Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) (17 page)

"Not you, not you, man, goddamn niggers, why can't you leave me be? You fucking niggers, you." Dawit added more pressure, which made Dragoslav yelp some more, but shit if he wasn't a hardheaded one. "I give you nigger girls, just like you want, and you do
this
to me? Is not fair! Not part of the contract!"

Mustafa squatted beside him, smoothed back the wet hair that had fallen over his eyes. "Shhh. Shhh. It's going to be fine. You're going to be fine. We just need you to take a ride with us. Won't take long at all."

Dragoslav groaned. "Fucking niggers."

The word was harsh enough, but in Dragoslav's broken glass accent it was even worse. Mustafa thought about kicking him, but that would have probably made him say it more.

*

I
t didn't take long to break him. They drove Dragoslav to a small lake north of Hinckley, one of many in the state where so many Minnesotans spent their summers in lake homes or rented cabins like this. Why not bring him here in the middle of summer, then? So many people around, they wouldn't think a man was being tortured right next door by some Somali gangstas. Not these white people. Wouldn't even occur to them. They left the crime and poverty behind when they drove out of the Cities, not that they'd ever seen any of it up close, just heard about it on the news.

The cabin was isolated, kind of like a honeymoon deal. They didn't have to worry about prying eyes unless someone had heavy binocular action going on. Mustafa had left the room where they beat Dragoslav first, because he didn't want to enjoy it as much as he was. His dark slacks and black t-shirt were sure enough splashed up and down with the pedophile's blood. Teeth had disappeared before they'd even tied the man down and gagged him. No stomach for it. He was used to killing a nigga, oh yeah, but this...not this.

After getting in his own licks, Mustafa let Dawit and Ali handle the rest. Ali didn't have emotions tied up in it, and Dawit was a pro. They had a job to do, that was all. Mustafa wanted Dragoslav to regret ever doing the things he had done, wanted him to run back home to his wife and kids and go to church, get himself chemically castrated, piss his pants if he ever even had a thought about fucking teenage black girls again. Mustafa told him that while beating him with the buckle end of a black leather belt by Robert Cavalli, one from the Prince's closet. He didn't bother asking the question he wanted the answer to. He just whipped that thing through the air and snapped it off Dragoslav's bare skin over and over and over...

After, Mustafa sat on the dock outside the cabin on the lake. He breathed loudly and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping no one ever did the same thing to him for all of the bad shit that went down when he was really top dog of the Killaz. Like, what Poe was gonna do, that wasn't the same. Motherfucker was a freak, right? But if he'd been the father of a Killa, or the father of one of their victims, and had taken that shit to heart? Yeah, like that.

Boards creaked, slow steps, and Mustafa didn't have to turn his head to know it was Teeth. Also, there was the cigarillo stank. He grunted as he lowered his ass to the pier. Then he reclined and looked at the stars.

"Good news is you couldn't hear him scream past about twenty feet. You whipping him was louder than that."

"Yeah."

"Why didn't we ask him first? Scare him, keep him up here a few days?"

Mustafa didn't answer. He went, "Mm-hm."

"Shit, man." Blew a stream of sweet smoke. "I've been thinking. After all this, it's going to be hard hating you again. I mean, not that hard, but now that I see how you work, I got all this respect."

"Ain't no reason to hate me."

"Sure, but I've got to. It's part of the code, right?"

"This isn't the same way I worked back in the day."

Teeth chuckled at that. "More than you think. You and me, like Khan and Kirk, you seen that? I was thinking, you really don't need to quit again. You want to get out of the skin trade, get out of drugs, you can be all, like, Somali honor and shit."

Mustafa had thought about it. No quicker way to turn the Killaz against him than to become something like a preacher. Take away money, pussy, and dope, and what was the point? "I think the GOAT's going to lead. He could do better in life, but, shit, it's his life. Let him live it how he wants. His gang, too, man. Once I'm done, it's all his."

Teeth coughed a little and did an "Mm-hm" of his own. All sorts of bug noises out over the lake. Bugs fucking, bugs bitching. On the opposite shore, some orange glow seeping through the trees. Campfires. Mustafa wished he was cooking some kababs on the grill with Idil, Roxy, and Adem, like they did before that fucking disaster of a trip to Mogadishu. When was the last time he talked to his girl, anyway? He was about the only one of them she could stand having a conversation with anymore. Come to think of it, Mustafa hadn't even spoken to Idil in four days. She was going to kill him.

Teeth said, "Going to be hard to kill GOAT. But if we got to—"

Mustafa smiled. "You're full of shit."

"Tell you what. You hungry?"

He thought of the lashes across Dragoslav's chest and thighs. "I can eat."

"Take all y'all to this place I know, she'll stay open for us. Bitch can make some spaghetti."

That sounded good. One thing, Idil didn't cook so well. Mustafa's mother, now, she could cook some fine spaghetti.

Some footsteps, board squeaks. Faster. Mustafa glanced back. Ali heading down to them. Shirtless, slick with sweat. Same rock solid face as ever. "We done."

"You got it?"

Ali nodded. "West Memphis. Address and phone number."

Mustafa pushed himself up, helped Teeth to his feet. "How's he doing?"

A pause. "Not good."

"But you didn't kill him?" Mustafa hoped the kid knew better. They weren't out to kill anybody. That would just make it worse. He wanted out of all this as clean as he could.

"Naw, man, you said not to. We didn't kill him."

Teeth asked, "He gonna die?"

Ali shrugged. "We all gonna die at some point."

Teeth took a long drag, looked out over the lake. Let out a stream and went, "Shit."

Ali took a step back. "Y'all didn't say nothing about how far to go. Just said not to kill him. We stopped the second he gave it up."

Mustafa checked his watch. Twenty-eight minutes. He shook his head. This was the sort of thing he had worried about...but so what? Dead pedophile, good riddance. They could get rid of the body. Dawit, especially. Cold motherfucker. No one would miss the piece of shit. His wife and kids would get some insurance money at best, and at worst they'd be free of him. But that meant changing the rules. That meant sinking deeper.

Teeth was reading his mind. "Hospital?"

"Why not?"

Ali
tsk
ed and rolled his eyes. "Seriously? You going to let him live? What good is that for?"

Mustafa got in his protégé's face. Still had some shit to teach the boy. "Cause maybe I want to beat his ass again one day. Ever think of that?"

Ali was like, "Yessir" and "I'll get him in shape" and quick-stepped back into the cabin.

Teeth said, "I'll tell you why not. Because soon as he's able, he's getting on the phone and calling Heem. They'll be waiting for us in Memphis, and since we won't be here, they'll hit this side, too. Can't have that."

"You're right." Mustafa rubbed his palm across his face. "Got any doctors buy from you? On the hook for some cash? Blackmail?"

Teeth gave it a nod. "Like how you think."

"If he can make it through the night, leave a couple of Killaz here—"

"How about a couple of mine? Still trying to figure out which ones of yours are clean."

"Do it."

Teeth got on the phone.

Mustafa stood still and listened to kids laughing somewhere on the other side, echoing. The cigarillo smoke cleared and he could smell the burning wood and meat from across the lake. Damn.

He interrupted Teeth mid-sentence and said, "As soon as they get here, we're on our way to Memphis. Let's get this done."

Teeth said, "Spaghetti?"

Mustafa shook his head. "Subway."

––––––––

T
hey dragged him out of the mall, banged his head against the top of a van door, and threw him to the floor. These were no security guards. As soon as the van sped up like it was drag racing, no sirens. Adem knew the Benefactor had gotten to him first.

It was a long drive. Strangely quiet. He felt that someone was in the back of the van with him, thought he heard breathing, but he kept his mouth shut. Adem couldn't bring himself to even ask if anyone was there. What was the point? He didn't want to get slammed in the nose with a rifle butt. One guy shot dead in the streets barely a block into the escape plan? How could the CIA be that bad at this? Just as bad at it as the people who let Jibriil and Adem slip out of the country three years earlier, heading for that goddamned war.

Adem was off-balance around corners. No one steadied him when he tipped over. He didn't fall into anyone else. But someone...yeah, there had to be. Confirmed when the van slid to a stop, he heard doors opening, slamming shut, and then the back doors opened. The light brighter through the bag, the sun hotter on his skin, especially with the dress, dyed dark, absorbing heat, twisted uncomfortably around his torso. Someone grabbed his arm from the other side of the van and pushed him towards the outside. More hands joined in the grabbing as he reached the doors, but he still nearly fell taking the step to the ground. Men laughing, pulling him up, saying "Khawal" and "Sharmoot" and Adem knew the drag routine had been a big mistake. Someone slapped his ass and whistled. More laughter. Another one: "Bi kem el sharmoota di?" The biggest laugh yet.

How much do you cost, whore?

The hand from the van, still on his arm, pulled him forward. Voice in his ear, in English, "Forget about them. Come on."

He nearly tripped on his own feet trying to catch the rhythm of his captor's walk. Silly thing to take for granted, walking beside someone, when you couldn't see them. It was definitely concrete they were walking across. Sand-crusted concrete, which meant they weren't near the city anymore. He heard the sharp, high sound of the wind. Sand was already finding its way into his shoes. But another ten seconds and his guard pulled back. "Stairs, going down. Careful." Helped guide him down, even told him when to duck his head.

The room was cooler than outside, darker. The guard led him across, turned him around.

"Sit, it's okay. Promise."

Adem lowered himself, shackled hands feeling for the seat. Finally, it was soft. There was no back, just more softness. No armrests. It was a bed.

"Okay?" His captor, only a couple of feet away.

Adem cleared his throat. "Yes. Fine."

Someone tugged at the bag on his head. It slipped over, and there they were, like a restaurant's kitchen, big sink and industrial washer on one wall. Plates, glasses, bowls, all stacked up beside it. White tile floor. Beyond that, another door, a glimpse of a wood-burning oven, almost like the ones at Punch Pizza back home. Those things cooked up around nine hundred degrees, could bake a pizza in ninety seconds. The air in front of it was still. No fire inside. At least he didn't have to worry about that being his method of dying—watching himself burned away piece by piece.

Voices from above, a few more men coming down the stairs. Adem turned to his captor. African, the accented English most likely Kenyan. Stout, powerful, young. Clean cut.

"Please," Adem said. "Help me. You don't know what they're gonna—"

"No, no." The Kenyan put his finger to his lips. "No. We wait. We are quiet. Say nothing."

Not the best English after all. Adem had been hoping, maybe, to speak to him so that the others couldn't understand. "Brother, do you know who I am? What they're going to do to me? I'm Mr. Mohammed. I didn't have anything to do with what happened on the boat!"

But the Kenyan went "Shh" and looked angry now, just as three others stepped into the room, making kissy noises at him. One was white, and Adem wondered where in the hell they had found him. But he had an Armenian accent. So that was that. Adem had always been good with languages, raised in the Somali-heavy neighborhoods of Minneapolis, going to school with the children of Mexicans and the Hmong. It was only after returning from Mogadishu that he studied more seriously, taking Foreign Languages as a minor, never wanting to feel left out of the conversation again. So, Kenyan, Armenian, and the other two, definitely Arabs.

Adem was going to try again, but the Kenyan shook his head and mouthed,
Say nothing
.

The biggest Arab, barrel-chested with five o'clock shadow all over his skull, said in Arabic, "Mr. Mohammed, I didn't realize you had such style! It's a beautiful outfit. Really. If only you had the body to match."

Adem said nothing. He swallowed hard. Dry mouth. He hacked until it hurt.

"You comfortable?"

He nodded. The big man shrugged and turned to the Kenyan. "Get the man some water."

The Kenyan headed off through the opposite door, came back a minute later with a plastic bottle of water, a name brand label. And from the condensation on the side, Adem could tell this was nice and cold. He started to reach for it, but felt foolish when he remembered the cuffs on his wrists. He had to wait for his captor to open the bottle and tip it toward his lips.

Cold. The nerves in his teeth went electric. But a little pain didn't stop him from locking his teeth on the edge and holding on until his chest and brain were frozen solid. He let go and the rest of the water spilled into his lap, and that was okay with him. It was the first time all day he had felt anything other than scared or miserable, until he smacked his lips and remembered they were covered in lipstick.

The big man laughed a little, burped, then sent the Armenian upstairs. He told the others to sit down. They did, across the room from each other, rifles across their laps. Not talking, not glaring, not laughing. Just sitting. The big Arab paced, occasionally put both his hands in front of him, fingers moving like he was playing the piano. Hummed a melody to go along. Sounded jazzy.