Mustafa couldn't watch anymore. Teeth was breathing fast and shallow, his teeth chattering like he was buried in snow. The doctor was slathering cream all over his arms and face. Mustafa pushed himself off the floor and walked over to the restrooms. Tried the men's room door. Open. No power, but there was a little light from the hallway. A busted condom and headache medicine machine. Dry toilet and sink, water rings gone red around each. He went inside and sat on the toilet and closed his eyes.
He couldn't tell what the doctor was saying out there, but it sounded angry. Mustafa jerked himself upright when Teeth let out a long, thin cry. Maybe the drugs Poe had given him were wearing off. He remembered his own paralysis as the freak tried to mutilate him.
Teeth's cry faded to a whimper, and then there was a shadow in the bathroom doorway, a light knock on the door. Ali told him, "The doctor says that's a good sign. He's coming out of shock."
"Good sign. Yeah. I bet he wishes he was dead."
"Naw, man, don't say that."
"Would you have shot him? Like Kong wanted you to?"
Ali looked left and right, didn't want to meet Mustafa's eyes. "Look, you know what it's like."
"The whole time? I thought you were solid."
"They ambushed us. It was the only way to keep the advantage, spill everything I knew, let him back into the house."
"Did Teeth know what you were up to? Or did he think you were a punk-ass traitor?"
Ali's shoulders got tight. "Don't you disrespect me."
Mustafa got off the toilet and crossed to the door, up in Ali's face. "Once a traitor, twice a traitor. Did you give him a wink when Poe dragged a cheese grater across his skin? Like, no worries, man. I've got your back."
"Fuck that. Fuck you." He inched forward, his chest bumping Mustafa's. Ali had a couple inches on him.
"Think about who you're talking to, son."
"I thought I was talking to a real man. I don't know who this is, all paranoid and shit."
"What about Kong? He owned your ass, too. How'd he do that?"
Ali shoved Mustafa back a few feet, advanced on him. "Say that again."
"How'd he get you to shoot the Prince? How'd he sell that one to you?"
Something in Ali's eyes dimmed. He shrank an inch. Wilted before Mustafa's eyes. "He didn't."
"Lying motherfucker."
Another shove. "Swear to God, man, I swear. He didn't. He didn't tell me nothing. I did what I had to do, that's all. He didn't tell me shit."
It was ridiculous. Stone cold crazy if he was telling the truth. Kong put a gun in the GOAT's hand and didn't know what he was going to do with it. And if that motherfucking Hmong bitch was surprised by the choice, he sure as hell didn't let on.
"I don't believe it."
"I swore, didn't I?"
"Heem was your friend."
Ali scoffed. "Wasn't my friend. He just liked having someone big around him. Made him feel safe, even if he did treat me like a dog. Wouldn't have mattered anyway."
"Then why? Why shoot him instead of me?"
The GOAT backed off. Hugged himself. "Man, I got sisters. You know what I'm saying? I got sisters, one of them bout the same age as those girls. That ain't right, what he did."
"How'd you know I'd be any different?"
"I could tell. The way you went after that motherfucker Dragoslav, too. That wasn't business. You was really doing something. And then, saving that one girl...shit. Then you said, after all that, you said you were going to hand us all over to him, like nothing had changed. You get your kin back safe, but what about the others? Everything going back to the way it was before? I couldn't let that happen."
Mustafa didn't have anything to say. He raised his fingers to the bandage on his neck. The wound was itchy. "Stupid. That was really stupid."
Shrug. "Whatever."
"Just saying, I wasn't fucking around. I would've given it back."
"Why you want to go and do that?"
"I made someone a promise. I did what he asked me to do. That's all. We saved Deeqa. I'm out."
Ali shook his head. "You can say that, but I know better. Whenever you were around them girls, I felt what you was going through. We ain't talking about one girl. We talking about, like, a hundred."
Mustafa was about to school the kid some more when the doctor knocked on the door. They looked up.
"I'll check back later. Do not move him, do not leave. The best I can do for pain right now is this." He held up a pill bottle, a scar of a label where it had been scraped off. "Whenever he hurts, give him a couple."
"But he'll be okay, right?"
The doctor shook his head. "Lot of blood loss, lot of trauma, chance of infection..."
They let it hang in the air, all of them looking down at their shoes from the weight of it.
Mustafa nodded. "Okay. Okay. Thank you."
"No chance of taking him to a hospital?"
At first, it sounded like concern, but Mustafa sighed, realized that the doctor was already thinking about trying to find a new supplier. "We'll be here. Bring us what you think will help, and we'll do our best."
No need to shake hands or grieve together. The doctor started for his car while Ali and Mustafa stepped back into the store, Teeth on the ground, a blanket tucked under his heels, all the way up to his chin. Eyes open, staring straight ahead. His breath was fast, trembling. If he died—he wasn't going to, he couldn't, because then it would be Mustafa's fault—like Dawit, that was already his fault. He couldn't have them all die because he fucked up the favor. There should've been an easier way. What was he thinking? Could be he had missed it, leading all those guys, the way they respected him. He saw how those soldiers in Mogadishu had done the same to Adem—Mr. Mohammed—when they had shown up to hunt for Jibriil. And he had snooped into Adem's internet history as he kept up with the growing mythology around the pirate negotiator, how no one had caught on that their hero was an American college kid in the wrong place at the wrong time who somehow found the will to do what it took to stay alive. Yeah, made Dad a bit jealous. Made him remember the good ol'/bad ol' days.
But he had a dead cousin, a nearly dead friend, and a son missing in action, working for the CIA. It wouldn't be long before the flesh peddlers came after him, came after Deeqa, after his whole family. Wouldn't be long before the police figured out what had happened at Ibrahim's house and who had been there.
He turned to Ali, held out his hand. "I need a burner. Need to make a call."
Ali fished the phone from his pocket. "Got some minutes on it."
"It'll do."
He walked down the empty snack aisle, paced in front of the coolers, still full of pop cans, energy drinks, bottled water, but all warm and dark now. He called Idil. A few rings, his stomach gripped tight and he stopped walking. They had already gotten to her. Shit. He cleared his throat. Four rings. Cleared it again. Squeezed the cheap phone so hard he could hear the plastic giving way.
But then a rustle and her voice. "Yes? Hello? Hello?"
Mustafa let the air out. "Shit, woman, scared the daylights—"
"Where are you? You need to see. Adem, he's on TV! Adem's on TV! Why is he him again? Why is he dressed like him?"
"Wait, wait, I don't understand."
"Your son is on TV. Mr. Mohammed is on TV. He's being interviewed, and he says he was kidnapped and rescued and he's cursing someone's family...wait...and someone put a bomb, oh my God, Mustafa, what is going on? Why is he doing this—"
"Wait. Wait, love." He couldn't stay in this place anymore. He needed to find a television, an internet connection, something. "Adem will be okay. There are people looking out for him."
"How do you know? What do you know? You know about this? You are okay with this? You lied to me? How could you lie to me? I thought he went after the girl! Not this!" She spoke fast and shrill. He could feel the heat of her voice. "You need to come home. You need to come home now."
"Dawit is dead." Louder than he had anticipated, but there it was. It
started him coughing again, clearing the blood or phlegm or whatever it was. "Teeth is pretty bad. They got us. It's bad."
"You come home."
"I can't. Ibrahim...he's dead, too. Can you go to your grandmother's place? Take Deeqa and go. Hurry."
"Where are you?"
"Please...don't stop. Take the pistol. Hurry."
"Mustafa! What about Adem? What have you done to us?"
He took the phone from his ear and pressed the END button. When it started ringing and buzzing again, he dropped it on the ground, stomped on it. Stomped and stomped until it stopped making a noise.
TWENTY-SIX
Adem lost his handlers in the crowd outside on the street. They were moving on to the next stage. The explosion had taken off the entire front of the building. Blocks of concrete all over, pipes and smoldering metal, glass, blood. There were a few dead on the street. More wounded. People were flooding in to help. Others behind them were flooding in to shout and raise their fists and incite a near riot. If there were any police or soldiers around, Adem sure as hell didn't see them. He couldn't tell if those were sirens he heard or people. Someone who recognized him had wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. Another had given him sandals so he would not cut his feet. Still others just wanted to touch him, and to plead with him to touch their injured loved ones, say a prayer, please, say a prayer.
He did touch them, many of them, as he was pulled from one to the next as if he were a planchette on a Ouija board. He didn't see them. He mumbled words and the people thanked him until they ran out of breath. At some point another hand gripped his arm harder than the others. He looked to his left and saw a young man, a still-spotty beard, leading him. The pace quickened. They passed more people rushing to the scene, an ambulance finally rounding the corner, the siren going wild while the driver waved the crowd out of the way, yelling at them to move. Adem turned to his right as another young man took his other arm, both of them staring straight ahead, dodging the crowds with ease, until the crowd thinned and they reached a small black car, the front so dinged and mangled that Adem was surprised it still ran.
The young man on his left, Arab, looked barely a teenager. He was the one who got into the driver's seat. The other one, a blockier jaw, thicker eyebrows, opened the back door and told Adem, "In, in. Get in."
He didn't fight it. It had been that sort of week—people kept telling him where to go, where to sit, what to do. He climbed into the back seat, followed by his captor. Who else could these boys be but captors? Not Jacob's men, he was pretty sure. Not fans of his like the crowd they had left behind. The boy driver started the car and ground it into gear. The car popped and leapt and finally started down the road.
No words. The driver drove while the partner checked behind them. Adem sat with his hands in his lap, looking out the side window. He had nothing to say to them. They were zealots, revolutionaries, but certainly not strategists. They weren't the thinking type, but the doing-as-told type. What they were doing, it soon became obvious, was driving Adem out to the shanty town near the port. Scattered makeshift homes made from the rich debris of a busy seaport—wooden crates and pallets, thick plastic tarps, discarded electronics, batteries, wiring. A smart squatter could take a car or boat battery, some wires, and a few fan motors, and have air-conditioning during the brutal shadeless summer days. They could also insulate against the freezing nights. Or they could power a microwave, a couple of burners. Plenty of propane containers around, too. So many looked at this place and saw the poverty, the garbage, or the crime, but Adem wondered if those living here thought themselves somewhat lucky. What other sort of lifestyle did they have to compare it to?
The car passed people milling around, trading, chewing khat, smoking cigarettes. Kids still out running around past sundown, unafraid. It was home. Everything they needed to live was within reach, regardless of the smell or the illness. They had grown used to it. Adem knew that many of the people here had already been moved from their first attempt at building a settlement at the port, but once the furor died down, they drifted a little farther down the shore and started again.
The car pulled up to a small building, a patchwork of cardboard, plastic, and paper making up the roof, a mish-mash of broken boards somehow holding together as four "walls." There was a space left for "windows" on two sides, and an opening at the front, some sort of hard plastic, as if several appliances had been dismantled and their covers melted together. The next closest shack was at least twenty feet away, a few women sitting out front, only their faces visible.
The driver got out, opened Adem's door, and pulled his arm. "Come on. Let's go."
The other young man stayed in until Adem was standing outside and the driver had shut the door. He then exited the car while the driver held Adem in place. "Wait, wait."
Good, Adem thought. He could wait. The smell of human waste and rotting food and toxic chemicals was overwhelming, but he had dealt with it before, having to live amongst the boy terrorists in Mogadishu and the hospital after his near-beheading. The smell here was not as bad as it could be—the scent of dead people was absent from it.
The partner stepped over to the door and pulled it open, leaned down and spoke to whoever was inside. Adem had a good idea of who that was.
"We're here. We have him."
Adem couldn't hear the reply, but the partner stood up and waved them over. The driver slapped Adem on the upper arm. "Let's go. Go."
Mr. Mohammed straightened himself, gave the kid a look that said Stop that. The driver backed up a couple of steps. The sandals Adem had been given were too small. He kicked them off, felt the heat of the ground on his soles. He brushed off the blanket, tossed it onto the car. He removed his glasses, held them up to the moonlight, then cleaned the lenses with his T-shirt. If he was pissing off his captors, they didn't show it. He placed the glasses on his nose and rubbed his palms together.
Only then did he walk around the car and approach the plastic door, held open by the partner's leg. The driver followed until they were standing on both sides of him.
Adem whispered, "Got them?"
Of course there was no answer from Fatima on the other end, behind her rifle again. His captors would've noticed an ear piece. But the wireless mike Fatima had slipped under the collar of his T-shirt was pretty much invisible. The answer to his question came when the driver beside him suddenly seized up, hunched his shoulders and dropped to the ground, dead. The partner's eyes went wide, but he only had enough time to get his hand on the pistol grip at his back before the bullet flew past Adem's ear and struck the young man in the neck, an inch above his sternum. He turned around as if wanting to run but fell forward onto his face.
Adem crouched to enter the shanty home, perhaps eight by eight, a rough guess. Seated in the corner on the floor was the old man, the Benefactor, looking much more fat than he had in Dubai. Perhaps because he was now wearing a simple white dishdasha that billowed around him, way too big, along with the same elaborate keffiyeh he had worn back in Dubai for their meeting. He looked uncomfortable, sweaty. Along the walls of the shack, lines of small propane tanks, opened just enough to hiss out a strong odor of gas, still not enough to overpower the stench of rot and shit and piss from outside.
The Benefactor said to him. "There was no need for this. You should've gone away quietly."
Adem took a step towards him. He hadn't expected the gas, hoped it was only to scare him.
"Back! You stay back!"
Another step. Seriously, it couldn't be a real bomb, could it? He searched the tanks again, this time seeing the trail of wires tucked behind all of them. Oh, shit.
Uzayr's hand appeared from the excess material of his sleeve, holding a pistol.
Adem stopped. He had to hide his nerves. All a bluff. It had to be. Uzayr had too much to live for. He wouldn't kill Mr. Mohammed this way, wouldn't risk sparking the gas. "You should've known better than to pull me into this. I have a reputation to protect."
The Benefactor s
aid, "You're a liar. You're an American. And at heart you're a pussy."
"You believe this is the best way to end it all? Take me and yourself off the field together? Another will fill my place. I'm not worried about that. But what about your people? Can they hold together without your guidance? Like the two outside?"
"I have a million more willing to take their place."
"But to take your place?"
The Benefactor shook his head. He smacked his lips like his mouth was dry. Adem believed he looked...afraid. Who was the real pussy, he thought? Why would he be afraid? The old man said, "You really don't know. I expected you to be smarter than this. And now look at us both. We have failed. And this is what we deserve for failing."
His other hand appeared from his sleeve, this one clutched around a block of wood wrapped in electrical tape, wires running from the bottom to the top, his thumb resting on a button.
Barely loud enough to hear, the old man said, "Goddamn you for this, Mr. Mohammed."
Adem got it. Almost too late. He shouted, "It's not him! It's not Uzayr! I need help here! Help!"
The old man squeezed his eyes shut and let out a moan growing in volume as his grip tightened on the detonator, his thumb squeezing the button.
No time. Adem turned and started for the door. He tripped and fell on his face and covered his head and yelled, "No! No! No!" right as he heard the button click.
He thought about his dad, his mom, Roxy, Sufia. Even Jibriil. All of the events that led to this moment. Covering his head wasn't going to help. Why was he doing this? Why the hell did he agree—
Nothing happened. Nothing blew up. Adem lifted his head. Everything was as it had been, except that a small crowd of squatters were gathered around the door, all crouched, all staring at him. Behind him, the old man's moaning turned into sobbing and then into laughter.
"Thank God, thank God, oh praise be to God, I'm alive, I'm still alive, I'm still alive..." and on and on.
Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) Page 19