Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem)

by Anthony Neil Smith

  In real life, Adem had shown a lot of strength. He chopped off his best friend's hand rather than let the motherfuckers take them down. And right with them the whole time, getting them into the country and out again, were Chi and Dawit, Mustafa's cousins, whose families had also fled from Somalia to Kenya during the original civil war. Unlike Mustafa's parents, theirs had stayed behind rather than start over again in America. They had too much at stake, too much invested in their roots. Mustafsa's uncle couldn't have been a lawyer in America, not right away. He didn't know enough English. His aunt couldn't have been a teacher. So they stayed and flourished in Kenya, all the time watching and waiting for a chance to help return Somalia to its former glory.

  Never happened.

  But the upside: Chi and Dawit had been trained well and had plenty of contacts just in case it was ever "time to go home."

  The only reason Mustafa was here pretending to be the Bahdoon of old was because Chi had called in that favor.

  Mustafa got up, stretched and grabbed some sweatpants off a chair that must've set the Prince back, like, ten grand. To sit in that, Mustafa would need a powdered wig. He peeled on an Under Armor tank-top and crossed the carpet—some real plush shit—to the door.

  Eased it open. He expected to find Ali there. The kid had been rock solid, there every morning. Except today. It gave Mustafa pause for a moment, but there were plenty of common sense answers—had to take a piss, wanted some water, fell asleep on the couch.

  Except Mustafa didn't stay alive all these years trusting common sense answers. There was an itch in the back of his mind, something he couldn't scratch. He even lifted his hand to his scalp, scratched as if that might help. He backtracked to the bedroom. Way-too-pretty Springfield .45 of Heem's was still in the bedside drawer. He picked it up and eased the door closed and started out again.

  Crept down the natural wood floor, all sorts of creaks and groans. Whoever it was sure wasn't going to be surprised, except by getting their ass shot off. Yeah, Ali had played a good game. Rock solid, yeah, if you mean like a rock in Heem's pocket. One little slip up, right?

  He rounded the corner into the great room that overlooked a small lake, open floor-plan leading to the kitchen, where Rafael sat at the bar, hand around a giant can of energy drink. No Ali in sight.

  Rafael's eyes went wide at the sight of the gun. "Jesus, Bahdoon."

  Mustafa flicked his wrist and shrugged, tossed the gun onto the coffee table, where it made a big dent. "Look at that glitzy-ass shit. Kid dropped a couple grand, easy, I'll bet more since it ain't legal. Got himself a pretty gun like a purse or something. Telling you, he never shot that thing."

  "You know it." Rafael held up his can. "Hope you don't mind, I helped myself to this. Want me to get you one?"

  Mustafa shook his head. What he wanted to say was I'd like a cup of tea. A habit he'd gotten into because his wife had started drinking it, a cup of hot tea, several cups a day. At first he'd tried it just to humor her, but he really liked the stuff, black and rich. Here, playing his part, he wasn't going to let any of these guys see the real Mustafa. No tea. No nothing.

  He looked out over the lake from the wide windows that covered nearly the entire back wall. A slim view through trees, but still not bad. Quite a few lakes in Minneapolis, and Mustafa was impressed that the Prince was smart enough to get a place like this, not in the usual Somali neighborhoods, not sleeping where he shat. Didn't matter that the lake was mostly contaminated, with notices posted not to swim or fish there, it was still lake view property. It had been foreclosed on during the crisis back in '08. The Prince swept in, got it for cash under the name of a shell corporation, all fake, that someone's brother's cousin's sister fixed up for them. As long as he kept things quiet around here and threw his parties in abandoned condos, or held his meetings in SUVs or the back rooms of laundries and restaurants, he had himself a Fortress of Solitude.

  Rafael walked over while Mustafa was admiring the view, clasped a hand on his shoulder. Mustafa had to brace himself hard not to crack Rafael in the nose with his elbow. He hadn't been paying attention. He needed to be more aware of shit like that. None of this was as easy as riding a bike.

  Mustafa asked, "You seen GOAT?"

  "Yeah, he wasn't feeling so good. Asked me if I'd cover him."

  "Sick?"

  Shrugged. "I don't know. Looked like he was hurting. But listen, I think I've got something for you."

  "Okay."

  "Asked around, and I think I know where the girl is, man. One of my boys, no reason not to trust him."

  "So she's still here? Not out of the state?"

  Raphael nodded. "Pretty sure. Let's go find out."

  Mustafa turned from the windows and headed back towards the hall, saying, "See if you can get EGX and Dawit to bounce over there with us."

  "Hold up."

  Mustafa stopped, didn't turn around.

  "Just saying, might be better if we do this on the down low. My boy's there, and we don't want anyone getting the wrong idea. Someone looking for a fight."

  Right, right. Mustafa thought it through for a moment before saying, "Okay. Cool."

  "Wait, man."

  What the hell? Mustafa turned this time to find Rafael holding the Prince's gun by the barrel, the grip out towards Mustafa. "Put this shit away, how about it?"

  Almost felt like telling Rafael to keep it. Last thing he wanted was a stainless steel .45 with extra doo-dads on it, the sort of shit that snags on your waistband when you go for it. Still, he stepped over and took it from Rafael's hand. Smiled. "Motherfuckers be blinded by it so bad, you ain't even got to shoot him."

  "That's right."

  Back down the hall to his room. He was going more casual today—black jeans and black leather jacket, black leather porkpie, red silk shirt, old school Air Jordans, low-top, all white. Before heading out, he looked at the gun he'd tossed on the bed. Lifted it and started wiping off his prints, Rafael's prints. No telling who might sneak in, take it, pop some bitch then drop it right there for the police to find. On second thought, weighing it in his hand again, he eased back the slide so Rafael wouldn't hear, checked that there was one in the chamber. Then checked the mag. Everything was tight. He slung it around to his back waistband, shoved it in there, feeling the front sights scrape like his wife's fingernails, but cold. He could've used her here right now. Not even for sex, but just to share a cup of tea with him. Too fucking nervous otherwise.

  He didn't feel better wearing the pistol, but he didn't feel bad about it, neither. Out the door.

  *

  They took the Buick, Rafael driving and bitching about the car the whole way. "Embarrassed to even be seen in this thing. What dead white grandpa you steal this from?"

  "I hear you, but it's got the element of surprise."

  "Goddamned hoopty, man. At least get some decent rims on this shit. At least get some woofers."

  "I got all that I need. Not every car got to be a freak show, know what I'm saying?"

  Mustafa didn't want to talk about the Buick. He tuned out Rafael while looking through the windows, Minneapolis plush in the summer. Almost like it was just borrowing all the greenery for a while. People out in the gardens, out for walks, some of his own soldiers wasting time on corners, shaking their heads as the Buick passed by. Mustafa thought about how they'd struck out looking for Deeqa at the other "cat houses", which is what Ali said Heem called them. Thought about how he'd started a gang war over one girl, and he had no plan to get himself out when it was over. What was he going to do? Throw her in the car and go? His inner-circle knew some of what he was up to, but not all of the soldiers. Didn't want them involved in case it went bad.

  "Hey, Raff. What's up for you when this is done? Back looking for work?"

  Raphael thumped his thumb against the steering wheel in time. Shrugged. "Thinking about staying in."

  Mustafa laughed. Reflex. One loud bark. "I'm sorry, man, I'm sorry. Just, like, you're too old for this. Shit, both of us."
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  "Tell you the truth, me and Kasha, we're not doing so good." His not-quite-wife, Kasha, half-Somali, half Hmong, and about ten years younger than him. "She's stepping out. I haven't seen my kids in, like, a month. I'm bout done with unemployment. At least here, I can drive nice cars, sleep in nice homes. You know how it is."

  "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

  "Naw, I didn't want you to know. It's been...shit, man, it's been a long time. I don't care how much they called me a hero when I came home from the war, it didn't come with a paycheck. Just saying, most white people look at a young black man, they think, Could he kill somebody? With me, they know I did. They're only happy about it if I did it to Ay-rabs way the fuck away from here, think I should keep on doing it. But they don't want me driving a delivery truck for them."

  What to say to that? Mustafa covered his mouth with his fingers, itched the new beard coming in. He wanted to shave. Been wanting to for days. "I didn't know."

  "I know you didn't. It's okay, man. I'm going to be okay."

  Mustafa shook his head. Hard to talk a guy out of gangbanging after talking him into it just a few weeks before. No wonder he jumped at the offer.

  They pulled into a small parking lot, one with the asphalt all cracked, felt like a mountain range under the tires. Creeping slowly. They park beside some pimped-out Kias, Toyotas, and one sweet '80s Monte Carlo, metallic paint job running from dark rust at the front to light rust and gold at the back. The sort of thing Mustafa would love to do with the Buick, except then it would be exactly what he didn't want it to be—a sore thumb. Three years, now, he had driven that car, kept in as good a shape as the cop had, and loved how it had made him invisible. And now every banger in the Cities was starting to hear about it. Shit. Going to have to dump it for a minivan.

  They were behind a redbrick building, dumpster out back, a square of buildings surrounding them mixing up some small businesses, some sort of dive smelling all greasy, a guitar store, and some old townhouses, even one small clapboard house that must've been there a hundred years, somehow got itself surrounded by progress. He wondered how long the current owners had lived there and if they ever had a street view, or just this ugly-ass brick wall. A fenced-in postage stamp of a yard, wind-strewn trash, and a doghouse with no dog in sight.

  They got out. The grease stank got to him as the heat of the day started turning up. Raphael led him towards one of the town houses. A couple of poor souls had tried to make theirs seem like they had real decks, leaving shiny grills on cracked concrete slabs next to plastic lawn chairs. Raphael went right on in, no knock. Mustafa followed. It seemed an unusual place to keep some girls, or even one girl. Too close quarters. Everyone on the block would have figured it out. Maybe it was just a hiding place for the one. If so, it was pretty cocky of Heem to leave it unlocked, out in the open.

  They pushed through a dark, narrow kitchen, a sink stacked with dishes that had to have been there weeks if not months. So much dust, Mustafa could barely see the dried-on food and dead flies. Into a hallway so tight they had to turn their shoulders. A living room with more plastic chairs and one ratty recliner, wires stretched all over for the necessary widescreen TV and videogame system. An Igloo cooler sat between the chairs, acting as a table. Couple of ESPN Magazines, couple of porn mags, one Readers' Digest, large print. Nobody home, and the game on the screen—racing street cars—was paused.

  The stained and torn carpet had been worn through to the wood in spots, but Mustafa smelled fresh paint, and the walls looked as if they'd been coated yesterday with a dark red paint that made the entire house feel even smaller.

  Raphael turned at the front door and took a couple of stairs, waited for Mustafa. "Up here."

  "Are you sure? They long gone."

  Raphael rested a hand on the rail. "I'm cool. Guy in this is a cousin of my mom. I told him to take a break, get something to eat."

  Mustafa took another look around. It was hot in here, but this place had A/C. He saw a couple of units sticking out the kitchen window and an upstairs window. Why leave them off? It wasn't like these kids had to pay their own utilities. The paint smell was making him woozy. He had to reach out and touch the wall just to make sure it wasn't still wet.

  "Come on. Let's do this and get gone." Raphael kept on up the stairs, not waiting for Mustafa this time.

  Mustafa pulled his fingers away. They were dry. He sniffed them. Couldn't have been that dry.

  "Yeah, let's end this."

  He took the stairs two at a time, catching up to Raphael, who stood aside and said, "First one on the left."

  Mustafa had his hand on the doorknob, half-a-twist, and was pushing it open when he realized he should have trusted his gut. This whole set-up stunk more than the grease outside.

  Walked right in on Prince Heem, decked out in his best summer baller jersey, T'wolves, with baggy jeans and a leather cap. A couple of his crew—one in a hoodie, for fuck's sake. A couple from St. Paul's Kash Kannibals, including a nerdy black man with thick plastic sunglasses and a giant forehead like some sort of Superman villain that Mustafa only knew by reputation. They all called him Poe, like Edgar Allen Poe, because he was one sick fuck. Liked to string out a cutting, serial killer style. Wouldn't know it by looking at him. He wore a short-sleeved yellow button-up with khakis that actually fit kind of snug. He held his hands behind his back like a businessman.

  Two steps more, the floor crinkled. Mustafa looked down. Clear plastic tarp covering the carpet, taped to the bottom of the walls.

  He stepped back fast and ran into Raphael. "Let's move! Move!"

  But Raphael shoved him farther into the room. Goddamn it. Mustafa went down on one knee. He turned his head to Raphael, doing that shrug-thing, not meeting his eyes.

  "The man offered more money than you. Sorry, man. I told you."

  One of Heem's boys stepped up and kicked Mustafa in the gut with a heavy-soled work boot. Untied, so it went flying into the wall as Mustafa went down. Right before the next blow came from the other soldier—goddamn middle of his back—Mustafa watched the first one hop around on one leg trying to put his boot back on.

  TEN

  Breathe. Slowly. Fully. Not so fully it turns into a cough. You've done this before. You can do it again.

  Adem stared out a window the size of a wall onto Dubai, far below. The buildings outside were tall enough, but he towered above them still. He was also alone. Gunfighter had put him in touch with a "benefactor" to help him get there, get set-up, and connect with the company that owned the container ship. Made him sound like he had a staff, all very proper and legal. So this next part, his performance, had to drive it home. But there were no friends, no mercenaries, no pirates, no one besides Adem, his new suit, and a phone.

  He turned and walked down the empty hall past half-finished offices and conference rooms. This was going to have been the executive branch of a construction company, so the signs on the wall said. They got as far as carpeting the hallways, but the rest was skeletal. Occasional walls, but mostly just beams, wires, sawhorses, stacks and stacks of panels, drywall, aluminum sheets. A few leftover tools. At least fifteen floors above and below him like this. The meeting was set to take place sixteen more stories above him, right before the floors that hadn't even been enclosed yet. Very likely they never would be. Dubai's eyes had been too big for its stomach. So much ambition, so much money thrown into the wind.

  He pushed the button for the elevator and waited as the closest one rushed for his floor. He'd arrived here three hours ago, hoping to throw off any security or surveillance the company might bring at him. They'd want to know where he came from, who he was with, and where he went after. Now there was a good chance they would never know the first two, and the third was already set-up so they would see exactly what Adem wanted them to see.

  An elevator arrived. Adem stepped inside, hit the right button, and felt his stomach drop as it rocketed up.

  *

  He walked into the conference room past a handful of
bruisers in similar suits, all with Bluetooth headsets and bulges under their jackets. Adem made it seem as if he paid them no mind, but he was scared silly. If this was a trap, he had no Plan B this far along. Idiot. If he had taken up Jacob's offer, he would've had at least something to feel comfortable about. Snipers, or sleeping gas, or a Black Ops team hidden down the hall in the Ladies' Room.

  He was surprised to see art on the walls. Reproductions, of course. Impressionists. This was probably the only furnished room on the floor. He had ordered a conference table with thirteen chairs delivered here. There were only eight other people in the room, none of them sitting. He took inventory before he'd taken two steps. Four of the six men were Indonesian, from the shipping conglomerate, plus one African, whereabouts unknown unless he was to speak, and a white man. He wondered for a second as he crossed the room if this was a CIA plant. But he couldn't worry about that now. Two women, one in a hijab, but wearing a stylish suit with a skirt mid-thigh. The other was uncovered, Asian, probably a translator. Adem didn't need one. He planned on speaking English, and did so on his third step, kept right on walking.

  "Ladies, Gentlemen, I trust we can skip the preliminaries because time is short. I have spoken with the captain, and he has assured me that this can be brought to a very swift conclusion, one way or another."

  Right on through, nodding at each person he passed, until he was staring through another wall-sized window, a view of the sea. He turned. After all, how did they know he didn't bring along those snipers? Then a chill passed through from head to toe—how did he know they didn't bring their own?