Ho there, does this one wish to dwell with me?

To eat clay as food, to drink dust as wine?

I weep for the men who have left their wives.

I weep for the wives torn from the embrace of their husbands;

For the little ones cut off before their time.

Go, gatekeeper, open thy gate…

Let the palace of the land of no return rejoice at thy presence!

-From "The Descent of the Goddess Ishtar into the Lower World", translated by M. Jastrow

Amon

MissJazz pulled up outside Karim's shop on a Kawasaki dirtbike.

Okay, that's insanely hot. Amon told himself, watching through the window. Time to play it cool.

He had arranged the meeting as soon as Karim had left.

Less than an hour after Adam had flown off, Karim had gotten a call. Amon had only been half listening, because he was busy posting on the Discord he'd set up for fans of the Champion. Video clips from the flood were popping up there faster than they were getting to the news. Adam lifting a car, moving too fast to see as he brought people out of the flooded houses. And the best one, the one the news people played over and over - Adam exploding out of a red brick building as it fell into the water, floating down out of the sky with a little kid in his arms like some dark angel. So badass.

Amon could tell from his uncle's tone of voice on the phone that someone was asking for a favor. Probably Abdel, because Karim had sounded respectful and that almost never happened. Karim wasn't really a member of the Aistieada, but they were always getting him to do things for them because he was a big softie who had trouble saying no.

"Hey man," Karim had said after he got off the phone, sitting beside Amon on the sagging couch. "You okay by yourself for a bit?"

"Sure thing." Amon had tried not to sound too eager. He'd had to put off his meeting with MissJazz the previous day, but if Karim was off helping flood refugees or driving Abdel around or whatever…

"I bet you are," Karim had said with an embarrassingly knowing grin. "Just be safe with your little girlfriend, ok?"

Amon smoothed his hair and gave his pits a quick sniff, then opened the door to the workshop and stepped out.

"Hey." He tried to pitch his voice a bit lower than usual and ended up making himself cough.

This is her, right? I mean, it has to be.

The girl took her helmet off and shook out her hair, like a shampoo commercial. It was dark, cut choppy and short around her face, framing her big dark eyes. Amon could swear the sun glinted off her in little natural lens flares. When she saw him her face lit up in a wide smile.

"Amon!" She ran to grab him in a tight hug. "Oh my God, it's so great to finally see you in person!"

Amon had been trying to think of some cool things to say, but the hug short-circuited his brain. He wondered if he should hug back. How hard? For how long? He settled for patting her shoulders awkwardly.

"It's great to see you too, Jasmine," he said.

"Jazz, please." She pushed away from him playfully and shoved her helmet into his arms. "Jasmine is a Disney princess. Let's get into the workshop! I can't wait to see it."

Amon set the helmet on the table that ran down the middle of the room and watched Jazz look around at the cluttered shelves, old televisions, cords, clocks, tools, and tackle boxes full of tiny parts.

"So…uh," he cleared his throat to cover up a crack in his voice that of course emerged at exactly that moment. "What have you got?"

Jazz grinned mischievously and took off her backpack in a way that made her shirt tighten very nicely across her chest. She upended it over the table, releasing a miniature landslide of small, plasticky bricks.

"C4!" Amon's voice did crack when he said that, but he didn't notice. His heart kicked into high gear - for a different reason than Jazz's nice…shirt. Of course, he'd seen C4 in movies but having it here in his uncle's workshop made everything feel suddenly very real.

"What do you think?" Jazz said with a teasing smile.

Play it cool, you idiot.

"It's great!" He said. "It's…perfect."

This was the right thing to do. He'd made his decision. He was going to be a man and a hero. And getting to be alone with a really cute girl didn't hurt either.

"You have the stuff to make the detonator, right?" Jazz asked.

"Yeah, of course," Amon said, seized with the desire to impress her. "We could make a remote trigger. Karim has a bunch of old walkie-talkies. Or a tripwire?"

"Hmmmm," she said, biting her lip as she thought. "I like the remote idea. We have more control that way." Her grin made his heart skip a beat. "Let's blow some shit up."

It took a while to get to the "blowing shit up" part. Amon was sitting hunched over one of the work tables, Jazz perched on a high stool behind him, watching over his shoulder as he wired a nine-volt battery into one of the old walkie-talkies. When the time was right, the battery would provide the energy to trigger the explosion. An electric fan mounted in a corner stirred the hot air uselessly, and a bead of sweat trickled into Amon's eye.

"Okay," he said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "That should work. Now we just need to do it again…three more times."

"Awesome," Jazz murmured, sliding off her stool and coming to stand beside him, looking over his work. Amon thought he could smell her - a bit of detergent, a bit of sweat. Something soft brushed his elbow as Jazz bent closer,and Amon felt as though an electric charge was running through his body.

"You're really good at this," she said.

Amon tried for a nonchalant shrug, but could feel himself beaming.

"I've been working with my uncle since I was a kid," he said. "I was homeschooled so it was part of my curriculum." He swallowed. "I could show you how…if you're interested."

"Really?" Her eyes glittered. "I'd love to!"

They made a total of seven bombs - four for the men on the list, and three "for the lols" as Jazz had said.

Amon had stood behind Jazz, hunched over, his hands on hers. She was a quick learner - steady hands, no fidgeting, no mistakes. Amon was sure she could feel his heart hammering through his chest. Her hair smelled fantastic.

Don't be a creep. Don't be a creep.

It was hard not to get his creep on, though - he'd never been so close to a girl before. Honestly, he hadn't been so close to anyone his own age in years, which was kind of pathetic, if he thought about it. And Jazz was an amazing girl with a dirtbike and a wicked grin and a really nice…shirt. He felt like his whole body was vibrating, like his atoms were converting into energy then and there.

"Done!" Jazz put down the screwdriver and stretched her arms over her head. Amon managed to stop staring before she caught him.

"I'm starving," she said, scooping up her helmet. "Let's grab some food. Hope you don't mind the bitch seat?"

It wasn't exactly comfortable riding behind Jazz on the dirtbike, but Amon got to wrap his arms snugly around her waist so he didn't mind. They got fried chicken for free - with a knowing wink from the man behind the counter - God, sometimes Amon wished Karim didn't have so many friends. Then they went out into the heights. The dirt roads sent plumes of dust directly into Amon's eyes and mouth, but Jazz handled that bike like a master, taking the bends at incredible speed and getting serious air on every hill.

Out in the gulleys, Jazz wiped the dirt off his face and laughed. They ate their chicken and drank Cokes out of cool, glass bottles. And then they set off the three extra bombs.

The first one went off like a clap of thunder. Amon felt the impact in his chest, like a slap from a giant's hand. Jazz hooted and cheered, so he did too. But he felt a shiver of doubt. What if the explosion was too big and they hurt a kid or something?

That's why we're using the remotes. He reassured himself. So that no one gets caught in this by accident. This is the right thing to do. It's justice.

But the doubt didn't go away.

They stayed out in the hills that night, under the stars on a fancy, super-compressed sleeping bag that Jazz had brought, just big enough for the two of them. The stars were incredibly bright, out past the glow of the city. As Amon watched, a shooting star burned across the bowl of the sky, trailing smoke.

"Whoa!" He said. "Did you see that?"

Jazz smiled. "There are lots of them out here."

"I don't get out very often," Amon said ruefully. "My mom kinda keeps me cooped up."

Jazz snorted in acknowledgement, then looked back up at the stars, eyes gleaming in their silver light.

"I come out here a lot," she said. "I live with my dad, and he's really strict. He expects a lot, you know. Sometimes I just have to get away. So I come out here to clear my head. Let off some steam."

Amon nodded. He wondered if he should try to put his arm around her. They were so close on the sleeping bag that it would almost be easier than holding themselves rigidly separate like they were.

"Where's your mom?" Amon asked. "Is she…"

"I don't know," Jazz said softly, still looking up at the sky instead of at Amon. "Dad never talks about her. He doesn't even have any photos."

Amon wondered which was worse. His father's presence lurking behind unexpected corners, the open secret of his grotesque death lying between him and his mother, or having a blank void where your mother should have been.

"It's not too bad," Jazz continued. "Dad does his best, you know. He has big dreams for me."

Big dreams…Amon though. What dreams did his mother have for him? Mostly, he thought, she just wanted him to be safe, so she'd hidden him away with Karim and never let him help with her work. What else was there? Become a scholar, like her? He liked history, but he couldn't imagine tracking down pot shards while the world was burning all around him, his own country on the edge of a phoenix-like rebirth. Amon didn't want to chase history, he wanted to make history, to leave a mark on the world that everyone would see. He wanted that more than anything.

And this is how I'll do it, he promised himself, thinking of the four bombs carefully stashed in Jazz's backpack. He would do justice. Be a hero. Like Adam.

Amon noticed that Jazz was very close to him, rolled onto her side, dark eyes reflecting the quarter moon as she leaned toward him. His heart lurched into action, even as he felt like his limbs had been turned to stone. Was this it? Was she about to kiss him? Oh God - what if his breath was bad?

Her lips touched his gently, and it was like all the stars in the sky exploded inside his chest. After an endless moment, she pulled back and smiled.

"Good night, Amon."

She turned her back to him and seemed to drift off in a few moments, but Amon couldn't sleep at all. Above him, the stars wheeled. Night insects and birds sang to each other, like his blood sang inside him, like his whole body sang with light. And in front of him - he could almost see it - his future shone like a golden road.

The next morning, Jazz let him drive the bike, her arms around his waist. After a few almost-wipeouts on the rough roads he had to admit he liked it almost more than his skateboard.

The first target lived outside Shiruta proper, away from the crowding of the city, where small brick and stone houses were scattered over the hills in twos and threes. He and Jazz stashed the bike a ways out in a stand of scrubby trees - something like that would attract attention out here.

"I've been casing all our target's houses," Jazz had said nonchalantly as the walked in. So cool. "I've come up with plans of attack for all of them."

They would hit all four targets today, then claim responsibility online - let people know there would be a reckoning for past crimes.

"Really send a message." Jazz's grin had been fierce.

They crept up on the target's house from the back, where an old abandoned shed butted up against the hills and gulleys.

"So, what's the plan?" Amon asked softly as they crouched in the shed, looking out. The house was simple, square, not big at all. It looked run-down, actually, the stucco coming away from the brick. So this was the luxury that being a traitor brought you. "Knock on the door and run?"

"You had better be joking," she responded. "No, I sneak down and plant it outside his bedroom window. This early, he'll be asleep. He usually is at this time. If I put it outside his bedroom window, it should be enough." She kissed him quickly. "See you soon, hero."

No fear in her voice at all. Amon was glad he hadn't eaten any breakfast because his stomach was churning.

The house was a little separate from its neighbors. Maybe because no one wanted to live very close to a torturer and collaborator. Jazz snuck up to it unseen, feet making no sound on the gravel, then vanished into the scrub of the hillside beyond. She would signal him to detonate the bomb from there, then they would circle back to the bike from opposite directions.

As he waited for the signal, Amon felt like time was speeding up and slowing down all at once. Once he did this, there was no turning back. He'd shot a man before, but that wasn't the same. That had been instinct. This was a choice.

Was that a shadow at the window? Was that him - the target? Oh God - it was. Amon couldn't see his face in any detail, just the man's profile as he pulled the curtain back from the window and looked out into the hills. Amon's chest felt tight, his throat dry.

"Son of a bitch," he chanted to himself under his breath. "Bastard." He imagined his father's mangled hands, an image that had haunted him ever since he'd overheard his mother talk about it.

"Son of a bitch." He remembered the pictures of the inmates from Center 38, bloodied and dirty, eyes dead even as they were set free. "You fucking bastard. You fucking son of a bitch!"

The anger rose up inside him, pure and hot, driving out the fear.

And there it was, the flash of light from Jazz's mirror coming from the hillside. The signal.

Amon took a shaking breath in. Then out.

He pushed the button.

Amon felt like he was flying. He steered the bike down the maze-like streets of Shiruta, Jazz laughing in his ear, slaloming between slow cars as they honked at him. He was laughing, too.

When the bomb had gone off, half of the bedroom had disappeared. Amon had stood paralyzed, ears ringing, for a long moment before he remembered that he had to get back to the bike before anyone saw him. He'd been so unsteady with adrenaline that he kept falling as he ran through the scrubland. Jazz had been waiting at the bike already, and she'd grabbed him in a fierce hug, shouting "Amazing!" in his ear because otherwise he couldn't hear it.

He'd felt…incredible.

The second target lived in a medium-sized apartment building in Shiruta itself, which would be more of a challenge, since they didn't want anyone else to get hurt. They got into the building easily - Amon had been sneaking in and out of the different apartment buildings they'd lived in since he was eight years old. He could jimmy those locks with a penknife in a few seconds. They hung around in the stairwell like any other pair of bored teenagers until the target left to buy his morning bread, then popped into his apartment, and duct-taped the bomb to the underside of his couch. From there, they went to the roof of the apartment across the street to wait.

After the excitement of the morning, Amon had trouble standing still. He paced back and forth on the roof until Jazz tugged him down next to her and hissed that he was attracting too much attention. Then he just sat and vibrated as she watched through her binoculars. It was strange, Amon reflected, that people's routines seemed to be going on pretty much as usual. The target's apartment had been full of…normal stuff. His couch was almost identical to the one Karim had - and equally shabby. There had been dirty dishes in his sink. To Amon, Adam's arrival had felt like an earthquake; it had changed everything. But this man - the target - Amon reminded himself to call him - was out buying bread at the bakery like Jazz told him he did every day. Probably chatting with the baker, making small talk. Surely he had to feel it, the storm coming for him?

Jazz put her hand on his knee to stop his fidgeting, and Amon turned his thoughts to other things. When they'd gotten up to their post on the roof he'd kissed her, and she had responded eagerly, her hands sliding down his chest to his stomach, tugging playfully at the waistband of his jeans. Tonight, after they were done, if Karim was still out helping flood refugees or whatever…who knew what could happen?

"He's back," Jazz said, handing him the binoculars.

Amon scanned over the building for a minute to find the right window. There he was. Once more, Amon was surprised by how ordinary the man was. No cruel leer, no scar-twisted face. He looked like someone Karim would hang out with, a paunchy middle-aged guy with thinning hair and bad posture.

He's a torturer, Amon reminded himself, once more visualizing the pictures from Center 38 while he got the remote ready in his hand. He's a motherfucking bastard sonabitch…

Someone else came into the apartment.

"What's happening?" Jazz whispered beside him. "Why aren't you doing it?"

"There's someone else," Amon said.

"Who?"

"I dunno, some old lady."

The man had turned back to the door to help her with her jacket and help settle her on the couch. Amon flinched as she sat down, inches from the bomb. God, she was tiny, one of those doll-sized old grandmas you saw out in the villages, hunched over from decades of cooking with faces like dried apples.

"There's no way we can do it now," Amon said. "We'll have to come back or something."

Jazz snatched the binoculars away.

"Amon," she said quietly. "Are you kidding? We can't come back. We didn't exactly hide the bomb. What if they find it?"

Amon couldn't believe it. Was Jazz saying they should blow up an old lady?

"But the woman," he said, gesturing at the apartment building as if Jazz could see her. "There's no way she's a cop. She's like eighty years old."

"She's his friend, right?" Jazz retorted, eyes hard. "His auntie, maybe his old mom? What was she doing while he was raping prisoners for Asim? She was counting the blood money he gave her. She's a collaborator."

Amon realized he was squeezing the remote and quickly relaxed his hand. It suddenly felt very heavy, like it had gotten bigger while he wasn't paying attention.

"I dunno, Jazz," he said. "Is there a way we can get her out? Like, fake a fire alarm or something?"

"We won't have a better chance than this, Amon," she said firmly. She moved closer, pressed herself up to him. "This morning you were incredible. You can't chicken out now." Her voice was low, dark eyes pleading. She put her hand over his on the detonator. "Come on."

He took a breath. Looked at her eyes, at the detonator. He thought of Adam, lifting that little girl, floating down from the sky.

"We'll find some other way," he said. "There's got to be one."

Jazz's face darkened with anger. "And what happens," she growled. "When they find the bomb and trace the parts back to your uncle's shop, huh? Do you think they'll go easy on him, just because your mom is in with the new regime? They'll have to kill him to prove that they're in control."

Amon felt the blood drain from his face. He'd never imagined that he was getting his uncle involved in this. Uncle Karim…After his father had died, as his mother wept in her bedroom and stared at the wall, Karim had started taking him to the workshop. He'd get Amon sodas, let him choose the radio station while he worked, ruffle his hair and call him "little man," take him out to house calls and introduce him as "my assistant". Karim who knew everybody in Shiruta, who could never say no when someone asked him for help. Something occurred to Amon with sickening certainty.

Karim wouldn't want me to do this.

"No," he said. "No. We can't do this, Jazz."

Her face was unrecognizable. Cold and flat as if carved from white marble, lip curling with disgust.

"Then I'll do it myself," she said.

She took his wrist and twisted, taking the detonator and dumping him on the gravel of the roof, in one fluid move. As he lay on his back, trying to get his breath back, stunned both physically and mentally, he saw she had pulled a switchblade from somewhere.

"My father and I had such hopes for you, Amon," she said, pointing the knife at him. "But if you're not our ally, I guess you can still make an excellent hostage."

Amon's head was spinning from both the impact and Jazz's words. He had felt like he knew her. They'd been chatting online for months; talking long into the night. She'd kissed him, held him. Was it all an act? A realization stabbed through his confusion. She had the detonator. She was going to push the button and kill that old woman, who'd probably never hurt anybody. He couldn't let that happen.

He didn't think he'd be able to beat Jazz in a fight, so he didn't think at all. He surged up from the tarry surface of the roof with a shout, flailing wildly. Jazz sidestepped, probably preparing some ninja move, but she never got to use it. Amon had noticed the edge of the roof was just a couple feet behind her, and while Jazz gracefully adjusted to keep from going over the edge as she stepped back, he didn't. Amon hit her full on like a rugby tackle, taking a cut from her knife that he didn't even feel as he wrestled the detonator from her hand. She twisted to land on the roof in a crouch. And he went right over the edge.

When he hit the ground, he didn't feel pain, just an impact that drove the breath from his lungs like when he'd fallen off the monkey bars as a kid. Except, he couldn't get his breath back. He couldn't feel his body at all. With immense effort he moved his eyes, and saw the detonator lying beside his hand. Through a hissing that filled his ears like static he heard screams. But no explosion.

I did it. He thought. I did it. Thank God.

Now the static was moving over his vision, and he realized, with a distant sort of regret, that he was dying. Mom, he thought. Karim.

Someone bent over him, a pale, dark-haired girl, sharp-faced and frowning. He wanted to talk to her, ask her to take a message to his mom, but he couldn't breathe. And then he noticed her eyes - yellow from end to end, pupils slitted like serpent's. She clicked her tongue, and sighed.

"What a waste," she said.

And then, he died.

Um, surprise? Please don't hate me for this cliffhanger, lol.

I realize that it might be a tall mountain to climb to feel sympathy for a terrorist, but please have some compassion for Amon. He's a child and he's being expertly manipulated. Maybe you can tell by whom? Let me know in the comments if you think you know who Jazz and her father really are. ;-)

If you want to read a good book on how real-life teenagers really got lured into joining a terrorist cause, I highly recommend "The Guest House for Young Widows: Among the Women of ISIS" by Azadeh Moaveni. I stumbled upon it during my research for this chapter and it's really great.