As the lawyer cried hot tears, an oily rag was stuffed in his mouth. They pushed it in so hard, it triggered his gag reflex. Copefeld vomited his dinner of veal scampi and red wine. Some of it spewed from his nose, burning and mixed with bile. The rag blocked the rest. When he swallowed, the thick acid tasted of motor oil.

As his stomach clenched, gasoline from a can was splattered on his clothes. The men were shouting jubilantly.

Some of the bungalow lights came on. Sleepy delegates had come out onto porches in their nightclothes to investigate the commotion.

Floodlights flared to life, bathing the square in a sick yellow haze.

As he was shoved into the center of the broad road, Copefeld felt dozens of eyes upon him. He saw Sham Tokumo and Jamon Albondigas. On the nearest, largest porch stood Mandobar. Eyes flat, head shaking somberly. So sad.

And in that moment before his murder, Russell Copefeld had a sudden flash of realization.

It wasn't the fight in the conference room that was to be Mandobar's example. It was what would happen to anyone who decided to pick a fight in the new East Africa.

Russell Copefeld was the example.

A match was lit. Copefeld heard the stick drawn across sand and phosphorous.

He smelled the gas, the sharp odor burning with the bile in his nostrils.

Mandobar had set him up. Set him up to make a point. The hook had been baited with Copefeld's own greed.

The match danced before his eyes, the yellow flame quivering hypnotically.

Mandobar on the porch, head shaking sadly. Copefeld wanted to scream about the treachery, but the gag prevented him from shouting.

And in another instant, it no longer mattered. The match was tossed. Copefeld's chest ignited in a blinding, brilliant flash of yellow and orange. The pain was horrible, the heat unimaginable. As the flames engulfed his body, the rag in his mouth ignited, burning his face, his eyes. Screaming, Copefeld spit. The rag came out in a soggy, half-flaming knot. It fell, hissing and smoking to the dusty ground.