Mom Sez:
Perro, Gatto, and Sabaka looked up to the small dark objects flying closer and gaining in size and noise. Ibrahim said, “They arr heleecoperz, but that does not mean that aneething problematique—“
Gatto sed, “Yu meens theez ar CIA helicopterz? Alreddee?”
Octavian said, “O, gud! Mysiz—I meens, my CIA is reskyooin yer hoomin!”
But Sabaka only howled. Gatto translated, his tail lashing nervously, “That is not the CIA or any frend. That is the Russianz, that is Spyetsnaz! O Ceeling Cat, hav mersee!”
Three dirty grey helicopters landed inside the prison fence, and from each one ran six heavily armed men in tan field uniforms. They sprayed the prison door with bullets. A dozen forced their way inside the compound, while the other half dozen covered the exit, once shooting at a guard who raised his firearm. The man dropped to the ground, but did not seem to be injured, just cautious. A claxon sounded, harsh against the city’s daily low buzz. Shots sounded inside the compound and then thirteen men came racing out, the twelve soldiers and one emaciated prisoner. The covering soldiers sprayed the onlookers with bullets. Marrakechian onlookers—two- and four-legged, citizens and visitors—scrambled to get away. Then the helicopters were rising again.
Those fleeing paused and turned back to look. Guards from the prison came racing out shooting at everything, looking just as terrified as their victims, spreading their terror as they went. They screamed, “Ces chiens! Ces chiens!”
The humans looked up to the helicopters disappearing into the high, far distance, but “those dogs”—and those cats and Ibrahim—fled.
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