Read The Brittle Limit, a Novel for Free Online

tired. The past twenty-four hours had
been a nightmare, the trip back from Mondulkiri a blur. She touched
the red scratches on her legs, from nasty briars as she’d run
through the jungle after the explosion, all the way back to the
dirt road.
    Then talking to the police, who had been no
help at all. They clearly felt they had bigger problems than a
single mine death. Thousands of people died every year from
landmines, one officer had told her. They couldn’t investigate each
one. Especially so far away, in Mondulkiri.
    And now these American goons, acting so
imperial, she thought.
    The short redheaded fellow spoke, his
Napoleon complex kicking in despite his efforts to contain it. “We
have a few questions for you about Ben Goodnight, who we understand
was killed in the jungle yesterday. Come with us now.”
    The taller guard stepped closer, glancing at
his partner.
    The image of Ben lying on the forest floor
seared across Severine’s brain. She’d made it past the burning
underbrush to see him lying there on the flaming forest floor. She
had rushed to him, assumed he was in pain, knocked out. She’d
turned him over onto his back, his face falling toward her. One
side of his head was blown off completely, brain matter falling
out. She’d screamed.
    That was when she had started to run. She’d
run back to the pool, through the sunlit clearing, to the path
they’d taken in from the road.
    Sitting there on the balcony by the river,
she realized she had stopped breathing. She inhaled.
    The short guard cleared his throat. They were
impatient, as guards tended to be when kept waiting. The tall one
shifted from his left foot to his right foot and then back again.
The short man had an annoying habit of jangling his cheap
ill-fitting wristwatch, which sounded like a choke collar, the
loose chain running back over itself.
    Thinking it would expedite things, it usually
did, the short guard handed his ID card to Severine. She took it.
It identified him as Bill Hannon, age 25. In his photo, standing at
attention, he looked like a puffed-up redheaded bulldog.
    She handed it back to him. “Why, thank you.
You look just like your photo.” She smiled her most charming smile,
willing these men to go away.
    The men stared at her, waiting. They had
their orders.
    She glanced around the mostly empty room. The
waitresses, including Severine’s, were gathered at the long wooden
bar flirting with the broad-shouldered bartender, each vying for
his attention.
    Soon it would be dinnertime. The tables would
fill up, people standing in line on the stairs waiting for a seat.
Even the air itself would become crowded with words, so many words,
friends and lovers deep in conversation, laughter, and storytelling
of the day. Severine couldn’t take it.
    She wanted to go home. She glanced over the
balcony. The street was busy now, the old Western men with teenage
Cambodian women on their arms, tourist families from the West, all
white and smiley. A tuk-tuk driver waved at her from under the
leafy green tree across the street. Directly outside the FCC, a
black sedan was parked, waiting.
    She nodded. “Fine, let’s go.”
    The men walked side-by-side behind her to the
black car, their rubber-soled shoes silent on the pavement.
    Without warning, Severine lurched backwards
at them, crashing into the redhead’s not insignificant bulk,
directly behind her. “My bag!” She pointed at the lone green
backpack still sitting under the table.
    The redhead jogged back to the table, grabbed
the bag, and jogged back. He gave her the bag then put his hand on
her bare elbow to move her along. “Let’s go.”
    Severine held the backpack close as she
followed the men down the stairs outside to the waiting black
car.
    The car was running, as if ready to speed
away at a moment’s notice. Its diplomatic plates were in plain view
against the shiny chrome. The back door opened as she approached.
Bill gestured to the back. Severine peeked in: It was dim,