The doors dinged, started to close. One of the guards leapt forward to hold them open, but Bleeker shot him in the arm and he fell back. Mustafa was stabbing the Close Doors button. They finally slid shut. The elevator lurched. Skipped the second floor. Ground floor next.
"They'll be there. Maybe they'll start firing this time. Not even give us a chance."
Mustafa made a deep noise, looked down at the wounded guard, now on his ass holding his jaw. He looked weak. Blood drooling. Still moaning.
Mustafa reached down, a hand beneath his arm, and lifted him. Bleeker did the same on the other side. An arm over each shoulder. He'd lost blood, but he'd live. Maybe a doctor could put his jaw back together. Maybe not.
Mustafa said, "Follow my lead, okay? Whatever you do, keep moving."
The doors dinged open. Lots of guards. Lots. All of them aiming.
It was like Mustafa didn't even see them. Rushed straight out of the elevator shouting, "Man down! I need a doctor! Now! He's been shot! Hurry!"
Kept right on forward, all three of them. Shouting Mustafa, shouting guards, moaning guard, onward. What were they going to do, shoot at one of their own? Or shoot at Mustafa or Bleeker and risk them dropping the poor bastard?
"Ambulance! Hospital! We need to get him there quickly. Now. Come on." Mustafa pointed at some guards. "You, you, and you, come on. Get the doors."
If Derrick Iles had been there, he would've ordered his mercenaries to kill all three of them. But he was busy and this was a fellow guard and the mercs, all Americans, weren't going to have a shootout unless they got paid for it.
Two of the guards got the doors. Another came and took over for Mustafa, shouldering the weight.
"We'll get this. You need to stay put." Another right behind Bleeker. "I'll take it from here. You two can't leave. Stay here."
Then he whistled, said to the other guards, "Hey, come get these guys, cuff them or something."
But momentum carried them right out the doors, the guards, Bleeker, Mustafa. Outside, there were a handful of cars—guests, taxis, shuttles—but one beat-up red taxi began making a lot of noise. Horn blaring. Engine revving. Mustafa said, "Let's go!"
He and Bleeker ran for it, ducking low as the guards got wind and started firing. Opened the back door right as bullets slammed into it, came out the other side, barely missing both men. Warfaa in the driver's seat, already rolling even before they'd climbed inside. First Mustafa, then he turned, grabbed Bleeker's arms and pulled him in while his feet tried to keep up with the speed. Then off the ground, inside, slammed the door shut, and went rigid all over as the window beside him shattered, bullet blowing the stuffing out of the passenger seat. Another round cracked the back window. A tire exploded, rocked the car violently. But Warfaa kept going.
He said, "Who needs wheels? I got this!"
They ground along, the shrill metallic scrape making Bleeker cover his ears with his hands. He smelled the blood on his hands from the guard. Swallowed. Plenty of time to throw up on the plane home.
Mustafa pounded him on the back. "You ready?"
"Right now?"
"Has to be. We've got another car. Time's up."
They rounded a corner, then another. It felt as if they were going to flip and roll. But Warfaa kept control. A few minutes later, they pulled up behind a white Range Rover, one of the cousins standing outside. Warfaa slammed the car into park and nearly gave them all whiplash. He was out on the road while Bleeker was still fumbling for the handle. Jesus, here he thought that even after twenty years, all the Ranger training would have prepared him. Now he saw this was a whole new ballgame. He was an old man getting dragged along by young men who knew the rules had changed.
Out on the street, he stretched his back. People were staring at him. He was a white man with a torn shirt hanging off him, a pistol in his hand, drenched in blood. Made him grin. He walked to the Rover, climbed inside, and told the others—Mustafa, Warfaa, and two cousins—what his Rangers used to say to each other, even if they didn't mean it: "Let's go have some fun."
TWENTY-THREE
Might as well have a machete to his neck. Might as well chain him up. The fancy suit felt like chains. Garaad on his heels. Out of the car, into the lobby of the hotel. This one had attracted media. Someone had leaked, said this was the big one. The reporters called him by name.
"Mr. Mohammed, is this the final meeting? Have you reached an agreement?" "Are they really going to pay the ransom?" "What about rumors of the crew being murdered? Mr. Mohammed? A body was seen being dumped—" "Are you really American?"
The last one made him turn his head towards the woman, a famous correspondent for CNN. Had she been demoted? Or was this story actually big news in the States now? He wanted to stop and ask, but Garaad was there, guiding hand shoving him along. Adem resisted, but Garaad shoved harder. Kept walking. Adem looked over his shoulder at the CNN camera.
Inside, more media, local police and more of Iles's guards, easy to spot now that he knew the uniform. Golf shirts, but this time under blazers. To hide bigger guns, probably. One of them seemed eager, coming directly to Adem, taking his elbow, and saying, "This way, sir. Come on."
The urgency sent off Adem's mental alarm. What had happened? Why was the meeting room now set up for a press conference? It was supposed to be that he came in, said what he had to say, and then went to find Sufia. That had been the plan. It was coming together. Forget Iles. He wasn't a murderer. He had no authority over Mustafa and the cop. This could be even better, though. All Adem had to do was deliver Captain Mahmood's message and demands, tell the cameras that Iles was holding his father hostage, and get out. The money didn't mean anything. The money had been a means to an end, but only if he had Sufia with him. If they would take him back to her, he would go with empty pockets.
Several of the company's negotiators were on the dais behind a thick bank of microphones from a variety of news outlets bundled together, some digital recorders wedged in among them. Whispering to each other. Lawyer, exec, middleman. They gave him the stink eye as he ascended, stood off to the side. Garaad stood at the base of the steps, arms crossed. Adem moved as far back as he could, not wanting any attention until it was time for him to drop the bomb.
No luck.
Derrick Iles was already headed straight for him. Rushing, shouldering reporters out of the way, eyes on Adem. Up the steps past Garaad, hand already extended for a shake. All friendly like. Adem took it. Iles pulled him close, ear to ear, and seethed, "You're a dead man."
Adem opened his mouth. What was he going to say to that? How do these people know what he's going to say before he says it?
"A dead man!" Clenched teeth this time.
"Wait," Adem, stammering. "What about our agreement? What about my father?"
Iles didn't even bother with the pretense of cordiality anymore. Stabbing his finger into Adem's chest. "Fuck that. Fuck your dad, fuck the money. We're taking that boat. Say whatever you fucking want now. The ship will be ours before we're done here."
No no no. Had he read the man wrong? Was he really nuts? Stall, Adem, stall! "Wait, we agreed. I spoke to the Captain. I don't understand."
Iles shook his head. "It's fucking off, man. You're dead, the pirates are dead, and your father can burn in Hell."
One final stab of his finger, and he was gone, off the dais and out of the room. Adem had thought it was all going to work out somehow. Not the best for everyone, but Mahmood didn't deserve a fairy tale ending. None of the pirates. Let the Canadians take care of their own. But the rest was supposed to work out. Unless Iles had been lying. Unless Jibriil was lying. Adem was beginning to wish for a bullet in the back of the head. Something to chill his bones, send him back to the shore of Lake Superior from his dreams.
So many thoughts tumbling in his mind, bricks in a washing machine, as the conference was called to order and the main lawyer for the shipping company, Kyle Gabriel, took to the mikes like slipping into an old comfy housecoat, a disaffected rambling o
f legality and thanks to people who didn't matter and sentences that didn't mean anything, finally leading up to his introducing one of the company execs. Reporters shouted questions at Gabriel—Ransom? Crew? Safety? Agreement? Rumors of an attack?—who couldn't help himself, answering them by saying he wasn't going to answer them, but saying it in the most long-winded way possible, the exec looking impatient but not about to interrupt the one guy who kept their asses out of even more trouble.
Once Gabriel passed over to the exec, Adem was even less interested. He remembered that Iles didn't say Dad was dead. Said he'd burn in Hell, but not that he was dead. Literally, figuratively, whatever. He wondered about Sufia, too. It could be that she was the one who chose to leave. She could've called Jibriil, told him that Adem had lost his nerve, wanted to escape with her. What if she was a plant? This whole time, setting him up to fall for her in the hospital, then to have her come along. One to play the bad cop—Garaad—and one to play the good.
He couldn't believe it. But it fit. Fit perfectly. Goddamn it.
He lifted his head when the salt-and-pepper-haired Canadian mentioned his name. The exec with an extended arm, gesturing to him.
"—Mr. Mohammed, who generously dedicated his time to brokering this agreement. He was able to speak with the Captain on the ship, helping us reach a reasonable end to this so that no one comes away harmed. I don't condone the actions of those who took our ship, but they have been negotiating in good faith."
All eyes on Adem for a moment. He gave them a curt nod.
And then the police barged in.
Two black men in short-sleeved blue shirts, official badges sewed onto their sleeves, blue berets. Almost like UN troops, but those usually identified themselves with armbands with UN in big white block letters. These men didn't have that, but they had AR-15s. A third man behind them wore a suit and tie, and was calling for calm. He held a badge and ID wallet open and high, showed the room.
"Attention, and please keep calm. I am Detective Inspector Reno of Interpol. Please, no cause for alarm. Please do not leave the room."
More pleas for calm as he and his men made it to the front of the room, stood at the foot of the dais. Reno said to the exec, "Mr. Mohammed? Where is he?"
The man turned his head to Adem. The cop's head followed, and the men in blue shirts climbed the steps, one on each side of Adem.
Reno said, "We're taking you into custody on suspicion of conspiracy, murder, and terrorism. Please, come with us."
Adem took a step back. Was this Iles's nasty surprise? He found Garaad at the foot of the steps. Tried to tell him with a facial expression Shoot them! Help me! Do something!
But Garaad was already slinking his way through the crowd for the back door.
"Garaad! Come back!"
He took off, a dead run.
Reno, now on the platform in front of Adem. "Please, come with us."
Adem shook his head. "I didn't do anything wrong. I didn't do those things you said. Whatever he told you, I didn't—no, I didn't."
"We'll explain later. But for now, let's hurry."
Adem glanced around. All the cameras on him. The platform was clearing. Adem found the lawyer, shouted for him.
"You! Gabriel! I need a lawyer! Help me!"
The company lawyer ignored the cries, sneaked glances at Adem on his way down and out of the room. One final look, a sad wince, then he was gone.
The blue shirts wrapped their hands around Adem's arms. The Inspector grabbed the side of his neck at the shoulder, a good firm grip. "Let's go. We'll work this out."
Flashbulbs. Reporters shouting questions. "No comment" from Reno. The only thing he said. Adem thought of turning to the cameras and telling them Iles had kidnapped his dad. But how would that sound coming from a man being marched out by cops? Desperate? Probably wouldn't even make it into the report. Some crazy pirate/terrorist/American shouting about a conspiracy. Also, his mouth was dry like the desert he'd escaped, so he couldn't even get a word in. Stumbled along, nearly dragged by the cops. Reno led the way.
In the lobby, they were besieged. Pressing through. The cops one-arming the guns, trying to hold reporters back, slapping at their mikes and cameras with the rifles. Finally broke into free space and picked up the pace. Adem thought about what would happen next. Interpol, right? Not the locals. They had to treat him fairly. No beatings, nothing like what the pirates had put him through, his stomach still bruised and aching over it. None of that. Extradition? Maybe the Americans were waiting for him. A ride back home. But American prison? Guantanamo Bay? It all ended badly. He could strike a deal. Give up Jibriil and Iles and Rockstar Muhammad and the whole goddamned lot of them. He really had to pee. He was clutching. But he really had to go.
Some of Iles's guards were putting on a show, standing in front of the doorway with their pistols drawn, held down at their sides, trigger finger straight along the side of the frame. Why would they do that? But as Reno and his prisoner approached, they pushed the doors open. Always happy to assist the cause of law and order, of course. They were outside. Two vehicles waiting. The first, a white paneled minivan ahead, and Adem saw that Garaad was inside, his face pressed against the window of the passenger seat, almost like he was unconscious. A little closer, and Adem saw the pulped eye, nearly swollen shut. A fat lip. A missing tooth. Blood. More blue shirts climbing in, closing the door.
The second vehicle was a white Range Rover, two men in the back, one white. Yes, had to be an American. He would listen. He had to. Reno headed for the driver's side while the cops pushed him to the passenger side. Opened the door for him, laid a hand on his head and helped him in. But not before Adem got a half-decent look at the other man in the backseat.
"Dad?"
But then shouting from the hotel entrance, Derrick Iles running out the doors followed by his guards. "Stop! Don't let them leave! Fake cops! Fake fucking cops!"
This man Reno in the driver's seat said, "Get down!"
Adem was transfixed. He watched Iles, flailing, shouting, as his mercenaries lifted their pistols with military precision and took aim. Two of the blue shirts jumped onto the Rover's runners. At the last second, Adem ducked. Pistol shots. Windows cracking. The blue shirts returned fire. Engine roaring. Jerked Adem back in the chair. His arms over his head.
The white man in the back started yelling, "Wait! The van! Wait for the van! We need the other guy!"
The driver said, "We have to go! Leave it!"
"Wait for them!"
Adem lifted his eyes enough to peek in the rearview. The blue shirts by the van were firing their rifles, one taken down by pistol fire. Iles's guards swarmed the van, forced the other blue shirt to the ground.
The white man was watching too. "Shit! Shit! No! He was—I needed—Shit!" He reached into the front seat and grabbed a handful of Adem's suit, jerked him hard. "Say he did it! Come on! Your friend, Jibriil! Say it!"
His dad had latched on to the man's arms, trying to break him from Adem. "That wasn't him! I swear! That wasn't Jibriil!"
Adem a rag doll between them. The driver was barely in control of the Rover. Every corner felt like an imminent rollover, but he somehow righted it with a violent shake and kept on at warp speed, the two cops still clinging to the sides.
Adem tried to get a word in, the coat tight against his throat. "It's not…not Jibriil. I swear, please. It's not!"
Dad: "It wasn't him!"
Adem: "It wasn't him!"
The look in his eyes. Revenge. The only thing that mattered. Adem knew then this was the woman cop's husband or boyfriend or something. Had to be. Why else would his blood boil like that?
Dad finally got the man's arms free. "Ray, no, Ray, it wasn't him. Calm down!"
The driver slowed, said, "We're safe now. But we lost Wiil and Ali." Hard breaths. Then, "What have we done?"
His dad reached both arms around Adem's seat, embraced him as best he could. "We were all willing to sacrifice. And we got him. Praise God, we got him."
/> Adem couldn't help but smile. He reached for his father's hand, gave it a hard squeeze. "Thank you. Oh God, thank you."
TWENTY-FOUR
The African teenager coming out of the hotel wore a summer shirt, a fedora, and was already running at a good clip when the two cousins posing as police stopped him. Mustafa said, "He's the one that was with Adem just now."
That was all it took. Bleeker climbed out of the Rover while Mustafa tried to pull him back in. Had to be Jibriil. Had to be. Single-minded. Bleeker got to him as he tried to shamble away from the cousins and gave him a vicious crack on the head with the butt of his pistol. He went down. Bleeker straddled him, turned him over, and punched the living shit out of him. Nose, teeth, eye, jaw. Rained down his right fist over and over. The cousins stood back, had no idea what to do. Same with the doorman and Iles's guards. The media cameras immediately swung around, red lights blazing on all of them. The cousins lifted their guns, shouted at the cameramen and the journalists, scattered them back into the hotel or out into the streets while Bleeker kept punching, finally dragged off the kid by Mustafa, dragged back to the Rover. The cousins lifted the teenager by his armpits. He was woozy, dripping blood. They led him to the van that had met them on the way to the hotel.
Warfaa had gone inside, undercover as an Interpol agent, with two fake cops. These two had stayed outside. Another couple of cousins were somewhere else in the city, preparing for the next step. The whole plan was simply to get Adem and Jibriil into the vehicles and get out of there before anyone realized what had happened. But seeing the arrogant bastard trying to escape, Bleeker had to…well, had to do something. The cousins were more than capable of handling it, but Bleeker didn't want to watch anymore. He'd heard of Jibriil shooting Cindy secondhand. He'd heard about the recruitment of the Minneapolis Somalis. He'd seen Adem on a laptop screen negotiating for pirates. He was tired of letting others handle what should have been his.
All the Young Warriors Page 24