All the Young Warriors

by Anthony Neil Smith

  He headed for the door. Down the hall. Loosened his tie. Too hot. The guards. Which one of these rooms was his dad in, with, what, a cop? Working together? That didn't seem like something Bahdoon would've done. Maybe Mustafa, the kinder gentler man Adem was embarrassed to realize his own father had become for him. Every day a struggle, working for clowns, following orders, all because he wanted to be a role model for Adem. Admirable. Ridiculous.

  The guards saw him coming, and one went back down the hall to another room. Knocked, said something Adem couldn't hear. A moment later, Garaad came out of the doorway. The guard followed him back to the elevator to meet up with Adem, pressed the down button.

  Garaad, not a mark on him, as tough as always. To the main guard, "My guns, please?"

  The guard shook his head. "What guns? Guess you lost them on the way up. Better find new ones."

  Garaad glared. "Yeah, I will. I always do."

  The door slid open. They stepped in. No guards following them this time. Adem pressed "L". The door slid closed and the guard said, "You gentlemen have a good evening."

  One floor down, Adem pulled at his tie. Again and again until it was off. He turned to the back corner, hands against the wall, and gagged. Not enough in him to vomit, but he dry heaved, a trail of spit and acid from his mouth to the floor. Over and over. Garaad watching from the other end of the elevator. One more ding and they would be on the ground floor. Adem wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He sniffed. Stood.

  The door slid open. Garrad didn't move. "Was it a bad meeting?"

  Adem walked off, beeline for the front door and the waiting Mercedes. "It stunk in that room. That's all."

  TWENTY

  A European sedan, a fancy hotel, men with sunglasses and earpieces and guns escorting them, treating them like dignitaries or rock stars instead of prisoners, which neither was sure they were anymore. Bleeker had his suspicions. CIA.

  Once in the hotel, they were escorted to a room on the second floor, right off the elevator bank, where more golf-shirted guards kept watch. No one manhandled them. Didn't even touch them. The guard-in-charge politely asked for their cell phones, and they didn't resist. That would have been rude. Another guard opened the room, held the door open, and let them in. It was a plain room, two double beds, almost American except for the African décor and lack of a truly cold a/c.

  Mustafa went to the windows immediately, opened the curtains. He tested the glass, tried to open it. The guard didn't stop him. He looked at Bleeker. "It's been welded shut."

  Bleeker picked up the phone, dialed the operator. The guard didn't stop him.

  "Yes?"

  "I need an outside line."

  "I'm sorry sir, but it has been requested that you not be allowed to make calls while guests of the company."

  "What company?"

  "I'm sorry sir, but I can't tell you that either."

  He hung up. He'd figure out a way around the phone, give him a few hours. He wondered if the guard would stop him then.

  Not long after, the ex-Marine came in, relieved the guard. The older man closed the door, motioned for Bleeker and Mustafa to sit on one of the beds while he grabbed the other chair in the room, like something out of Pier One Imports, and straddled it, arms resting on top of the back.

  "Thanks for cooperating. You need anything, open the door and ask for Carl. That's me."

  Bleeker said, "Thanks Carl. I need to leave now."

  Got a laugh. "Relax. I'm sure Mr. Iles will come and speak to you soon."

  "Who's he?"

  "My boss. I'm sure it's going to be fine." He pulled a small digital camera out of his pants pocket. "You mind? I'm supposed to take your picture."

  As he lifted the camera, Mustafa reached out and grabbed his wrist. "That's what they do to hostages."

  Held on tight.

  Carl pulled his arm back, slowly applying pressure. The expression on his face didn't change. Mustafa's arm stretched. He held his breath, held on tighter. He was coming off the bed, dragged towards Carl. Mustafa blew out all his breath and let go, flopped back onto the bed.

  Once he sat up again, Carl snapped the photo, then pushed himself off the chair. "Sit still. Watch TV. Don't try anything."

  He left the room. Mustafa launched off the bed to the window. Pushing, shouldering, pulling the handle. Tracing his fingers along the edges. Turned to Bleeker. "You going to help?"

  Bleeker got up and went over, took a look. "Nothing we can do."

  "We can break it."

  "With what? And how many whacks before the guards come in? Fifty? Sixty?" Bleeker thumped the window. "We're not going out that way."

  Mustafa slapped it with the heel of his hand. He walked away, a tiger pacing the cage. "This isn't the plan. How'd they know us? We don't know them?"

  Bleeker went back to the phone, picked it up. Nothing special. He looked on the bottom of it. Set it back down. Maybe it was as simple as pushing "9" for an outside line. Maybe he could keep hitting zero. He picked up the handset, waited for a dial tone. There was none. He clicked the button in the cradle over and over. Nothing.

  "They cut off the phone now."

  Mustafa stopped pacing and nodded. "Then we call Carl back, take him out quickly. Get a look at the hall, make a run for it. Anyone in our way gets dead."

  "With what? Our incredible fists?"

  "Adem is here. We know that now."

  "Maybe he's the one who sent these guys after us."

  Mustafa shook his head, but his eyes were closed tight like he was keeping that thought from getting inside. "No, no, that can't be. That's…it doesn't make sense."

  "Your son making deals for pirates doesn't make much sense either. I mean, come on, man."

  Mustafa got in his face. "They're making him! It's not his decision!"

  "How are you so sure?"

  "I know!"

  Bleeker looked past Mustafa's face, out the window, now smudged with their sweat and oil. "I don't think you do. Not any more. What you know is what you wish Adem was. He could've shot Cindy and Poulson. He could've fought with these assholes. He might be working for pirates because he believes in their cause. Same way that mommy thinks her little angel couldn't possibly have done anything wrong."

  Bleeker was off his feet, Mustafa grabbing his shirt in his fists and twisting and tossing Bleeker onto the bed like he was a sack of garbage. Bleeker went heels over head, bounced off onto the other side, crouching, ready to spring.

  Mustafa stood, shoulders high, ready, huffing. "Say it again. Say it, motherfucker."

  "That's a good Muslim mouth you've got there. Sounds more like Bahdoon to me."

  Mustafa flexed his fingers. Pops loud like firecrackers. "Never said I was one or the other."

  "Then what makes you think Adem is?"

  "You can shut your fucking mouth, trying to judge him. You ain't nothing."

  "Least I'm not all talk like you."

  Bleeker saw the switch flick behind Mustafa's eyes. From Banner to Hulk, snap of the fingers. He was going to trap Bleeker in that corner between bed and wall and pummel him. Bleeker was looking forward to it. Show the Big Bad Bahdoon what an old Army Ranger could do. Fuck up his day.

  Just as some young guy in shorts and a green polo walked it. Boat shoes, no socks. Carefully casual. He took a look at the scene and smirked. "Am I interrupting something?"

  Mustafa acted on reflex, reaching for the guy, ready to drag him to the bed and throttle him. But the youngster was quick, hopping back as Mustafa barreled forward, giving him an elbow on the back as he went flying by. Right to the floor. The guy was good, confident. Maybe too much. Mustafa swept his leg, got the kid off balance. He lurched forward, face first to the carpet. Bleeker was on him, wrenched the guy's arm halfway up his back.

  But then thick arms wrapped around Bleeker from behind, wrenched him away. The ex-marine. He looked over to see Mustafa on the floor, head pinched between the door and the wall as another golf-shirted guard held a pistol on him. Carl didn't tr
y anything on Bleeker, held him rock steady while the preppie got off the floor, giddy. Clapped his hands. He waved off the guy guarding Mustafa, eased his foot off the door, still holding the banger's head in place. Mustafa sat up, dazed, hands on his ears.

  "Okay, Carl, let him go." The guy shook out his arm, rubbed his shoulder. "He's not a killer anymore. Not like the old days. Even that thing in Minneapolis, what, six weeks ago?"

  Carl let go of Bleeker. He felt small. "You know about us?"

  "Just now you should've broken my neck. Should've been paying attention to Carl and Jim here, waiting outside the door. So, no, not the Army Ranger I was warned about."

  A test? A dare? Let this guy think what he wanted, but Carl was too much for him. The others, easy.

  "Take a seat, would you?" The preppie sat in the same seat Carl had earlier, hiked an ankle on top of his knee, jiggled his foot. Mustafa pushed himself off the floor, still looking pained. Bleeker sat on the bed, and Mustafa joined him a moment later on the other side.

  "So, introductions. I'm Derrick Iles, the boss. These guys work for me. I know who you are, Detective Bleeker. And Mustafa Abdi Bahdoon, formerly one of Minneapolis's most wanted. But then you disappeared from the public record. It took some digging to find you, rising slowly up the ladder at the Target warehouse. Hiding from the police in plain sight. That's cool."

  Mustafa sniffed. "They never proved one thing they say I did."

  "Shit, no proof? There's all sorts of proof. I've got better detectives, and they don't need warrants."

  Bleeker was racking his brains. Thinking about Iraq, not the war he was in, but the second. About the mercenaries. He'd seen this Iles guy before on TV, back when some of the soldiers of fortune got a bit trigger happy with no authority. Mowed down civilians, teenagers, guys goofing around.

  He snapped his fingers. "I thought I knew you. Private security. What was it, ah, Liberty Shield Security, right?"

  "Winner, winner, chicken dinner. Give him a cigar, Carl."

  Didn't expect it, but Carl handed Bleeker a real cigar. Shit.

  Mustafa said, "They're not with the government, then?"

  Iles shrugged. "Sometimes they hire us, and it's good money. They don't even expect results, I'm starting to think. They're desperate for people who want to be over there, either Iraq or Afghanistan. Then sometimes private companies need protection overseas. Or sometimes some pussy-shit pirates hijack a big boat and the company would rather throw the money at us than the assholes."

  "Hard to tell the difference," Bleeker said.

  "You telling me you really didn't think about looking for a job with us or the other guys after your tour? We've got plenty of you. Carl here, see?"

  The thick Marine nodded.

  Bleeker said, "Fuck no. I was done. I was really done. I went home, became a cop. Didn't feel like war, but it felt…natural, like when the chill wears off after you've been out in the snow a while."

  "I don't know how you guys live up there in the cold. I'm from Arizona, and it's perfect. The deserts here? Just like home. But look, we know who you are, and I think I know why you're here."

  Mustafa blurted it out: "You know Adem?"

  Iles did the kinda thing with his hand. "Know thine enemy. He's not really an enemy, but he plays for the other team. He's a good guy, actually. Business is a lot like the Art of War, have you ever heard that? Now, I'm getting paid to resolve this. If I do it by shooting a bunch of pirates, okay. Extra paperwork for me, but we'll survive. We've learned how to kill people all over the world and get away with it."

  He stood. Bleeker thought he was restless, overcaffienated. Thought that Iles thought he was smarter than everyone in the room. "Most of the time, though, I've got resources that help us solve the problem without shooting anybody. Which would be good right now."

  Mustafa stood. The guards got antsy. Iles sat there like he was watching a play.

  "I want to see him."

  "Fuck no. Sit down. I'm not done."

  Mustafa didn't sit. Kept an eye on the guard who had covered him.

  Iles said it again. "Sit. Down."

  Nothing.

  Iles sighed, dropped his eyes, and said, "Okay."

  The guard whipped out a gun and fired and Mustafa was off the bed, on the floor, but there was no bang. Some buzzing. Some grunting. Bleeker got up, saw Mustafa rolling, shaking, some wires trailing from his shirt back to the guard's hands, a Taser.

  "Enough."

  Iles said, "I think a little more."

  "Like fuck you will."

  Carl clamped a hand on Bleeker's shoulder while the guard gave Mustafa another shot of juice.

  "Stop it!"

  The guard stopped again. Iles sat, crossed his legs, and bounced his foot again. "You've got leadership potential."

  "He wants to see Adem, talk to him, so if you can make that happen—"

  "If I can? Hey, I can, but I won't until I'm ready. And you can take him home or to prison or dump him off the side of the boat if you want. But not until I say so."

  Mustafa was curled into a fetal position on the floor. The guard stepped over and pulled the Taser's metal prongs out of his shirt and skin, then knelt down to help him up. Mustafa's teeth chattered. His fingers were curled tight.

  "You guys take it easy in here, take a nap, watch some TV. You want room service? I can get you some food up here. What do you like? Some of everything?"

  Bleeker watched as Mustafa rose from the floor like he was racked with arthritis. He sat on the bed again, head hung low except for a quick look at Bleeker. A wink.

  "How long?"

  Iles hemmed and hawed, told Carl to check the schedule. He left the room, and Iles looked around, avoiding Bleeker and Mustafa. He said, "I know you just got here, but this is really a beautiful area. All of Puntland. When this is done, you guys should take some time, see the sights."

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  "It's either that or snow drifts, buddy."

  Carl came back in with a smart phone, held it out to Iles, who looked at the screen and mumbled a few questions to Carl, who either nodded or shook his head, depending. Iles handed the phone back to him, said, "Tell them to wait. I haven't had dinner yet."

  Then to Bleeker and Mustafa, "I'm hoping you'll be here less than six hours. Might be twelve. Either way, no worries. It could be a lot worse. Try this sort of shit in Mogadishu." He laughed. "What a hellhole. You might wake up without a head, not to mention terrible food."

  On his feet, reached out his hand to Bleeker, who took it automatically. Funny how you don't think sometimes when there's a hand right there waiting to be shook. Iles did the same to Mustafa, who didn't give him anything. Not a look, a shake. Didn't move.

  Iles gave Mustafa a squeeze on the shoulder. "No hard feelings."

  Out of the room, Carl following, the other guard manning the door. Closed behind them. Just Bleeker and Mustafa, alone. Quiet.

  "You alright?"

  Mustafa nodded. "I've been tazed before."

  "You're kidding?"

  "Shit, you cops love that thing. Almost always justified. Cop stopped us, said we were drinking and driving. I didn't blow one drop. No bottles or cans in the car. Still wanted to search. I said no, and out comes the lightning gun. I was prone on the sidewalk after, handcuffs on, blinking away bright spots, while they searched."

  "They ever apologize?"

  Mustafa grinned. "You for real? I'm lucky they let me keep the car. One thing I knew, these cops can do almost anything if they stop your car. No one takes my ride. No drugs, no booze, no guns. My ride is sacred."

  "Good policy."

  "Worked for me." He stretched his neck, grunted a little. "So, that's Iles."

  "Guess so."

  "Ready to get moving?"

  Bleeker stepped to the window. Darkness pushing down the red and orange and yellow into the ocean. A few lights coming on in the buildings and on the street. "I told you. We can't break the window."

  "No need."
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  Bleeker turned back as Mustafa shoved his hand down the front of his pants, looked like he was tugging on his balls. Then he pulled his hand out again, holding a cell phone.

  "They might pretend to check my crotch, but not really. They won’t grab my balls." He flipped it open, started texting. "I'm going to tell Warfaa where we are."

  After, not even a minute for it to buzz. Mustafa opened it, looked at the screen, and his face lit up.

  "So, what do we do?"

  Mustafa slapped the phone closed, looked around for the TV remote, reached over to get it, and clicked the set on. He reclined on the bed, hands behind his head. "You heard Mr. Iles. We relax and watch TV."

  On the screen, more soccer. Bleeker sighed. Goddamn, what was it about soccer?

  TWENTY-ONE

  Adem had left Garaad without a word as soon as they made it back to their hotel. He found the farthest restroom, not wanting his bodyguard to stand over him, and finished what he'd started in the elevator. Angry dry heaves. Sweat. Weak. When he closed his eyes, he saw heads on stakes. He saw a mob surrounding him. He saw rockets exploding only a few feet away from him.

  "Oh God." A moan before the next wave passed through his stomach. He couldn't figure it out. How could he blow the negotiations without the pirates gutting him? Maybe Dad was already dead. There were no guarantees. And what if he warned the pirates about the raid? Couldn't they move the ship? Make it harder for the mercenaries?

  No guarantees there, either. Iles was a businessman, not a murderer. Maybe he didn't have his dad and the cop. Maybe it was all a bluff. If he called the bluff and the pirates retaliated against the company, that could cause a breakdown, get the execs loading bagfuls of cash for the ransom with their own manicured hands.

  When he was able to swallow again without retching, Adem left the stall, turned on the faucet and cupped the not-cold-enough water in his hands, splashed his face. Instead of making him feel better, the water was like slime on his skin. He reached for a towel but there wasn't one. He rubbed his hands on his pants, wiped his face with his jacket sleeve.

  Took a long look at himself in the mirror. Fine suit, shaved head, the beginnings of a mustache. This wasn't him. This was a character. Crazy to even think he could keep this up.