me to rethink this action. Two young children, about the age of the Arabian prince, were dragged on stage by a man dressed in what looked out-dated Coalition gear. His hair was cut military-fashion, and he bore a faint tattoo on the back of his neck. The shape was familiar to me, and I soon realized why as he began to speak, his voice loud and carrying over the heads of the crowd. He spoke with a Syrian dialect, his dress a crude reminder of Syria's lack of funding for its military. The tattoo was the insignia of the supposedly elite 120th Mountain Infantry Brigade, one of Syria's multitude of

"special forces", a moniker that brought a laugh to anyone familiar with Syria's military situation. I drew a bead on his head, running the calculations through my head and adjusting accordingly. The sheikh would be easy to kill; this man was a career killer, someone who made his living ending the lives of others. I paused as I mulled this over, observing the Syrian roughly kick the two children into the center of the stage, stepping aside to allow the prince the opportunity to beat them aswell. The Syrian was not so different from me, really- He likely did many of the same things I did, and possibly for longer. I looked at his face through the scope, tightening my finger around the trigger for the second time as I prepared to end his life. All's fair in love and war. I paused again, hesitating as the sheikh began to make an impassioned speech about Jews. As I observed the stage from my hidden vantage point, it became apparent that the two young twins, a brother and sister, were the targets of his words. The child prince continued to beat them both savagely, pausing only to tear at the clothing of the girl, an action that caused her brother to attempt a futile lunge, which the prince easily dodged. The crowd laughed and jeered as the young nobleman kicked at the child repeatedly, the sobbing of his victim's sister not giving him the slightest pause as eventually beat the boy into unconsciousness. The sheikh pushed him aside them, a blow to the child's pride, and I watched him eye his father's dagger as the limp child was held aloft in front of the crowd. The sheikh cried something again, prompting the crowd to surge forward towards the stage before the child was tossed into their midst. There was a melee as the crowd trampled him, each trying to land a blow on the child before his expiration. I turned my gaze back on the stage, curling my finger around the trigger for the third time as I lined up a shot on the sheikh's center of mass. Hesitation did not save his life a second time. The rifle jerked, the round tearing through the air at nearly double the speed of sound, striking the sheikh directly over the heart. He stumbled backwards from the force of the shot, but was unable to find the strength to pinwheel or otherwise make any attempt to halt his fall; he collapsed onto the stage with an audible thump. The Syrian was already moving towards his body, an outdated Makarov cradled in his right hand as he tried to remove his principal off-stage and out of harm's way. I calmly cycled the bolt and fired again before he was even close to the edge- He fell with a jerking spasm as the round tore through his diaphragm. I cycled the bolt a third time, scanning the area for the prince, but he was nowhere to be found; neither was the young girl on-stage. Lowering the rifle, I pushed myself back down the incline, throwing the strap over my shoulder and drawing my handgun from inside my coat. I advanced quickly, following a rough path past the ridgeline and towards the back of the stage. I could hear the crowd beginning to react to the death of their leader. The prince was dragging the girl, who was putting up as best a fight she could under the circumstances- Her hands were bound, her clothing in ruins, and the barrel of a handgun was digging into the skin of her neck. The Arab child clearly had no intentions of letting her go, and judging from her state of undress, he was about to finish what he was going to do on-stage. I followed them silently, ducking low and using the mis-shapen clothing I was wearing to hide any recognizable human form. After a little less than a mile, the Arab child threw her to the ground before shouting a command at her in her native language. His face was turned away from me as I dropped from where I was stalking, sliding down a brief slope before breaking into a full run towards him. The child heard my footsteps before I was able to catch up with him- He looked over his shoulder before quickly kneeling and jerking the girl up by her forearm, swiveling her around to use her as a human shield. I stopped, snapping my handgun up and lining up a shot; the child was brutal and cared little for the life of the child, but he was also ignorant and untrained. His weapon was pressed against the side of her head as he shouted for me to put down my weapon. I ignored him, taking a brief step forward- There would be no second shot. He shouted again, flourishing his pistol for emphasis, pulling back on the hammer.

It was the last action he took. I fired once, the round striking him in the forehead just above the left eye. He blinked once with an expression of surprise before he went limp, relaxing his hold on his hostage and sinking slowly to the dirt below. The captive also sank to her knees, her hair spattered with the blood of the her would-be rapist. Her face, covered in bruises, was also covered in tears- It was impossible to tell whether or not she cried for herself or for the loss of her sibling. I advanced towards her, keeping my weapon held on the dead child behind her; he made no movements. I finally lowered it, kneeling down beside her and speaking in quiet Hebrew for her to stand. She gave no response, staring blankly at the ground. I devoted little time to checking her for medical problems before hoisting her over my left shoulder and setting off towards a hill opposite where I came in from. I didn't usually travel in groups, let alone with someone who's simply a mouth to feed, but in truth, I felt that I understood the child. She lost someone important to her. The land became gradually more sparsely covered with plants and grass, giving way to sand and gravel as I carried the girl towards Jerusalem. She slept for the majority of the day, clinging to my shoulders and covered by the keffiyeh around my neck. She spoke little of our travels when she awoke, preferring silence to vocalization, and my attitude reflected hers. I empathized with the girl; she had witnessed her brother's brutal murder by a mindless mob, watched him as he was beaten nearly to death before being thrown casually through the air, his life worth less than the time it took to pick him up. I understood her feelings, and I welcomed her silence- For her to speak would be for me to hear, and I was unsure I would be able to bear the pain of losing someone close to me a second time. I could not help but draw comparisons between her and the Arabian family I had slaughtered days ago. Why had I killed them? Was it because they were Arabian? Was it because I wished to kill the race that was responsible for my wife's death? They were defenseless, their protection gone- One had even tried desperately to escape. None of them had tried to fight me, even when it became clear that their deaths were what I had in mind- Was it because resisting was futile? Increasingly, my thoughts turned to the girl on my back- Even without speaking, she was telling me the truth. That family was not killed because I wished to avenge my wife's death; that family was killed because they reminded me of her. They reminded me of the family that we were going to create, the schools our children would go to, the lifestyle they were going to have. It was for her I lived, and it was for her I killed- Her death was meaningless to me. Her life was all that I cared to relive. As the days passed, the child began to look like my wife. Subtle changes; the shape of her eye, the fullness of her lips. I cringed each time I noticed a new change, forcing myself to look away from the creature before me- I was no Humbert Humbert, she no nymphet. Each night I found myself clutching my knife, watching over her, gauging the best way to slit her throat and the most effective way to hide the body. Each night I fought the desire to end her life, fought the desire to remove the source of my memories from existance. But each night I restrained myself- I knew that the problem lay not within the girl's heart, but my own. I questioned my motives; what was I doing this for? Each time I answered myself differently. I couldn't remember where I was; I couldn't remember how I got there. The girl watched me impassively, oblivious to the changes that were occuring to her. She was a variable, constantly changing to fit the equation I constructed for myself- She was a catalyst. I cursed myself for taking her, cursed her for existing, cursed God for placing me on Earth and for enabling me to commit such atrocious acts. Every morning I smothered the child in a blanket, pulling her onto my back and carrying her, my face staring directly ahead so as not to see my shadow- I could not bear see the shadow of my wife aside mine. I reached a ravine and considered throwing her off- I invisioned her flailing in emptiness for a moment, jerked awake by the feeling of her heart leaping into her throat before her brains were spilled across the rocks below. I set her down, looking at my wife; she looked back with doe-like eyes, as if unable to comprehend what was happening. I longed to warn her of

her impending demise, longed to warn her of the danger of that one decision, but she was already gone. My life was a game, the sandy expanses of nothing my dollhouse, the child my Lolita- She became my wife, I her husband; she was my half in all but mind, her transformation from child to adult now complete. She never spoke, never once voiced objections to anything I did, never once cried out for me to stop- She was my silent companion, an expressionless doll, worth nothing but my life and soul. As we began to run low on food, I constructed more; we feasted daily on the flesh of animals, cooked until they were crisp, fat dripping from their bones as I devoured them whole. Every night I was a father, head of a host of children. My vision suffered, my eyelids heavy from lack of sleep, but it was all meaningless to me. I existed for her to exist, filling in gaps with memories I never had, erasing my previous reality and spawning one anew. I barely took any notice of the kibbutz I passed by, too busy guarding my wife from the dangers of the day. I was her protector, her guardian, wary of any who approached and ready to commit unspeakable acts to ensure her safety. Such was my determination, such was my seperation from reality, that I barely noticed the denizens of the kibbutzim as they followed us. They observed our camp for two days before surprising me in the dead of night, their lanterns blinding me even as I tried to stand. I was shoved back to the ground by something hard, likely a length of pipe; a moment later, a blow tore through my skull, knocking me to my side even as I tried to protest. My limbs were slow to respond, my resistance chaotic and ultimately futile- They beat me mercilessly until I lie there, broken. They hauled my wife from her bed, and she gave no response, no protest- I tried weakly to warn her of what they were trying to do to her before another blow was aimed at my midsection. I coughed, splattering the ground with my own blood before looking up to her again. My wife was gone- In her place was a child, her face a mass of bruises and partially-healed scabs from where I had taken to her face with my knife. They tried to speak to me, tried to question why I would do something as horrible as this, but I was unable to comprehend their statements, unable to understand why this beaten child had taken the place of my lover. They tried to show me the evidence of her sexual abuse, but I refused to hear it; I screamed to drown out their words, shut my eyes to block out the images of my own creation. It was so surreal- Was this a dream? My pain told me otherwise, and when I opened my eyes, the face of the girl still stared back upon me, her eyes frozen open in constant fear, her mind shattered from the loss of her brother and the abuse of her body. They left, taking her with them, leaving me with nothing but what I had on my person. My doll was gone, my creation exposed, my lies revealed for my own eyes to see. I tried feebly to crawl, only to find that I couldn't feel my own legs- I shut my eyes, and my wife stared back at me, her face bruised and broken like that of the child I fashioned to look like her. She needed no words to reprimand me with; her presence was enough. My ears were ringing, my body ached, my mind fractured. I wept. I didn't move for four days, sobbing for as long as I could before my tears no longer flowed. My lips bled and cracked when I tried to scream, my voice hoarse and dead even to my own ears. I tore clumps of matted hair out of my head in rage, my palms slick with fresh blood each time I thought about my mistakes. My legs and torso ached, my entire lower body covered in bruises, but they did not matter to me- I longed for release, longed for the moment when I would be judged for my crimes. Loyalty to Israel would not save me from death, nor would my blind devotion to my wife; both caused my undoing, and both would stand as marks against my blackened record, tarnished from years of murder in the name of justice. A rock was but a few yards away- I tried desperately to reach it, but I could not will my body to move. Each night, my extremities became numb; I wished desperately for them to suffer from some horrible, uncurable disease that would accelerate my death, but each morning I regained a feeling, even if that feeling was nothing but pain. I cursed my life away, howling at the sky in garbled phrases, mixtures of every language I knew, and some I didn't- I received no reply. As I had forsaken God, God had forsaken me; nothing would be given to this vile, broken creature, not even the mercy of

death. It was on the fifth day they recovered me, expressing disgust as they hauled me into the cart. By then, I was too weak to protest- I merely closed my eyes and hoped that they had an execution in mind. They spoke to me, ignoring my pleas for death as they reminded me of my crimes, telling me that I was the reason a fresh grave had been dug, the size of an emaciated child's corpse; I needed no reminders. I tried twice to roll off of the cart, but twice I was restrained- I retained the hope that, if I could merely toss myself to the path, a stray rock would crack my skull. I had no such luck as the cart passed through the gates of the kibbutz- A burlap hood was placed over my head before my body was lifted by at least four pairs of hands, held aloft and carried into rank darkness, set down gently on a wet, packed-dirt floor that smelt of fungus and decay. I gave no protests, breathing in the air as best I could, trying in vain to inhale some hidden poison that would end my life before I could be placed on trial; I could not stand against their charges. I had no crimes to refute. I was a pariah, outcast and shunned by my own people in my own country, laid to rest on the floor because they felt remorse for the beating they had justly served me. I howled one final time before my head felt light. I felt my body drift away from me as I looked down upon it from above; I nearly cried with joy. I was dead, finally, my last word a plea for the one thing that had been denied to me for my whole life. I floated gently upwards, held aloft by invisible wings. Then all was black. There were nine in all, a small operation- Two katzefet operatives, who provided the intelligence and transportation; six Sayeret Matkal commandos, used to extract the target and release him into the custody of the Yamam; and one Shaldag operative, used to provide air-to-ground target designation for a "borrowed" General Atomics MQ-1 Predator unmanned aerial vehicle, also serving as sniper support. I had been provided with a recent photograph, briefed on the target's name and background, unofficially notified why he was such a high-value target and why it was important to see to it that he was removed- But I cared little. It was an operation that was to be conducted in broad daylight, in full view of the street and surrounding area. The two katzefet men would leave the car- A generic white sedan, chosen for the simple reason that it was a common sight in the neighborhood we were operation in- idling across road, while the Sayeret Matkal team would move in from various directions, encircling the house and splitting into two teams of three to cover both the front and back entrances, entering the house as soon as the target was confirmed to be inside. The sniper was to be positioned several blocks away, covering the road around the back of the residence aswell as the rooftop in case of an escape attempt. He also commanded the Predator UAV circling just above the clouds, ready to fire the missile to ensure mission success in case of a total failure. This was to be avoided at all costs, but somewhere along the chain of command, it was deemed a necessary precaution; best to make noise and attract the media with a corpse than explain away six dead bodies and a gunman on a nearby rooftop. I was confident in my ability to succeed, but not to the point of arrogance- Without knowledge that one is capable of performing a task, it is impossible to complete it. Due to the fact that civilians were likely to be in the area around the target zone, the Duvdevan operatives wore no uniforms, as they were one of two units authorized to do so. The other? Sayeret Matkal. I made contact with the other two men in the team selected to enter the building through the front door. We waited, making vague talk about the weather by the front door as the other three went around towards the back. As radios and other similar communication devices would be too obvious or suspicious to use in broad daylight, timing was critical to a synchronized entry and, by extension, a successful mission. We counted down exactly sixty-five seconds from when the other three commandos went around the back of the house, drawing our handguns before breaching through the door. A similar-sounding splinter of wood was heard simultaneously from the opposite end of the house as we funneled into the building as swiftly as we could, each

covering a different angle of the room. There were loud shouts of alarm from the opposite side of the house as the opposite team subdued the wife of the target. I swiveled my Glock 30 upwards to cover the dingy wooden staircase, moving to ascend. The other two members of my team fanned out to sweep the remainder of the front side of the house, each cradling a different weapon; the choice of equipment was personal, each member trusted to carry a weapon with enough stopping power to ensure a swift kill in case of an firefight, while retaining a size small enough to be easily concealed in civilian clothing. I had hardly reached the top of the staircase before I heard the shouts of "all clear" from below- All that remained was the second floor to be cleared. I covered the short hallway; three doors, and no movement. Given the shouting, we could afford no further hesitation. I advanced towards the first door, turning the handle and slamming my foot into its base from an angle, covering the corners of the doors as I fanned out along the length of the doorway. I ducked inside briefly, checking behind the door and pushing aside a blanket covering an alcove used to hold clothes. Nothing. I stepped back into the hallway. The room had taken me barely a few seconds to clear, and judging from the amount of movement coming from the bottom floor, a little less than a minute was all the time we had left before the risk of discovery reached a level higher than acceptable. I started down the hall, trying the second door and repeating the process, kicking it open. It was a child's room, the window ajar; I had no time to check if the child was running, trusting the Shaldag sniper to eliminate any target on the move. There was no alcove in this room, as the other- Just a small bed and some materials used for drawing. I had no time to determine whether or not the father approved of the son's artistic expressions; I turned, heading out of the door and directly across the narrow hallway, not even bothering to check the lock on the final room before I slammed my foot into it. The room exploded into a cacophony of gunfire, the high-velocity rounds tearing through the walls of the room I had just cleared, blowing out the glass of the window and blowing apart a vase resting on the windowsill. I ducked hard against the inside wall, ducking the left side of my body in as the gunfire continued. Already I could hear footsteps moving up the staircase, the remainder of the team moving in to assist. I turned as the gunfire halted for the briefest of moments, edging the short barrel of my handgun around the corner and squeezing the trigger as rapidly as I could. The weapon jerked in my hands as the gunfire resumed, but the .45 caliber rounds had done their jobThe remainder of the rounds in the assault rifle blew out chunks of the ceiling as the gunman toppled to the floor. I stepped into the doorway as two of the commandos in my team slammed into the wall opposite to the side I had used to take cover from the gunfire, the first edging the barrel of the handgun around the corner to cover the corpse. I moved in quickly, around the side of the still-writhing body, keeping a safe distance as I dipped my hand into my left pocket, removing a small, folded photograph of the target. I looked at it, then down; the facial structure was similar, the hairstyle the same. I turned back to the others, nodding and gesturing for them to assist with the extraction of the body, tucking the handgun into the back of my pants as I kneeled down to hoist the man up by his armpits. One of the men grabbed his legs, the other the man's rifle- A cleanup crew would arrive before the police did to remove any shell casings and blood. We hurried down the staircase, out across the street, practically tossing the body into the waiting sedan before tearing off in opposite directions. The few civilians on the road yelled at us as the sedan took off, but I did not hear them; I was moving as fast as my legs could carry me, sprinting flat-out down the road, taking every alleyway and shortcut I could remember to lose any pursuers as I made my way to the safehouse. No casualties. One target neutralized, the other detained. Predator missile strike unnecessary. Anonymity retained. Mission accomplished.

There were nine in all, a small- No. I fell back down to Earth, my wings gone in an instant, the ethereal feeling of release vaporizing in the same amount of time. The room was freezing and dark; five men surrounded me, shrouded in the shadows cast by the lone light source positioned somewhere behind my head. My skin felt raw and tender; my head was shaved. For a brief moment, I could not comprehend what was happening, struggling violently against my imagined captor back in the house I had assaulted seemingly only minutes ago. The men surrounding me made no move to stop my struggles, standing patiently until I finally ceased, my chest heaving from the effort, my eyes unaccustomed to the darkness of the room. I tried to remember my name, who I was, why I was here- My wife was gone. I remembered the child I had taken to satisfy my deepest longings, remembered in vivid detail the lengths that I had gone through to satisfy my fantasies and sustain my illusion. I opened my mouth to cry out, but no sound came; my lips were dry and cracked, splitting as I tried to speak to my captors, tried to rationalize what I had done, tried to explain to them why I had done such things. Blood trickled down my throat as I choked on my words, all of my rationalizations and explanations dying as I opened my eyes for the first time to the world around me. My captors seemed to notice the change, halting what quiet conversation they had been carrying on and stepping forward. Two moved behind me; the other two stood at my feet. One leaned down next to my head, whispering unintelligible words into my ear, the hotness of his breath causing me to cringe inwardly and try to draw away- But I had nowhere to go. The first blow came hard, thumping into my stomach and expelling the air from my lungs with a solid splutter of pain, clouding the air with droplets of spittle and blood before the burlap sack came down hard, smothering me. Hands held either side, pinning the fabric to either side of the table as the man who had whispered into my ear stood, kneeling to lift something. I had no chance to breathe, no chance to inhale before the sound of sloshing liquid reached my ears. I tried to relax my body, tried to gulp in some air before the water came, but I knew it was too late; the water soaked the rag rapidly, the ice-cold liquid running over my nose, mouth and face, splattering across my chest. The temperature alone would have been enough to make me cry out in pain, but I had no air- I tried to inhale, but whatever oxygen that was available to me was trapped behind the barrier covering my face. Water rushed down my throat, choking me, flashfreezing my organs together; I tried to constrict my throat, tried to stop the water from continuing its deadly course, but I couldn't manage it for more than a few seconds. I involuntarily inhaled water, choking hard before I had a sudden flash of clarity, even as my brain began to shut down from lack of oxygen; I was going to die here, alone- Drowned in a desert where nobody would mourn my loss, unable to atone for my sins. I refused to accept it, refused to reconcile the idea of nothing in my mind, refused to accept the possibility of death even as I began to spasm, my fingers shaking as my body desperately tried to save itself from the very thing I fought so hard to avoid. The rag was removed as the two men began resuming their pounding on my distended stomach, forcing water out of my lungs in spluttering coughs. I inhaled the chilled air as fast as I could manage, swallowing life-giving oxygen as fast as I could open my mouth. I was alive, but this was their goal- Their treatment of me was merely a means to an end, and not the end itself. The man who had whispered to me before I was subjected to the torture now shouted out in loud, harsh tones, calling for an explanation, begging me for the reason that I had taken a child's life. I cried out as loudly as I could muster, spitting the words at him as fast and as hard as I could; they flowed more freely than wine, spilling out of my mouth as the water had spilled from the watering can just seconds ago. There was no background noise, nothing to deafen the sound of my own voice as I screamed out my agonies, their useless frailness bouncing back across the walls and into my own ears. They sounded hollow, false, without emotion- I was lying to save my own life. I redoubled my efforts even as the sack came down over my face once more, even as the water cascaded down my throat, even as my lungs filled with the one substance vital to life, the one substance about to relieve me of my own. I continued to scream my reasonings at them, lapsing back into a state of panic as the blows on my stomach came, forcing the water from my lungs a second time, spilling my words across my chest. I continued to cry out at them, desperately

hoping that my words were not falling of deaf ears- I continued my screams of anguish until the club connected with my skull. Then all was black. They tossed me into a courtyard, the jagged splinters of rock tearing at my skin, drawing blood from nearly-invisible wounds. I was forced to my feet, pushed across towards the center of the space. The daylight blinded me, burning spots into my eyes as I reached the spot, forced to my knees by unseen hands. My words still resounded and bounced through my mind, meaningless now as the cold barrel of a weapon was pressed against the back of my head. As the spots in my eyes faded, I came to realize that no amount of justification would change the choices I had made in my life; no matter what I said, the people who I had killed would never return to the land of the living, would never see their families again. No matter how I had tried to justify it, the girl who's life I had ended in my delusional state would never return- The child who's life had been so casually ended by a mob of Arabian peasants would never again see the light of day. No words could ever atone for what I had done- The only tool I had left to use was myself, the only thing I could use to atone for my sins my actions. I could not die here. I raised my hands up past my face, pleading with my attacker to spare my life, keeping my palms facing away from him, subtly inching my neck away from the barrel. I could feel him tense behind me, unwilling to commit the act of murder against a naked, defenseless man. My heels were tucked underneath my body, my toes curled as I prepared to spring. I counted down from a second, relying on his hesitation and conscience to spare my life. Jerk head backwards past barrel of firearm; move hands to grip forward portion of weapon. Apply directional force. The man was stunned for a moment, surprised by the ease that I had nearly pulled the aging LeeEnfield No. 5 Mk 1 carbine out of his grip. He took a clumsy step forward, attempting to drive his foot into the small of my back, but I had already twisted away, releasing my right hand's grip on the barrel of the weapon in order to effectively strike him. Drive right elbow back to strike abdomen; drive hand upwards in open-palm strike to base of jaw. The man doubled over as my elbow struck his abdomen, forcing the air from his lungs, producing a sound similar to the one I had made prior. I was totally committed to the assault- There was no turning back. He slackened his grip on the rifle, possibly the worst thing he could have done; it only made it easier for my to tug downward on the barrel of the carbine and slip my free hand towards the stock as I completed my low turn. Apply downward force on barrel, invert rifle direction; seize control of firearm and engage target. I flipped the rifle around, my muscle memory reacting faster than I could consciously process thought as I squeezed the trigger. The weapon jerked violently in my hand, the legacy of a discontinued rifle; the round impacted his sternum, the power of the weapon knocking him off of his feet and into the dirt. I stepped forward, tucking the stock of the weapon against my shoulder and falling prone next to the man, bracing the front of the Lee-Enfield in the crook of his left arm. As I expected, the doorway we had exited from remained dark and vacant; no doubt those inside assumed the man had simply done his job and executed me in the courtyard. I held the rifle on the doorway for a beat longer should my suspicions prove to be incorrect before hurriedly beginning to undress the man in the courtyard. His shirt was soaked through with blood, and he stirred briefly, but I made no notice of it; either he would live or he wouldn't. I relieved him of his shirt and pants, tugging each on quickly and rolling his body towards the wall surrounding the kibbutz, making sure it was face-down before retrieving the weapon and advancing slowly towards the doorway. Those inside would wonder why their friend had not returned, and would be

moving out to see what the delay was- Or, perhaps, they were expecting him to bury me or toss my body in a ditch past the wall. Regardless, I cycled the bolt on the aging rifle, pushing through the doorway into the room where I had been tortured. I quickly checked the corners, moving towards a small door near the back of the room that was had not been visible while I was lying on the table. Voices came from inside- I positioned myself next to the door, raising the rifle. There were no survivors. I lay absolutely still, hidden from view by a massive growth of wide palm fronds. The river rushed behind me, tempting me to make sure my boat was securely tied down and hidden on its shores; I remained motionless. Sunlight filtered through the thick, wet air, illuminating a small patch of earth in front of my hands. I resisted the urge to draw my hand back away from the proverbial spotlight; it would cause unnecessary movement. A pair of guards lazily patrolled the footpath in front of me, pausing constantly to smoke from crudely-wrapped joints and make idle chatter between each other. Already accustomed to the almost surreal beauty of their country, they had little else to use to draw their attention away from the task at hand. Their behavior was perfectly normal, understandable given the circumstances. I inhaled through my nose, holding my breath for as long as I could manage before exhaling slowly. I remained unnoticed. Thoughts and observations slowly devolved into more concrete visions of the future: I would accomplish my mission. My sacrifices and the sacrifices of all those who had ever chosen to love me for even a moment would not ever go down in history as being in vain; I would accomplish my mission. I would not look back later in my life and see my years in Colombia as a mistake. I would kill this man. I would kill Trenker. I waited patiently, ignoring the flies attracted to the beads of sweat that poured off of my skin through sheer force of will- The guards would have to leave soon. Leave they did; their patrol route, that I had studied from afar, took them down a nearby embankment to routinely check the river. For the guards, this meant a chance to cool off; my boat was in the opposite direction and would not be discovered. I could hear the beating of drums in the distance, the laughter of men with everything to gain and nothing to lose- Powerful men, men who had long since transcended murder and now allowed younger men to continue their legacies for them. Their years as soldiers and workers were done; their years as generals and barons were just beginning. I shifted myself as slowly as I could manage, inching across a barely-perceptible rise of dirt before rising to my feet, crouching low and reaching into the waistband of my shorts for my handgun. Cradling it in both hands, I advanced slowly across the street, rolling into another pair of bushes similar to the ones I had chosen to seek shelter from the two guards a few moments ago. I ceased all movement, waiting to hear a cry of alarm or a gunshot. Welcome to Colombia. I reached into a pocket on my cargos, removing a suppressor and a small bottle of water. I had pre-hydrated before my mission, and despite my apparent thirst, I knew that I had no need of the water I held in my hand at that moment; regardless, it was to be used for another purpose. I lay facing upwards, my body pressed into the dirt embankment, my handgun cradled in my lap as I set about preparing the suppressor. It was a "wet can", a suppressor designed for coupling with a liquid; the design had almost been eliminated elsewhere, due to the excessive cleaning and maintenance required to operate and maintain a wet suppressor- But for my purposes, it was perfectly suitable. Two to three shots of near-silent fire. Coupled with the sub-sonic ammunition I had loaded into my handgun, the wet can made the weapon almost completely silent. It was highly unlikely that the guards, who were essentially untrained militia, had ever heard a suppressed weapon before; even if they had, it was extremely unlikely that they would be able to locate my position before I was able to react. Finishing my application of the water, I stowed it back in my cargo pants, affixing the suppressor to the weapon. I checked it to make sure there was no excessive dripping; a water-based gel would have been preferable, but the time it would have taken to acquire one (and the suspicion it would have attracted) made it less attractive. Water was far easier to acquire and due to its high heat of vaporization was essentially the same thing, although more prone to dripping from the suppressor. Regardless, if my mission was

successful, there would only be need for three shots. One for each man who was meant to be present at the table. Three shots to the head. Simple. I pushed myself off of the dirt embankment, supporting the suppressor with my thumb and forefinger as I made my way towards the source of the sound. It seemed like a card game; in this area, my intel my lacking. I knew that there would be a gathering between three men, one being Trenker, but I didn't know what the meeting was about or what they planned to be doing there. I didn't know what kind of opposition I was up against, though presumably each man would bring his own security- I didn't even have an effective layout of the villa the men were meeting outside of. Rage and my lust for vengeance had made me blind to the bigger picture, one that involved me living to see the fruits of my labor; I had entered without an exit strategy, and if one detail in the plan I had quickly formulated was off, I would likely be fighting against unsurmountable oddsAlone. The voices were getting nearer, and I slowed my pace, stopping to do a 360 of the surrounding jungle. No doubt they would have some sort of sentry of trap set up to prevent someone such as me from attempting such a raid; no respectable drug kingpin was without tricks up his sleeve. I advanced cautiously, my eyes open to anything that seemed even slightly wrong with the jungle scene in front of me. The light filtering through the trees above gave me just enough light to see where I was going, making the task difficult- But not impossible. A tripwire strung between two twigs. A grenade tucked into a hollowed sapling. A motion-sensing camera attached to a branch just above my head, so cleverly disguised that I was almost in its field of vision before the matte lense finally caught my eye. I finally reached the edge of the jungle, dropping to my stomach and inching through the damp earth towards my goal. I could hear their voices clearly now, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish; they seemed amiable enough, but I couldn't judge their dispositions from this distance. Snap. I reacted faster than I thought possible, jerking my body over onto its back and snapping off two rounds from the pistol before I could even process what had caused the sound. The sentry collapsed, blood oozing from two small holes in his face. I moved to my feet, advancing to his body and checking for any signs of life. The man's body went limp as I pressed my hand to it, exhaling its last breath in answer to my question. I did several 360 degree scans of my surroundings before finally giving the guard a hurried pat-down, checking for anything that could be of use to me. Cigars, a lighter, a poorly-maintained assault rifle; nothing of any apparent value to me at the moment. I combed the area for a few minutes before I located my shells, pocketing them swiftly- Despite my desire to avenge the death of my recently deceased wife, I cared little to be hunted down and murdered by angry former drug dealers. I intended to provide anyone seeking to exact vengeance upon me with as few clues as possible; if they persisted in hunting for me, then they would die. I was a knife, honed to a sharp edge on Israel's whetstone, manufactured from refined metal into a tool used for one purpose and one purpose only: To kill, and kill effectively. I dropped my left hand from my handgun, resting it on the blade of the knife that I kept in a sheath on the strong side of my body, ready to be drawn in less than a second and able to kill in the same amount of time. I drew it as quietly as I could, resting my handgun on top of the wrist that carried it. It would be a difficult shot. I peered out from behind a tree, gauging the amount of hired security that the three kingpins had hired for the occasion. There was a suspicious lack of it, for men so high in the criminal heirarchy; assorted militiamen and a marksman with what looked like a World War 2-era British rifle in a hastily-erected scaffold on the side of the villa the men sat outside of were the only things that I could see that stood between me and my goal. There would be little need for any of them to die; I was confident in my abilities. I dug my knife into the tree I stood next to, gripping my handgun in both hands and resting it on a small twig protruding from the side of the tree. It was a difficult shot, but not one that I couldn't have made during training. As I lined up my weapon, I was suddenly aware of the two possibilities that faced me: I would either succeed and partially avenge the death of my wife, living to fight another day, or I would fail, dooming both myself and her to

eternal nothingness, forgotten by everyone and everything. One of these possibilites was one that I could not live with; I had to succeed. There was no turning back. I pulled the trigger. An elderly-looking man slumped over the table the men had been using to play cards on, spilling his drink across the laps of his two companions. They raised their voices in anger, but their shouts quickly turned into ones of fear when the realized that their friend was now deceased. I emptied the rest of my magazine in short double-taps, striking the other two men at the table at least once and knocking them to the deck. Shouts were beginning to ring out across the compound and a man using a crude bullhorn was shouting orders to the rest of the guards, who were no doubt still lounging around smoking or drinking on the job. I cared little for the guards; by the time they arrived to the table to see if their charges were alive, I was already halfway back to my boat. The two guards were, as I expected earlier, getting dressed after a quick swim in the river; they barely noticed me as I slipped into my boat and drifted down a bend ahead. For once in a long time, I was successful. My hunt was over. Trenker was dead. I fought down an urge to shout for joy, to praise my wife for guiding me to success, to apologize to the Lord for doubting Him when everything in my life seemed so bleak. I returned to my rented hovel in high spirits- I spent the rest of the afternoon praying to the spirit of my wife, recounting to her the tale of my success. It was only after all of this that I realized that Trenker was not dead, and that he never been present at the meeting at all. Over seven years of life wasted in a futile hunt for an elusive war criminal turned scapegoat for my anger. It was only after my senseless murder of three innocent men that I realized my mistake.. Even after this revelation, I did not weep; I had long drained myself of tears. It was merely another setback on the long road to vengeance. I would see my wife avenged. I would not let her die in vain. Or I would die in the process. Do not stand at my grave and weep; I am not there, I do not sleep. I stared at the polished bit of marble embedded into the grass. It seemed so simple, so poor; it looked insignificant, as if it were simply an obstacle I had to overcome in order to be reunited with my love. It was a difficult concept to grasp- It was difficult to understand that despite my years of training, despite my strength and skill, despite how many lives I had taken in her name that she was never going to come back. Her life, along with 8 others, had been ended when Khaled Mohammed Khatib rammed Egged bus number 36 and detonated the bomb in his car. It was difficult to convince myself that it was not my fault, and that even if I had been in Israel at the time of her death, I would not have been able to save her life. Despite all the challenges I had overcome in the name of Israel, and all the hardships I had willingly undertaken to prove my worth in her eyes, I could not overcome this; I could not lie to myself. I could not continue to pull a curtain over my eyes and believe that it was not my fault; my existence, totally based on her memory, would fall apart. There could be no question, no reconciliation, no second guessingOnly vengeance. Only justice. My inability to act killed my wife; my lack of courage killed my wife; I killed my wife. The marble that I focused my gaze upon was there because of me. There could be no question- There was no question. It was my fault. She was killed because of me.

I am a thousand winds that blow; I am the softly falling snow; I am the gentle showers of rain; I am the fields of ripening grain. I shoved the men crowding the bus stop aside, hurling them into the void I left behind as I ran. There were shouts of pain, shouts of anger; some moved to block my way. I lashed out violently; the knife edge of my hand struck a man's temple. He collapsed, but there were others to take his place- More blows. More shouting. I screamed until I was hoarse, driving myself through the

crowd that blocked my passage to the entrance of the bus. I could see her from here; I shouted her name, begged her to return to me, begged her not to set foot on the bus that would soon be her tomb. People massed in front of me, forming a solid wall; I could hear bones pop as I forced them out of their sockets, feel eyes give way as I pressed my thumbs against them, smell the odor of fresh blood as I broke noses. I looked over my shoulder, breaking visual contact with my wife for only a moment- I could see a trail of writhing bodies in my wake. Some did not move at all. I had to be close; there couldn't be that many people here. I turned back, searching desperately for the image of my wife. I could not find her. I am in the morning hush; I am the swift uplifting rush of beautiful birds circling in flight. I am the stars that shine at night. I reached into my jacket, producing my handgun from its shoulder holster; I raised it, leveling it directly at head-level of the crowd. They continued to shout unintelligibly at me in Hebrew; their voices were in unison. I screamed at them to move, begged for them to clear the way so I could save my wife from her impending demise, but they refused to listen- I fired into the sky, roaring as loud as I could to try to get them to move. There was no response to my action. I still could not see my wife. I lowered the weapon again, pushing myself forward and firing indiscriminantly into the crowd in front of me. Bodies fell at my feet, missing portions of their skulls or oozing blood from wounds in their chest; I stepped over them, pushing aside those that I didn't kill. I was a machine. This was a grindhouse. I killed dozens to try to save one life. I ejected the magazine from my weapon, turning it over in my hand and using it as a club to beat those in my path. I was getting close to the bus; it had opened its doors. People were stepping on, moving to take their places- Soldiers and civilians alike made their way up the fatal steps, unaware that each motion they made brought them closer to their doom. I am in the flowers that bloom; I am in a quiet room; I am in the birds that sing; I am in each lovely thing. I reached the edge of the crowd as the last of the passengers stepped on board the bus. They had become violent, grabbing at my clothing and trying to pull me back into their ranks. I broke bones in their fingers, tearing myself from their grasp as I sprinted my way towards the bus. I was halfway there when I heard the familiar hiss of the bus closing its doors; I arrived just as they locked together. I looked up at the driver from behind the layers of safety glass, beating my fists uselessly against the plastic, smearing it with blood, mucus, tears and sweat; I howled at him to stop the bus, to open the doors, to allow me to either save my wife or die in her company. He gave no response, shifting the bus into drive and accelerating down the road. I sprinted as long as I could, but the bus left me in its wake; I could feel the acrid sting of the smoke from its exhaust pipe mixing with my own body's excretions. I gagged on my own spittle as I tried to scream again, pulling myself out of the grip of the crowd and sprinting flat-out down the street after the bus. There was still time. I could catch up. I could save her. There was still hope. Do not stand at my grave and cry. My legs burned, my eyes stung, my lungs erupted in pain with each breath I took- Yet I ran on. Past the shrubs, past the trees, past everything; it all became a blur to me. I could barely see, yet I ran on, following the vague dust cloud in the distance, wheezing with each alternate breath a prayer for my wife to survive. I had to stop the bus. I had to save her life- She had to live. She had to be with me. There was no alternative, no margin for failure; I willed myself to the task at hand. Failure was death. I had to stop the bus. I ran until I no longer ran, instead stumbling vaguely across the concrete towards the hazy image of the bus; I was almost there. It looked like it had stopped. I could get the driver to open the doors, pull my wife off of the bus, and carry her to safety; we could live forever together. Even as I spoke words of encouragement to myself, I saw the car opposite the bus suddenly accelerate, speeding down the highway- I could see the impending collision, even with my impaired vision. I could see my dreams fragmenting in front of

me, splitting into millions of other possibilities, encompassing everything but the one thing that I truly loved- There had to be a way to stop it. There had to be. The car collided with the bus, exploding simultaneously. I fell to my knees, dragging my hand across the concrete and screaming until I lacked the breath to scream any longer. I beat the concrete with my fists, drawing blood; I gouged my face with my hands; I cracked my face against the street until I could no longer feel the pain. She was gone; the bus had exploded. I had failed. My life was over. Everything I had worked so hard to obtain was liquidized the instant the trigger was switched to activate the bomb in the car's steering column. It was over. I awoke in a sweat as the crowd caught up to me, beating me into blissful nothing even as I opened my eyes. I was drenched in sweat; the alarm I had set had failed to go off. I turned to my side, hoping vainly that I would see my wife sleeping next to me. There was nothing there. My apartment was empty. I turned back, curling into the fetal position and burying my head in my hands, the sheets of my bed in disarray from my movements during my dream. I could see her face pressed against the glass, her mouth open as if to speak, but no words came out- There was nothing to be said. I had failed. She was never coming back. I am not there. I do not die. I wept.

Pain.
I opened my eyes, stirring from my place in the coarse sand, trying to pinpoint my location; it was to no avail. A road ran past me to my right, trailing off into the distance- Several abandoned cars lined the sides, sizzling under the searing heat. I could smell the stench of decomposing flesh even from my position on a hill near by; it was nauseating, but even it smelled appetizing. Decomposing flesh meant liquid, and liquid was what I craved- I had persisted in drinking my own urine until to do so was quite literally painful for me. I was trained to survive under the most harrowing conditions of combat; beaten and molded into a perfect fighting machine to subsist on my own and accomplish a mission with little more than a steak knife and a compass; formed into the perfect soldier. But here there was no argument- I had met my match. The Earth beat down upon me, scorching my skin into a baked brown paste. I felt like my mouth was full of cotton- I had long since exhausted my supply of saliva. No sweat oozed from my pores; my skin was folded, shriveled and taut across my bones. I was emaciated, but even more urgently, I was dehydrated. I needed water. I looked about with my sunken eyes, desperately scanning the horizon from my position in the sand. I saw nothing. I roused myself, pushing myself to my feet through sheer force of will- I lacked the strength to maintain the position. I saw black streaks for a fleeting moment before I closed my eyes; I saw nothing but red from behind my eyelids as I tumbled down the incline, razor-sharp rocks tearing at my skin as I rolled towards the street- Then blissful nothing. Anguish. I opened my eyes, stirring from my position on the asphalt, trying to pinpoint my location; it was to no avail. My skin bubbled from the scorching heat emanating from the road; a thick haze clouded my vision, urging me to get up. I tried to do so, placing my hands on a nearby car for support- It was too hot to touch. I would have uttered a scream as my skin seared itself to the metal, but I couldn't find my voice, nor could I remember the words. I recoiled down back to the asphalt, but it was no better- My skin reacted in much the same manner. I desperately hooked my fingernails

into a split in the road, tearing them loose as I crawled off into the relative coolness of the sand. It felt like stepping from magma into an ice stream; I curled reflexively into a fetal position, trying to shield myself from the sun. Every movement I made caused me untold amounts of pain. My body was a pathetic mass of visible bones, unhealing bruises and skin torn into ribbons. My body refused to respond to the commands I was feeding it; it felt like I was trapped in a furnace with no means with which to shut it off. Spots shown in front of my eyes as I tried to raise myself to my feet- I was able to stand only through sheer luck. I looked around, taking note of my surroundings and trying to locate something useful. The cars would have been long cleared out, and to try to drink the radiator fluid (if it was even still there) would just be a glorified method of suicide. There were no street signs, no signs that any drinkable substance was within a hundred miles of the spot that I stood. My rifle lay several yards from me, torn from my back as I tumbled down the hillIts strap, crudely fashioned, was torn into three parts next to it. Suicide was beginning to become appealing. I was going to die here. I made a blind shuffle towards the rifle before my head made contact with the asphalt- The last sensation I felt was an intense burning in my skull before I separated from my corporeal form into the darkness once again. Agony. I rolled as soon as I could feel my body, feeling an odd wetness on the side of my head closest to the asphalt. I moved my hand up to the spot, stuffing my fingers into my mouth. It tasted thick and salty, not unlike blood; I looked over to the road and spotted a torn piece of flesh scorched into the asphalt. I wondered how long I would have had to been unconscious for the sun to bake my flesh into the asphalt. Nevertheless, I continued to suck on the lifeblood pouring from the wound in my head- The pain it caused was nothing compared to the feeling of pleasure I was getting from drinking it. I was eating myself alive, using myself for sustenance as I stood on shaky legs and made my way over to my rifle. I picked it up with my left hand, keeping my right hand stuffed in my mouth, darting back to my head wound for fresh blood every few seconds- I had to be close. I had come so far; I had to be close. I headed down the street, opposite the direction the cars were facing- If the infection had claimed Jerusalem like it had so many others, it would only make sense that the people were fleeing from the city. It was absolutely silent- I heard absolutely nothing. I wondered for a brief instant if I had somehow managed to pop my eardrums in my journey, but a quick probe with my bloody hand confirmed that they were intact. I heard nothing because there was nothing- The road to Jerusalem was absolutely barren. For the first time, I was the only pilgrim in the Holy Land- On a personal voyage, motivated by honor, duty, and revenge. I was a soldier of Israel- One of the best. I knew the symptoms of dehydration- I knew what my current condition implied. Nevertheless, I trudged on. There was nothing to go back to. There was only forward. Seconds turned into minutes, and minutes turned to hours. The sun was omnipresent; as he giveth, he taketh away. The dry grass and weeds on the side of the road did nothing to sate my thirst. My tongue was swollen to fill almost my entire mouth- My skin itched fiercely, and my blood no longer flowed. Only a stain remained from where my skin had been seperated from my head; I had nothing to sustain me or distract me as I made my way down the road. My only solace was that I could no longer see the sun. Fiery cascades of brilliant violet and red-orange lit up the skyline, highlighting the hills that spanned before me. I thought I saw, in the briefest of an instant, the silhouette of a building on the horizon- But by the time the next moment had arrived, it was gone. The soles of my shoes had long since been destroyed by the elements, causing me to leave bloody footprints behind. Yet, despite all of my hardships, I continued forward; Jerusalem was my goal. I had failed once before, and I would never fail again- I would not die in the desert so close to my goal. I would reach it. I had to reach it. There was no alternative. Even as I refused to accept the possibility of ultimate defeat, I could feel my movements growing even more sluggish than they already were. My vision dimmed- Unlike before, I had no final thoughts before I toppled forward onto the road. I was jolted awake by a sudden peal of thunder. It was pitch-black; I couldn't see my hand in front

of my face. There was no moon to speak of, and I had no way of knowing which direction I was facing. I fumbled blindly in the darkness, trying to find the road that I had been lying on just moments ago before I had forced myself to my feet, but I felt nothing but rocks- I heard another peal of thunder, but this one seemed to last longer than the one prior. I tilted my head around, sniffing the dry air for any hint of a stench; I succeeded in doing nothing but irritating my nasal passages, which had begun to flake off. I sneezed loudly in the darkness, coating my hands in a spray of what I could only assume was blood. I licked hungrily at this, and was soon completely lost as I lapped up what was left of the inner lining of my nose. I didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late. I was blindsided, in more ways that one- My face contacted the ground as I uttered a sharp cry of surprise and pain; my nose was certainly broken, another tally to be added to that count; my parched and cracked lips had split completely open. My assailant uttered a strangled howl of absolute need- It was primal, one of the most primal of human emotions. The need to eat, the need to drink; the need to survive. I felt a series of sharp pains in my back as his nails dug into my skin through my ruined clothing- I let out another squeal, the only noise I could make, as I felt its skin on the base of my skull. I heard the grating of teeth on metal, then another hissed groan of need; my assailant was most certainly not human. I felt its need as well, a perfect inverse; two predators, forced into the ring of honor, and only one could survive. Yet I could not fight back- My body, despite the flood of adrenaline rushing through it, could not respond to my commands. I had used up the last of my reserves to even make it to the point I was now. There was nothing left in me. In a way, the feral poised to strike me almost felt like an angel- He was saving me the agony of dying of starvation and dehydration. He was an angel; an angel of death. I closed my eyes, despite the complete blackness, and waited for the inevitable. Another sharp pains. More grating of metal. It sounded loud, almost too loud- There was nothing human or feral that could make a noise like that. My rifle certainly didn't make such squeals, or such growls- More blows. My train of conscious thought was beginning to derail as the feral on my back beat me into submission. Lightning. Another boom of thunder. Shouting. I felt its hot breath on my neck as it groped at my throat, turning my emaciated corpse over- I could put up no fight. I heard more footsteps approaching me, light bouncing at crazy angles across uneven surfaces, reflecting back into my hollowed eye sockets as I stared into the face of eternity. It was only when the lighting sundered the sky a second time that I realized that the angel of death preparing to end my life was no man at all- Its face was immediately familiar. The arch of her nose; the slope of her forehead; the shape of her eyes; the contour of her lips; the exact shade of her lipstick and the immaculate perfection of her skin. She was no angel of death- She meant only to release me from my corporeal prison and take me into her life, where we could be together forever. She leaned forward to kiss me, to barely brush my cracked, rough lips against her perfectly smooth and soft ones; she was unable to finish. A rifle butt smashed into her skull, knocking her off of me with an expression of surprise. There was a deafening explosion next to my head as a rifle went off, splitting her skull into three separate parts, the expression of her face scattered across the desert sand. I jerked myself upright, but my howl died in my throat- Another rifle butt knocked me to the ground. I could barely see the barrel of the weapon before I heard more shouting. I had failed again; I had spent my entire life trying to get her back, and when she finally returned, I had spurned her. There was no way to justify what I had done. It was just as if I had pulled the trigger myself; I lacked vigilance, and my angel paid for it with a second death. There was nothing to comprehend, nothing to understand- I had no fluid left in my body to cry with. A boot thudded into my face. Then all was black. What happened?

I recognized the place I was in by its walls; drab, concrete, and poorly-painted. For all its expenses, the underground portion of the Shaare Zedek Medical Center never had aesthetics high on its list of priorities; during a missile attack or mortar bombardment, the hospital reasoned, people wouldn't be admiring how well-painted the walls were. And so they were left in their unfinished state- Rough. Neutral. Yes, this was definately the Shaare Zedek Medical Center, but that was only a small part of a larger question on my mind: Why was I here? What happened? The bulb on the ceiling flickered as if in response to my question, but it was a cryptic flicker at best; no clear "yes" or "no" was present in the shadows it cast momentarily across the uneven surfaces of the floor and wall. I was hooked up to several machines, but I couldn't possibly understand their purpose if I did not know the reason for my stay at Shaare Zedek. What had happened? I stirred experimentally and felt no pain; I sat up and my head was clear. For the first time in weeks, I could see across the room without my mind being clouded with visions of the past- I could finally see the world the way it truly was, and not through a carnival mirror of desperate longing and raw emotions. But this new clarity, this new ability; it gave me nothing with which to answer my question. This was a hospital. I was in a hospital bed. Why was I here? I looked over at the opposite side of the room from the machinery I was attached to- There was another bed there, but no occupant. I could see the stains of their occupancy, though, and judging from their size, it must have been brief; reflexively, I looked down to my own abdomen to see that I was not bleeding to death. No, I was wholeI stood in the elevator, my skin slick with sweat, my eyes darting back and forth. My jacket sat on the floor; my handgun dangled from the shoulder holster I was wearing. My fingers played over the clasp to release my weapon from its cage, but I had no desire to do so- I had no enemies here. Finally, the doors slide open with the accompanying sound of a muted bell; I stepped forward once, slowly, before breaking into a run. There were shouts, but they weren't my own; I knew they weren't directed at me. Hands grasped at empty air, crying desperately from release, but to no avail- I could see the blood dripping down their arms as I ran by. Another bombing. Another attack. I turned the corner, extending my left arm and driving it squarely into the sternum of a balding man in a white coat- He toppled backwards into a gurney, prompting a howl from the patient inside. I thought I saw the pink of viscera as I made my way by at a breakneck pace, skidding down the remainder of the hallway and turning a second corner into the last stretch towards the operating room. A team of men and women in surgical scrubs stood over a patient at the end of the hall- A woman. More shoving. Another scream. I saw one of the surgeons look upI was spotted. The doors were shut and locked in my face as I arrived at the end of the corridor, but they would not hold me; I slammed myself into them with a brutal cry of frustration, turning around and slamming my foot into them with all of my strength. They did not move; the surgical team continued to operate. I tried to see who the patient was, but the frosted glass gave me little more than a profile. I continued to assault the door. It would not hold me; it could not hold me. I was a half of a whole- I would be with her. I was not whole. I shook my head, staring back at the section of the wall in front of me, trying to piece together the meaning of the memory this place had triggered, but it was impossible- A fragment of a fragment, a memory imagined. The woman could not have been my wife; she had been dead long before I returned to Israel from the jungles of Colombia. No, the memory was fake- I gave a small sobbing convulsion as I fell back onto the bed. What was reality? I routinely manufactured my own, but it seemed real enough to me- If reality it a matter of perception, then why could I not bring her back? Why could I not imagine a better reality where she wasn't gone? I looked around the room again, but this time it was populated; men in sportcoats, labcoats and overcoats that hid body armor beneath them. Why was I here? What happened? It took a few moments for me to realize that they were speaking; it took longer before I realized who they were. The director of the Mossad stood at my immediate left; the Prime Minister of Israel to my extreme right; Nogah, centermost. Why were they here? What was happening? I unclasped the guard over my handgun, taking a few cautious steps away from the door and raising the weapon, leveling it squarely at the frosted glass in front of me. The surgeons inside

barely seemed to notice; I shouted and raved, but they refused to turn their heads. The gun leaped in my hands, ejecting a spinning brass cartridge, yet the glass did not break. A spiderweb of cracks- One nucleus from which they all emanated. I empted the rest of my magazine into the window, watching the bullets impact it one by one before it finally crumpled to pieces. I rushed forward, reaching inside to turn the lock on the door, pushing it open and charging the operating table. I could hear shouting all around me- I was not supposed to be here. She was not supposed to be here. But where was here? The surgical team scrambled to regain composure as I shook the opened corpse on the table. It didn't move; I didn't expect it to. I screamed into its face, shouting whatever I could to bring it back to life. There had to be a way- She couldn't be dead. I could hear footsteps coming up the hallway behind me, and angry shouting, but I paid it no attention; I was in the moment. I had to focus. The woman's body convulsed as I shook it repeatedly, starting compressions. I heard ribs crack- It was no use, but I continued trying. I slammed my right fist down over its heart, trying to restart the dead muscle, but it was useless- I had to keep trying. I gripped the body by the shoulders even as I was grabbed from behind by two pairs of hands, pulled backwards and downward- I opened my eyes with fear. I was being torn away from her; I would never be able to come back. This was my chance to save her life. I could feel her pulse in my hands through her skin- I lunged forward, desperately trying to keep my position by her side as the men behind me began to remove their truncheons from their belts. I felt the nightstick connect with my skull as I tried to connect my lips to hers; the last thing I saw before I closed my eyes was her eyes open. The room was empty again. It showed no signs of ever being occupied by the group of people I had seen earlier. I was having trouble focusing; things were unclear. My fabricated memories had stopped, for the moment, but I couldn't be sure if they would return- If they would ever return. Was my wife alive? I knew, consciously, that she was dead and buried- I had been present at her funeral, ever by her side, ever faithful, even when her death had cost me my faith. But I didn't want to believe it; to remain alive, to remain functional, I could not believe it. Hope sustained me; it kept me breathing. Without the hope that my actions would return her to life, without the hope that was I was doing would eventually mean something, I was nothing. I would be nothing but a shell- A shell of a human being that had once lived and loved, and died when that love died. She had to be avenged. I looked over as the door to the room opened, then closed again with little fanfare; a single figure made its way to my beside and looked down upon me. It was dressed plainly, but it held itself with military posture. I squinted against the light of the flourescent bulb on the ceiling of the room, trying to make out the face, but the man identified himself by voice before I had the chance to. It was Nogah- Nogah, who explained what was happening and why I was there. Nogah- The one who had given me the chance to undergo my second aliyah and achieve my nikamah. Nogah, who had saved my life on more than one occassion, and had done so again in the desert, where I had been dying of thirst and famine- Nogah, who brought me home. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. For a moment, I was puzzled at my inability to speak, but as my wits came back, I realized- Why should I be able to? I had spent months in the desert without exercising my ability to speak except to rant and rave aloud. My conversations had been internal; my thoughts brought me the interaction that I required. Nogah waited patiently for me as I formed words out of individual syllables, trying to address his comments- But he eventually left me to rest when he realized I would not be able to talk within a reasonable timeframe. I closed my eyes. Yes, there would be time for that. It took me a week to learn how to speak again; the thoughts came easily, but the articulation did not. I had to re-learn each of the languages I knew in detail, combing my brain for the secrets that I had locked back inside. Grammar rules, syntax, various dictions and alphabets- All required perusing. And so I rested, mumbling softly to myself, re-learning through feel the secrets of the languages I carried with me, both foreign and domestic. Nogah came and went, checking on my progress each time- Each time I had more to tell him, more that I knew that I desperately had to explain to him before I lost it. I was in a state of constant delirium, re-living lives and past lives, possibilities and future possibilities- My hospital bed was a Roman chariot, an Aston-Martin

sportscar, and a black stallion. Fragments of memories that I wished to forget passed through my mind from time to time, but I learned to cope with them. They became more and more infrequent as time passed on in the intensive care room- I began to realize that implications of my current situation and how they related to the present, not my past. The doctors began to make visits, apparently assured that I was no longer violent; they did tests, checked me over periodically, and gradually unhooked me from the machines I was attached to. I was becoming self-sufficient and less dependent on the establishment of Shaare Zedek to survive; soon, the hospital bed that I found myself in would not be enough. Soon, the stallions would have to be real. The next time Nogah made his visit, I went with him. He took me through the facility, showing me the current state of things in Israel. The government had located itself in the Shaare Zedek Medical Center's underground bunker- It was designed to withstand a missile strike directly. Three stories underground, it kept out undesirables, enemy combatants and the damned alike; it was a bunker in all but name, a counterpart to the New American ones that I knew of back in America. Carter's dollhouses; populated with brave men and women, toiling away in their subterranean homes, worshipping the madman who had given me the chance to avenge my wife. Without Carter, I would be nothing but a pharmacist- I would long since have put a gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger. No, Carter was indeed a madmanBut I needed him. I needed his creation. I lived for the conflict it created; the conflict that had driven me through the streets of New York and to Nogah, who had brought me over to the land where I had given my life and would give my life again for the state of Israel. I shook hands with the director of the Mossad; I entertained the possibility that he knew me, however vaguely, though he showed no recollection. The Prime Minister gave me a similar treatment. I was informed that I would likely never be able to meet them again for longer than a few seconds at a time- Jerusalem was under siege, they informed me, and I would do well to stay out of the men who were orchestrating its defense's way. I couldn't argue with their logic- Indeed, it made more sense to give them a wide berth. But I ran into them again a few more times as I followed Nogah about the facility. He showed me the "situation rooms," converted from various cafeterias and operating rooms and now housing maps and men decorated with medals. There were precious little electric lights- Every bit of gasoline, Nogah told me, was going to fuel the war effort. Manufacturing bullets, he explained, was more important than flushing toilets. Though I could barely recall his exact words, the meaning was clear enough; commodities would have to be done without while Jerusalem stood under siege. Finally, we reached the end of our tour. Nogah explained that he had reports of some kind to deliver, and I did not argue; we parted at the elevator that I had used in my false past to enter the bunker. Stepping into it, I pressed the button for "lobby", reversing the process. As I brought myself out of the near-darkness of the underground, faint rays of light began to piece the metal grating- Clearly, the doors blocking the elevator shaft on the top level were not nearly in as good a shape as those on the bottom. Yet still I rose, past pipes and concrete, rebar and cage lighting, to the surface; shedding old memories and putting myself back in the mindset of a fighter. When I had jumped from the plane in the desert near Tel Aviv, I had put myself back in my former shoesThose of a Sayeret Matkal operative. I had fallen from a great height and reached in the sands an absolute bottom- Dying in the sand, wishing for someone to end the suffering while being eaten alive by a shade of my lover. Here, I was at a similar point- Yet the process was reversed. Where I had reached absolute bottom, I was now moving back up to a great height; a height that I intended to fill fully. I rose in the elevator from a basement housing the last of the command of Israel to a lobby housing the last of its soldiers; men and women who manned gunposts and searchlights day and night, braving mortar attacks and feral charges to serve their country. Below, I had felt out of place- I had manufactured memories in order to fill blanks that were never really empty. Here, above, I was in my element- A soldier among soldiers, reading to do his duty and make do with whatever possible. I looked back at the elevator as I stepped off; I had little intention of returning any time soon. It was all very metaphysical, very metaphorical- But it held clear meaning for me.

I was back.