Omar's Well



  Omar's Well

  By Myke Edwards

 

  Omar's Well

  By Myke Edwards

  © 2016 Myke Edwards

  Sweat trickled down Jackson's cheeks, neck, and back. The desert heat only added to his copious perspiration. After close to an hour in Omar's shop, a breeze finally trickled through the window.

  Omar leaned back in his chair and smiled. Jackson had seen that grin before, typical of gamblers and information brokers. Omar was both.

  "We have a deal then, gentlemen?" Omar asked. The white cat curled in his lap purred.

  "Like I said, I'm happy with it," Jackson said. Carter, sitting next to him, continued to stare out the window.

  Carter looked up at Omar, breathing through his mouth. "We get anything in the cave we want?"

  Omar nodded. "Think of the money the American museums will pay you."

  "There are so many old artifacts in there," Jackson said. Not to mention the well, he thought.

  "I'll take it." He offered a large hand to Omar. Jackson exhaled and took his hand off the knife tucked in his boot.

  The short man seated across the table from them both stroked his long mustache with his pudgy, hairless hand. Carter let his hand hover over the table for a moment before returning it to his lap. Omar tapped his cat's flank.

  "Shakti, go." The cat leapt to the floor. "As for you two, I will provide two camels, a gun for each of you, plus supplies. Of course, you already know what I need." Omar, still grinning, lit a cigarette in its long, black holder. Smoke-rings drifted into the ceiling. He pulled off his red fez and wiped sweat from his bald head.

  Jackson slammed a fist into his armrest. "When do you want us to be back here?" He expected to wait at least a minute for an answer.

  Omar took a long drag from his cigarette. Jackson rolled his eyes.

  "Be here tomorrow night. Sundown. Do not let me down." He stood and regarded both of the Americans for a moment. Still smiling that poker face, Omar left through the curtain behind him.

  Jackson left the small building with Carter in tow.

  "I hate that," Jackson said. "He makes you wait on him to do nothing, then he storms off like you're the one wasting his time."

  "Then why are we working with him?" Carter asked.

  Jackson ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair. "He's reliable."

  They walked through Cairo, back to the hotel. Mothers herded loud and crying children, and shopkeepers barked their wares. Meats sizzled, pastries baked, and spices and herbs of all sorts danced together. The owner of a fruit stand pulled a child-thief into the air by his wrist, scolding him for the failed robbery. A veiled woman sat on a carpet, surrounded by glass bottles of varying sizes, all filled with colored sand. A young boy played a recorder while two spider monkeys danced. Carter's wide eyes darted from side to side.

  Jackson smiled at his friend, close to seven feet tall with shoulders wider than an oak tree. A former infantryman honorably discharged from The Great War, he never said how the scar above his left eyebrow came about. No one asked, either. If it were Jackson, he would either grow his hair long, or wear a hat, but Carter maintained his high-and-tight, hair so blond he looked bald.

  "Why do you want to go to this place so bad?" Carter asked.

  "During the war, I worked as my father's assistant, so I didn't have to fight. He knew everyone in the world it seemed, including Omar. My father paid more than a pretty penny for a map to a cache out in the desert. We found a lot, but never had a chance for a return visit."

  "What was there? At the cache?"

  "Like I said, artifacts that will surely bring us a fortune. Statues, masks, jewels. Father hypothesized that multiple people kept their treasures there." Along with the well, and the treasures it would show him.

  "Your dad died, right? Is that why you never came back?"

  "Yes." You crass baboon, Jackson thought. "The university claimed most of his work, so I couldn't find that map, but I knew I could still find Omar."

  "What are you giving him for it, anyway?"

  "Something I salvaged from Father's lot at the university," Jackson said. "Not everything is safe and secure."

  "What is it?"

  Sweaty, they reached their hotel. Jackson couldn't decide on drinking a cold glass of water or taking a bath first.

  "They call it a trapezohedron. It's one of a kind. Father couldn't stop bragging to Omar about it."

  They walked up the outside staircase to their shared room. In front of him, Carter stayed silent. Helpful in a bind, he hadn't exactly been a snappy conversationalist. Once in the room, Jackson closed the door behind him, barely any sunlight shining through the heavy blinds.

  "Let's get some light in here, I can hardly—"

  A hand clamped over Jackson's mouth from behind. Another arm wrapped around his midsection, squeezing tight.

  Jackson jabbed an elbow backward. It met hot air. A firm leg wrapped around his ankle, pushing out. Before the other foot lost its freedom, he kicked back and up.

  It hit something. Not enough to free him from the binding foe behind, but he could at least move. Jackson swung another elbow back, landing on solid mass this time.

  The hand over his mouth loosened. Jackson reached down to his boot. In less than a second, he gripped the knife's handle and jammed it into the enemy's thigh.

  Jackson spun around. A flash of white filled his vision before red engulfed everything. Pain, stinging and massive, spread throughout his face, starting from his cheek. Something warm and thick dripped from his nose, but this was not the time to worry about a scratch.

  Clad head to toe in white, the intruder swung a fist high. Jackson ducked, his shaggy hair ruffling with the missed punch. His own fist met the man's breadbox, while his second connected with the crotch.

  His cheeks burned at the low blow, but desperate times called for it. Jackson spun around and leapt over to the pith helmet lying on the floor. His pistol lay underneath it, loaded and ready to fire.

  Before he could reach it, the white-clad man tackled him. Jackson landed on his stomach, air forced from his lungs. The man rolled him over, straddling his torso. Bloodshot eyes peeked at Jackson, no other part of the assassin's face visible. Jackson gasped deep, his sternum and ribs throbbing in time with his face.

  "Where is it?" The man's English flowed through an accent perverted by years of pretending to be someone else. "Give us the jewel, or die."

  "I don't know…I don't know what you…what you mean." Jackson's attacker pressed his weight down. Jackson gulped even deeper for air.

  "Trapezohedron. You have it. Give it to me!"

  Jackson's eyes darted around the room. Where was Carter?

  "Let me up…I can get it for you."

  "Tell me!" The attacker's eyes bulged.

  A bang, louder than anything Jackson had ever heard, echoed throughout the room. The man's eyes lost focus as his body lost strength. Jackson could breathe once again when the white-clad man fell to the floor.

  Carter stood a few feet away, a smoking pistol trained on the assassin. A bloody hole in the man's head gave no reason for it, but Carter didn't move, still breathing through his mouth.

  Fire coursed through Jackson's veins. He shot to his feet, fists balled. The heel of his boot connected with the man's face. Despite him being dead, it still felt good.

  An identical man lay on the floor, close to the beds. This one's head was nearly backwards, farther than a human could twist their neck. His body didn't move.

  "He made my mouth bleed," Carter said. He lowered the gun.

  Jackson noticed a small cut on the big man's lower lip. He patted him on the shoulder.

  "I think you'll be fine. Now come on, get whatever you can carry. We have to le
ave."

  "They're dead. Can't we stay?"

  Jackson shook his head. His ears still rang, but he could hear his own voice just fine. "They'll just send more, and this is the only gun we have. One bag. Leave the rest here. Only what you need. Let's go."

  They packed a few pairs of socks and underpants in a rucksack. Jackson tucked the purple gemstone in his pants pocket. Carter strapped the pistol in its holster to his belt.

  "Was that the trapezon? In your pocket?"

  "Trapezohedron," Jackson said. "And yes, it is."

  Carter whistled. "How much did it cost you?"

  "Nothing." He added, to himself, "Just five stitches." Jackson flexed his hand at the thought.

  Both changed their shirts and splashed some water on their faces. After checking through every window that the coast was clear, they left the hotel.

  The sun began to set over the desert town, and the two men ran.