as Paul predicted, when the whole street had fallen under the shadow of oncoming night. Team Bravo knocked down twenty more Iraqis in the first two minutes, but the hajis—as the ShieldCorp guys called the insurgents—were getting smarter about cover. They’d also brought up some real shooters this time. Ten minutes into the second fight, we lost two guys almost simultaneously. One had a sucking chest wound; the other caught a 7.62 round in the forehead. After that, Paul had to take over one of the dead guys’ positions, leaving me to cover our room alone. Before he left, he drew a small automatic pistol from an ankle holster and passed it to me.
“You know what that’s for,” he said in a taut voice.
“No way,” I told him.
“Goose.” He looked hard into my eyes. “A .380 round beats the shit out of having your head sawed off and your parents watching it later.” He squeezed my shoulder. “I love you, brother.”
I nodded, my throat sealed shut with fear.
Then he left me.
In that moment, the terror of every nightmare I’d ever had came to vivid life. I was utterly alone, surrounded by men bent on killing me—or, worse, hurting me very badly, then killing me, and doing it all on camera. Worst of all, I wasn’t trained for the situation. I had only the vaguest notion of how to defend myself. My only consolation was that a lot of the insurgents outside probably knew less about guns than I did.
I was visualizing the Little Bird landing on our roof like the angel Gabriel when the hajis rolled an antiaircraft cannon into the street before our house. The mere sight of its gaping muzzle loosened my anal sphincter. What remained of our shelter could not possibly stand against that weapon.
The first round from the cannon blasted our front door into metal splinters, announcing the terminal phase of the battle. A Bravo sniper on the roof killed several hajis in succession as they manned the gun, but the fourth gunner finally obliterated our sharpshooters. Then the cannon opened up in earnest. When the front wall had so many holes in it that collapse seemed imminent, the insurgents charged across the street.
At that moment, my conscious mind departed the proceedings. With weird detachment I watched my right thumb flip the selector switch to auto. Then I shoved my muzzle back through the slit and emptied a clip into the mass of charging bodies. For three dilated seconds the rifle shuddered against my shoulder. Blood and tissue exploded into the air, men screamed like women, and I saw my fire stagger the charge. Then my clip ran dry. The insurgents recovered, and they kept coming.
Whoever was still alive on our upper floor kept knocking men down, but the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Seeing an extra magazine on the floor at my feet, I ejected the clip and reached for it. Then something slammed into the side of my head, and the lights went out.
I woke up to find myself lying on the table we had eaten at, with four wild-eyed Iraqis standing over me. I didn’t know how much time had passed, and no one would tell me. So far as I could tell, only one spoke any English, and all he would say was that my comrades were dead. When I protested that I was a journalist, they laughed and held up the M4 I’d used against them. A haze of unreality descended over me. My limbs went numb. My heart slammed against my sternum, yet I felt disconnected from my body. I don’t know if my blood pressure was crashing or at stroke level, but I remember thinking, If they cut my throat, it’s going to spurt ten feet.
I wanted to ask if Paul was really dead, but it seemed pointless. They didn’t know who Paul was. And if he was alive, admitting I cared about him couldn’t possibly help either of us. One of the Iraqis was shouting into his cell phone, and I got the idea that he meant to deliver me to someone higher up the chain. Or maybe that’s what he was being ordered to do, while he preferred to kill me on the spot and film it with the camcorder one of his buddies had aimed at me.
They went back and forth about this for five minutes, and during that time I pissed myself. I don’t like admitting that. I felt strangely ashamed in the moment. I