He told her that they fired rockets at cars but, for some reason, left taxis alone
which explained to Laila the recent rash of people spraying their cars yellow.
Tariq explained to her the treacherous, shifting boundaries within Kabul.
Laila learned from him, for instance, that this road, up to the second acacia tree on the left, belonged to one warlord;
that the next four blocks, ending with the bakery shop next to the demolished pharmacy, was another warlord's sector;
and that if she crossed that street and walked half a mile west,
she would find herself in the territory of yet another warlord and, therefore, fair game for sniper fire.
And this was what Mammy's heroes were called now. Warlords. Laila heard them called tofangdar too. Riflemen.
Others still called them Mujahideen, but, when they did, they made a face,
a sneering, distasteful face, the word reeking of deep aversion and deep scorn.
Like an insult. Tariq snapped the magazine back into his handgun.
“Do you have it in you?” Laila said. “To what?” “To use this thing. To kill with it.”
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