Selected Detective
ONE WEEK AFTER

They walked closer to the Arena of Sambal procession hand in hand, singing together, each holding a small candle that lit up until the night was speckled with thousands of flashing points of light. The woman looked beautiful with long brown hair that rolled neatly on the top of her head. He wore a thin yellow cotton shirt that showed his young and slender body shape, hinting at the ideal body curves that were veiled. The man is taller than the woman, and bigger. Like a bear with a doe. His face was wide with cheekbones protruding like rough-cut wood, bad as well as handsome at the same time. The man continued to stare at the woman beside him, shaking his head as if it was hard to believe that he was with someone so beautiful, so fragile and gentle. The woman read her mind and laughed.

“I'm the lucky one, Ari-Yari,” said. “I'll be the happiest wife in the whole world.” They arrive somewhere open.

The procession stalled and spread, then marched again in front of the stage where various speeches took place under banners reading PEACE. They held hands and listened, clapped, cheered, rejoiced, unceasingly looked at each other, eyes sparkling with love and hope.

After a while, the man left his girlfriend after whispering that he wanted to take a drink. But, holding back an amused laugh, she slipped away to the flower shop that was open late at night and bought flowers for the bride. White lilies, her favorite flower. He was on his way back, smiling at the joy of his lover as soon as he took the flower out from behind his back, when he suddenly heard the sound of an explosion. At first it was not so certain which direction the sound was coming from. Then, he saw a wisp of smoke and jolted, then ran fast, his stomach tightened as it predicted something.

In the square were bodies scattered everywhere, as well as pieces of limbs and people screaming. He went around shouting the name of his lover, his feet were drowned in blood, the ringing of an unsealed mobile phone echoed in his ears. Then he finally found his lover's body under a fallen cyprus tree. His clothes flew out of nowhere so he almost looked naked. Both of his legs were severed and scattered near him.

“oh my dear!” He choked in his own words, hugging the body of his lover. The blood of his lover who was still warm seeped on his shirt and jeans.

“Oh Gaul my beautiful lover.” Somehow Gaul tried to raise his hand, to hold it behind the man's head, to draw his lover's face closer to his. He kissed her, with his wounded and blood-filled lips like a broken crayon, and whispered into her ears very slowly, words that only his beloved could hear, words that will stay with him forever. Then his head drooped, lifeless.

In a daze, empty and desolate that had never been felt before, the man looked at the torn body of his lover, with the lilies still clasped in his hands, the petals now red. Around him, the night was buffeted with roars and siren wails. It was as if the air was screaming in despair.

“Arieh.” Sirens everywhere.

“Arieh.” Lights, screams, people running.

“Ben-Roi, stupid karate, what are you fucking doing!”

Arieh Ben-Roi regained his senses, banging his head against the car window. His silver waist bottle slipped out of his hand, draining the remaining vodka into his lap, wetting his jeans. The sirens continued to roar. His ears are raging.

“Go, Dude! For God's sake, hurry up and go!”

For a moment, he sat in a state of confusion, hanging between the past and the present. Then, upon realizing what was going on, he opened the box, grabbed his Jericho gun and immediately got out of the taxi. In front of him the asphalt road uphill towards the Lion Gate, when a black mercedes fearfully tried to turn around, her tires creaked. In the back, a row of police cars stopped, blocking anything that came out of the Old City, his floodlights cast a light-colored irregular pattern near the old Muslim cemetery that stretched across the slope on the other side. He then ran small, taking keffiyeh from his head and marginalized him.

They had been planning this pursuit for over a month.

An informant has given information about the large supply for dealers in the Old City. There is no exact date, only time and place: midnight, the Lion Gate. Since then they keep watch, working undercover as bums, garbage collectors, tourists, and lovers.

For the past three nights Ben-Roi has been sitting on the hill leading to the gate as an Arab taxi driver, waiting, observing, sipping a drink from his waist bottle. And now, finally, that happened. And he even overslept.

“Karat!” his grunts, while staggering up the hill, the car in front of him shrieked and slipped like a cornered animal. “Fucking carat!”

On his right side, the snipers were walking forward through the thickets at Yusefiya cemetery. In front of him, inside the Lion's Gate, three men lay down, their faces facing the street, surrounded by the police.

“Disable tires!” a voice screamed at the listening device attached to his ear. “Shoot down!”

Ben-Roi knelt down and raised his gun. His hands trembled holding the vodka, then before he could make it, three eruptions hit around him. Two from the cemetery, and one from the wall above the gate. The Mercedes front tire exploded simultaneously, throwing the body of the car into the wall.

Pause for a moment, then the door opened and three Palestinian men appeared from inside, hands raised above the head.

“Udrubu ‘alal ard! Sakra swing!” said a big voice.

“Put to the ground and close your eyes!”

The three men obeyed the order, knelt down and then got down. Police officers came out of the shadows and descended towards them, bending their hands to their backs, putting handcuffs on their wrists and ransacking them.

“Good, man, we've got them,” a sound is heard from a hearing device. “Excellent work, Dude.”

Ben-Roi remained on his knees, breathing heavily. Then, with ******, he flicked his Jericho security, stood up and trudged up the hill towards the crashed mercedes. His fingers played miniature silver menorahs hanging on chains around his neck.

“Good once you have joined us,”

said the skinny man who was crouching next to one of the captives, his hands clinging tightly to the back of the man's neck.

“Radio jerk,”

grumbled Ben-Roi, while touching his earlobe.

“Yah, right.”

The man threw a doubtful look, forcing the prisoner to stand up and leading him towards a nearby police van. Ben-Roi thinks of following her, arguing a little, but doesn't want to bother. Wh-wh-what for? What is the importance of everything at the time like now? Everything was a waste of time. Let Feldman think. He doesn't care.

He stood watching forensic workers wearing plastic gloves and white suits around Mercedes, then turned around while removing his listening device. He returned to his car, alone, useless and unable to share his feelings of satisfaction after the work was completed. He recalled the events when as a child he was expelled from class for bedwetting and felt the same isolated sensation today, a strange feeling of being mixed with shame and clumsiness. He was always embarrassed. That it always has to be like this. That he let himself be this bad. That he had gone to buy lilies. That he's alive.

Arriving in the car, he throws a glance with thin hope through his shoulder, then gets into the car, starts the engine and goes down the hill, speeding towards Ophel Road. On his left side, three tree-lined, shaded wells in Kidron Valley were far below him. On its right side, a three-meter wall-mounted rooster runs along the street, above which the slopes of a Muslim cemetery overgrown with plants stretch out toward a line of lights on the walls of the Old City. He pressed the accelerator pedal and switched to three hundred-meter-long gears, before then slowing down again and still remaining with one hand on the steering wheel leaning back then bending slightly to pick up the bottle of his waist.

Almost all of its contents were scattered, but there was still a bit of liquid at the base. Then, still with the car running slowly for a certain distance, he stuck the tip of the bottle to his lips, curled his head slightly back and inhaled all that was left, he said, sweating because of the heat in his throat and the sharpness of self-loathing.

“You're making me sick,” his grunt.

“You're pathetic. pathetic.”

He held the bottle until the last drop was swallowed, and threw it over his shoulder into the back seat, then pressed the accelerator again, jerking the steering wheel to tighten the speed at which the car had begun to enter the path of the chariot, making the lori in front of him sound a horn full of anger.

“Carat you!” yell, while honking his horn.

“Two of you!”

Lori passed by on her left side. At the same time, something seemed to fall from the stem on his right side.it happened in a flash and, chaotic due to the vodka drink and fatigue, was, his first thought assumed it was a large animal that fell from the cemetery above. He slowed down his car and looked through the rearview mirror, the car was still running fifty meters before he identified that what he had actually seen was a man jumping from the platters below, who was now crouching, hugging his injured knee. Again, Ben-Roi's mind attempted to coherently agree with the information, and fifty meters crossed, before it occurred to him that the man must have been one of the drug traffickers, which somehow can sneak past the police network. He immediately marginalized his car to the edge of the sidewalk and grabbed his walkie-talkies.

“there's still one there!” he screamed through the speaker.

“You hear? there's still one there. Ophel road, at the top of Kidron Line. I need a favor. Reexamined. Need help.”

There was a coughing and rustling sound of a voice stating his request had been received. He put the communication device in his pocket, grabbed the gun and crawled out of the car. The Palestinian, realizing that he had been targeted, was now limping across the road and entering a wide path to the Kidron Valley. Ben-Roi runs fast, dodging a truck full of vegetable eggplant coming from one direction and a pair of taxis from the other as he also crosses the road.

A year ago that adrenaline would have been pumped up fast in his body. Now, he is overweight and his body is not formed properly. All he could think of was why he had to painstakingly do all this.

“Come!”

He was encouraging himself, his lungs were starting to burn.

“Come fast, fat!”

Ben-Roi reaches the top of the trail and sees his quarry teetering below. He brandished his Jericho, but the man was now too far away to be properly aimed, so he started again to run, straight down. The sides of his body ached, his breathing was breathless, the hoarse voice was painful.This Palestinian really sucked with his knees, if only Ben-Roi was fresher, if only Ben-Roi was fresher, then he could definitely narrow the distance between the two. And indeed it was like that, he managed to get close to the man shortly afterwards and there was still a distance of about forty meters again by the time they reached the bottom of the valley, where the path started to level off, run along rows of ancient stone tombs, cutting into the lower plains of Mount Olives.

A line of blue-colored flash was seen in front, closing the escape path of his quarry in that direction, forcing the man to crawl on the low wall beside the lane and back to the same path at the bottom of the valley. He is now under Ben-Roi and on his right side. Then, while climbing the wall, the detective jumped onto a steep grassy plain to block it. The man turned left, climbing a rocky incline along the pyramid-roofed tomb of zechariah. Ben-Roi followed, feet climbing the sandy soil, frantically his hands tearing down the rocks and wild blackberries and piles of coarse grass, coughed and gasping for breath. He is now almost at the end of his physical endurance limit, and at half way up that uphill they give up together, like a car that suddenly runs out of fuel, leaving it aground, watching helplessly as this Palestinian kept running up and disappeared.

“Coralan,” grunts. “Damn, damn, damn.”

He remained in his place for a moment, furiously breathing deep air for his lungs. Then, weakly began to walk uphill again, crawling on the top of the slope and collapsing on the pile at the foot of the acacia tree. A burst of laughter suddenly sounded.

“Yeah, my dear Ben-Roi, my grandmother could run faster than that!”

Feldman, a skinny detective with a conversation partner a while ago, was standing on top of him with four uniformed policemen, two of whom were holding the Palestinian in handcuffs. He reached out, which was immediately pushed aside by Ben-Roi.

“Lech zayen et ima shelcha. Damn you, feldman.”

Ben-Roi tried to stand up straight and step forward so that he was now right in front of the Palestinian. The man was younger than he expected. his left eye began to puff up and blacken, his lips were injured. Feldman nodded at the policeman who was holding him, who tightened his grip.

“Forward,” said, flashing at Ben-Roi. “You know what you want to do. We didn't see anything.”Ben-Roi looks at Feldman, then returns to see the Palestinian. God, he's happy to do this. smash this fucker in the face. Show him what he thinks of him. About what he was like. He approached half a step, his fist tightening. At that moment a soft voice echoed in her ears, sounding so close that at the same time it felt far away, acted out by a fleeting fleeting shadow that quickly passed, the beautiful face of a woman with gray eyes. It happened in just a fraction of a second and then vanished, along with that sound. He looked at the Palestinian, took a deep breath, then touched his hand on the menorah hanging around his neck, turned around and started down the slope again.

Behind him, feldman shook his head.

“Arieh the poor,” he muttered. “Arieh this poor fool!”