The Night Ranger jw-7

by Alex Berenson

  20

  LOWER JUBA REGION

  Wizard wished for quiet tonight, time to think. But quiet was hard to find. Everyone in the world wanted these hostages. After the Dita Boys came the phone calls. When Waaberi hung up with the Arab, he pushed the phone at Wizard like it was cursed.

  “He offer us three million dollars, Wizard. One, two, three million.”

  “Don’t believe he has such money.”

  “Find out, then. Make him drop one million. Send some boy to pick it up. Some boy you know to trust.”

  “They ours now. Not for Arabs to cut up. You know these Arabs hate us, look down on us. They say we all pray to the same Allah, but any Somali who works in Saudi, they treat him worse than a donkey. Beat him and such.”

  “Gutaale”—the first time in the years since Mogadishu that Waaberi had called him by his former name—“you know what that way.” Waaberi tilted his head east. “And you know what the other way. They coming for us, Kenyans, Americans, what-all. To the south the swamp and to the north nothing at all. You going to buy us an airplane and fly us out of here, Wizard? Maybe we swim to China or I don’t know where? We need money, Wizard, and this man say he give it to us. He beat Somalis like donkeys, what you care? He the devil himself, what you care? What you owe these wazungu? Last night you kill one. Now you ’tecting them.”

  “You ’fraid, Beri? Fancy to leave me now? Go on, then. Take anyone who want to follow. Take them all. I don’t stop you.” Wizard came out with a key from his pocket. “Even give you a Rover.” He pressed the key on Waaberi, but Waaberi crossed his arms over his chest, tucked his hands under his armpits.

  “Don’t disrespect. Not leaving, Wizard. Not now, not ever. I asking, what is the plan? We just waiting for them Boys to come? Then tell me so. I make sure my RP ready. Put a hole in some Ditas.”

  “Only sent the emails twelve hours ago. Put in for the money tomorrow. I don’t want to hear about them Ditas no more. They talk talk. Man threaten once, he serious. Threaten twice, he scared. Trying to do with words what he can’t with bullets.” Wizard wasn’t sure he was right, but the idea pleased him more than the alternative. “If they come, they gon’ wish they didn’t. Meantime, these wazungu belong to me. I decide what to do with them. No one but me.”

  Wizard couldn’t fully explain, even to himself, why he wouldn’t sell the hostages to the Arab. Something to do with seeing the girl, Gwen, chewing the miraa, her blue eyes all bright and hopeful when she saw him. Like she was scared but not scared of him. Like she trusted him even after what he’d done to the other one. That plug in her mouth like she was born to it. And all afraid of rape, too. He couldn’t sell her to some Arab who would hurt her that way.

  “That the plan, then. Hope this money comes from the sky, the Americans drop it down in a parachute.”

  “The families gon’ pay, Beri. I know it. Go on and sleep. And tell the Donkeys and the rest, they sleep too. No miraa tonight.”

  “You know that not happening, Wizard.”

  “Yah. Tell them, go inside, keep the AKs close, but we got to rest while we can.”

  Waaberi saluted, a quick, sloppy finger-to-forehead dance that meant I’ll do what you say, but I think you’re crazy, and disappeared.

  Wizard found his tools in his pack. He laid a thready brown blanket on the dirt and reached for the AK that hung from the wall on a crude wooden peg. He folded his legs under him and set to field-stripping the rifle. He preferred pistols as a rule. Commanders carried pistols. But if the Ditas attacked, they’d all be soldiers. Also, the AK was a simple clean weapon and working with it soothed his fingers. But he’d only just removed the bolt carrier when his phone rang.

  Wizard wondered if the Arab was calling again. Instead the screen showed Muhammad’s number. Finally, good news.

  Only it wasn’t.

  When the call was done, Wizard wanted to slice up this American, cut out his evil tongue, end his boasts. Wizard knew better than to think the man was lying. Muhammad wouldn’t give up his phone if he was alive. The American had killed him. Wizard still couldn’t figure if the man was a soldier or something else. In the pictures Muhammad sent him, the American and his driver were by themselves in the Land Cruiser. No other vehicles, no more men. Yet they’d somehow killed four of Wizard’s own. And the man was wrong about Muhammad. He knew how to survive. He’d fought in Mog for years.

  Then the man told Wizard to give back the hostages. For fifty thousand dollars. Did he imagine that Wizard didn’t know what these wazungu were worth? If he worked for the families, why didn’t he offer a fair ransom? But Wizard didn’t ask those questions. He held his anger and told the American one hundred fifty thousand. Too low a price, but he didn’t care. Anything to lure the man to the border, where Wizard could gain his revenge. Of course, the American might have his own treachery set. But Wizard wouldn’t back away from this man who’d killed his soldiers.

  Soon as he got off the phone, he decided to send soldiers to the border, two solid men. Riding there would take thirty or forty minutes in the rain that had just begun. They’d arrive well before the meeting. Wizard didn’t know why the mzungu had proposed that particular spot to meet. Wizard sensed that he didn’t know the area well. White people rarely stayed long in this region. Wizard would have heard about this one if he’d been here for more than a few days.

  He’d tell his men to hide themselves in the scrub north of the road. A little hill there gave cover. Let them watch the Kenyan side of the border, see if anyone tried to set a trap before the meeting. If they didn’t sound an alarm, Wizard would send three more men in a technical an hour later. No, a pickup. No machine gun. No weapons visible. Two men up front in the cab, one hiding in the bed with an AK. Five men total. They ought to be able to deal with one mzungu. Anyway, Wizard couldn’t spare more. Not tonight.

  When the American arrived, they’d see if he had anyone with him, the Kenyan police, whoever. If he was foolish enough to come alone, Wizard’s men would bring him back here. Wizard would open him from belly to chin and let him bleed, let the beasts of the scrub feed on him—

  No. Better. He’d sell this one to Shabaab, the Arabs, whoever offered the highest price. Let them do what they liked with him.

  If the American did have an army of his own, Wizard would tell his men to retreat, but northeast toward the Dita camp instead of here. When they got close to the camp they could start shooting. The Ditas would believe they were under attack and return fire. Then the Americans would attack the Ditas.

  Wizard knew the plan had holes. What if the American killed these five men just as he’d killed Muhammad and the others? But Wizard couldn’t invite the American to his base until he was sure that he didn’t have a hundred soldiers with him. At the same time, he couldn’t send just one or two men to the border. The American was too dangerous to risk meeting one-on-one.

  No, this choice was best. Wizard would put Shiny Khalid—one of the four Khalids in camp—in charge. The other Khalids were Tiny, Thirty Centimeter, and Big-Head. Wizard didn’t know how they had earned their nicknames. A smart commander let his men have a few secrets. Anyway, Shiny Khalid was one of Wizard’s smartest soldiers. He’d nose out a trap if the American was setting one. Plus, he knew where the Ditas were camped. Only problem with Shiny was his fearful streak. He wouldn’t relish setting up a cross fire between the Ditas and the Americans.

  So Wizard would team him with one of the Donkeys, the dumb brave boys who truly believed that Wizard couldn’t die and that they couldn’t either. They were proud of their fearlessness. They embraced their nickname. Donkey Gudud would be best. If he had to, he’d ride straight for the Dita camp, whatever Shiny Khalid said.

  Wizard felt his confidence coming back. He knew his men, knew how to make them more than they were. They would kill this American and a thousand Ditas, too, if the moment came. Wizard striped his fingers over the rumpled skin on his belly and back, the only trace of the AK round he’d taken that day in Mog. He’d beaten
that bullet. He had no fear.

  He was so focused on putting together his plan that he didn’t even realize that he had finished stripping and reassembling the AK. Only its magazine remained. His hands had done their work himself. He believed in signs, and this was a truespoke sign. The American would be his tonight. Wizard clapped the magazine into the stock and hung up the rifle. He felt five meters tall as he walked out of his hut to find Khalid.

  He was pleased to see that his men had followed his order sending them back to their huts. Or maybe the rain had done the trick. Aside from Samatar, who was guarding the wazungu, the center of camp was deserted. Good. He had seven sentries posted tonight, and he was sending five more soldiers to the border. Everyone else needed to rest. Even miraa couldn’t keep men awake forever.

  —

  Fifteen minutes later, back in his hut, Wizard heard Khalid and the Donkey ride off toward the border. He’d have at least forty-five minutes before Khalid checked in, time for a nap. He switched off his lantern, lay flat on his blanket. He set his phone alarm and stretched out with his fingers locked behind his head. He closed his eyes and saw a bright precious city with buildings that stretched to the sky. He bent his neck until he was looking straight up, but still he couldn’t see where they ended. Winged cars floated between the towers. An Arab with a thick beard came to him and told him the city would be his if he would give up the wazungu. No, Wizard said. In the distance, an engine kicked up and sputtered and died. What’s happening, he asked the Arab, but the man only shook his head. Then Wizard heard more shouting and all around him the buildings shook and—

  “Wizard!”

  The city vanished as he opened his eyes. An upside-down Waaberi stood in the doorway of his hut. “The wazungu—”

  “What—”

  “They tried to escape.”

  Wizard pushed himself up.

  “Samatar stop them.”

  Waaberi’s face twitched, an expression that meant: Bad news. “See for yourself.”

  Wizard rubbed the sleep from his eyes, picked up his phone. The alarm was still fifteen minutes from ringing. He’d been asleep for only—he needed a second to make the numbers work, he was so tired—thirty minutes. No matter. Waaberi’s hard eyes told him: You won’t sleep again this night. Wizard grabbed a plug of miraa and chewed until his mouth filled with juice and the leaf cleared away the rubble from his city of dreams.

  21

  Nobody talked much after Hailey came back with the wrench. Gwen wasn’t sure what the other two were thinking. But the plan seemed more real to her now, and more frightening. She couldn’t get her head around the idea that they were going to try to kill their guard. The guy hadn’t done anything to them. They didn’t even know his name.

  She didn’t argue, though. She knew what Owen would say. That she’d gone soft. That these men were not her friends. That even if she didn’t agree, they’d voted and they had to stick to their decision. Worse than the words would be the look, the eyes-narrowed-chin-tilted look that meant If you were smarter, we wouldn’t be talking about this, you’d get it.

  Before they were taken, Gwen would have said that Owen loved her, or at least that he had the world’s worst crush on her. He lit up when he saw her, like a dog when the treat drawer came open. No more. Since the night that the Joker had hooded them to punish her for talking, Owen had dealt with her like a problem he had to manage.

  She wondered whether Owen’s love for her had ever been real. Like so many guys she’d known, maybe he wanted the idea of her instead of actually wanting her. Maybe he wanted the ego boost that came from walking into a room with a beautiful woman, the feeling that everyone wondered how he’d won her. Was he rich, famous, a great storyteller, a demon lover? One point in Scott’s favor, maybe the biggest, maybe the only reason Gwen had put up with him: Scott didn’t need that boost. Scott genuinely believed that Gwen was lucky to have him, not the other way around. His feelings for her couldn’t have been simpler. He thought she was hot and a good lay. Which was pretty much what she thought of him. He’d been surprisingly good in bed, too. He had plenty of experience and zero performance anxiety.

  Thinking about sex with Scott made her almost miss him.

  She wondered what he would have made of their half-assed plan. Probably he’d have sneered at it. Chill, he would have said. Nobody’s gonna hurt us. We’re worth more alive than dead. Way more than all these Somalis combined.

  But what had Scott known about Kenya or Somalia? What had he known about this continent? What did any of them know? Gwen felt more grown up than she ever had before, and more childish too. There was a word for that, but she couldn’t remember it. She’d come here thinking these Africans were simple and stupid. That they couldn’t even feed themselves. She knew better now. They might be poor, but they weren’t stupid and they sure weren’t simple. The worst part was she hadn’t even realized she was looking down on them. At least she was starting to see how little she saw.

  She remembered. The word was paradox.

  —

  The camp quieted as the soldiers settled in for the night. Soldiers. Bandits. Gwen didn’t know what to call these armed boy-men. She listened for trouble, shots or screams, heard nothing. She drifted for a while, half asleep. A dirt bike took off and disappeared. Gwen expected more to follow, but none did. The faint voices from the other huts melded into a sort of song, all the world’s languages together. The minutes were as long as hours and as short as days, and she could float on the sea forever—

  Owen nudged her awake. “It’s time.” He edged around the hut until he stood two steps from the door. He held the wrench flat against his leg. Even in the dark, Gwen saw how his body coiled. He’d played tennis in high school.

  “Gwen.” He wagged two fingers toward her in a come-hither motion. Again she thought of Scott, who’d given her the same peremptory wave more than once. She wanted to tell Owen to drop the wrench, sit down. But Hailey put a hand on her arm and squeezed. She couldn’t delay any longer. She walked to the doorway, looked outside. The clouds were low and heavy. A steady rain soaked the earth. The wet season had come at last. Only their guard was outside. He wore an AK across his chest and squatted on an inflatable gray plastic ball that belonged in a yoga class. Gwen hadn’t seen it before and couldn’t imagine how it had arrived here. But she’d seen this in Dadaab, too, objects that didn’t seem to belong anywhere in Africa.

  Enough. If she waited any longer, she’d lose her nerve. She stepped out, squatted beside their sentry. He looked at her and then away and finally he settled for staring at her feet. “What’s your name?” She pointed at herself. “Gwen. Mi nombre es Gwennie. You?”

  “Samatar.”

  “Samatar. Come in where it’s dry, have some miraa.”

  “Miraa.”

  “Miraa. Exactly.”

  He reached into his pocket. The bundle of leaves had shrunk. She could see he didn’t want to share. He held it slightly away from her, like a frat boy with a flask that had only two good pulls left: Sure you want this?

  “Keep it, then. No problemo. But come on in. No need for you to get wet.” She stood, pointed at the doorway. We’re all friends here.

  He looked around. Gwen guessed that he’d been warned not to come inside the hut. But they both knew that he’d already broken that rule tonight and nothing bad had happened. He stood—then shook his head and squatted down. Gwen felt mostly relief. She’d tried, Owen and Hailey would have to admit she’d tried. She turned away.

  And the rain picked up. Samatar raised his hand to the sky, stood. “Miraa.”

  “I know, miraa—”

  He stepped toward the hut. She couldn’t stop him, not without out-and-out betraying her friends. She walked inside. He followed. As he entered, Owen lunged, whipping his arm like he was hitting a topspin forehand, bringing the wrench into the side of Samatar’s head with a terrible crunch. Samatar choked out a gasp and his head lashed forward and his body turned to string. He fell sideways withou
t even lifting a hand. A bone broke as he hit, the arm or the shoulder, Gwen wasn’t sure. He moaned just enough to prove he was alive.

  Owen stooped, unbuckled Samatar’s AK, tugged at it. The rifle’s strap was caught between Samatar’s body and the ground. “Help.” Owen put his hands under Samatar and lifted. After a moment’s hesitation, Hailey pulled out the rifle.

  A thin foam bubbled from Samatar’s mouth. His left arm twitched and his eyes rolled back until they were as white as hospital sheets. Gwen leaned toward Samatar and Owen grabbed her arm, pulled her back roughly. He looked at her like she was speaking a language he’d never heard. “He was holding us prisoner.” He took the AK from Hailey, buckled it across his chest. “Come on.” And he was gone. Hailey stepped toward the door, turned, looked at Gwen. “Give me a sec.”

  “Don’t stay here, Gwennie.” Then Hailey was gone, too.

  Gwen knelt beside Samatar, kissed her fingers, touched them to his cheek. She wanted to do something more, but she couldn’t think of anything. So she ran.

  —

  The rain was falling. The camp was quiet. Owen and Hailey were out of sight, running behind the huts, the path they’d decided would give them the best chance of reaching the bikes unseen. Gwen followed. She slipped on a patch of mud, caught herself. She reached the hut with the dirt bikes, ducked through the doorway.

  Inside, the bikes stood side by side. Between them, tools and parts jumbled on a burlap sack. The mechanic lay in the corner, eyes closed. Even by the standards of these underfed soldiers, he was tiny. He slept with his legs splayed like he was trying to occupy as much space as he could. A motorcycle poster was pinned above him, a gleaming red sport bike that must have stood for something like paradise to him.

  “We’ll get out of here, you’ll feel better,” Owen whisper-hissed. “It’s called Stockholm syndrome.”

  “It’s called go fuck yourself,” Gwen hissed right back.

  “I’ll ride with Hailey. Make sure we’re ready before you hit the starter. The whole camp’s going to hear when we start up.”