Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) (18 page)

Adem's hands were going numb. He said, "Please? Can you loosen these?"

The Kenyan put his finger to his lips again.

Enough of that. "This is ridiculous. Who do you think you are? Let me talk to your boss. It's a misunderstanding!"

The Arab cringed, lost the place in his melody. "I have to practice, and you just keep talking."

"Please, whatever he said to you, it's a misunderstanding. Let me speak with him." A pause. "I'm Mr. Mohammed, and I have never betrayed those I work for. Not once. And not this time."

The Kenyan spoke to him in English, under his breath. "You need to cool it."

A done deal. His life was a done deal. There was no talking his way out of it. Pressure built on his bladder. Stomach cramps. What were they waiting for? Or
who
?

He tried again. "Work for me. You know how I operate. You know I can have people here in a matter of minutes if you'd let me make a call. Money is not a problem."

The Arab smiled, looked at the second Arab in the chair. Mocked Adem's voice. "
Money is not a problem
. Like a TV show. We tell him to shut up, he talks like a TV show." He lifted his gun, pointed it towards Adem. "Bang! Bang! You like that? Also like a TV show. Will you kick me roundhouse, like Chuck Norris?"

Guy in the chair, in bad, bad English: "Walk-her, Tek-sass Rrran-jur!"

They laughed, and Adem turned to the Kenyan again. "Please, not like this. Give me a fighting chance."

Eyes closed, head shake. "You really, really must be quiet. I can only tell you everything's all right. Just be quiet."

So he wouldn't be leaving this room alive. The thought of it caused another cramp that made him seethe from the pain of it, and he let out a stream of foul gas. It fogged up the room, and all three guards got to their feet, waving their hands or covering their noses. "Nasty! What is his problem?"

It made Adem laugh. Not in a funny way. No, just the absurdity. It was either laugh or cry, and he started to laugh. He remembered a Robert Frost poem from college, started to recite it in English: "Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice..."

"Shut up." The Arab pianist turned to the Kenyan. "Why won't he shut up?"

"From what I've tasted of desire, um, ah, I hold with those who favor fire.
Fire!
Yes." He clenched his ass but another awful trumpet and odor erupted, and he kept going, through the laughter. "If it had to perish twice, I'm just saying—"

The Arabs were shouting by then, wrinkling their noses. They almost missed it, the
clink clink
of the tin canister bouncing down the stairs, rolling across the floor.

Bang!

Adem's head felt like it was hit with a hammer. His ears rang and he couldn't open his eyes, as if he'd stared into the sun. He blinked and blinked and blinked and there were light and shapes again. New men stood at the foot of the stairs. Big men, wearing helmets and masks. Shouting in Arabic, "Don't move don't move don't move!"

The Kenyan lifted his rifle. One of the new men turned, fired, and the Somali fell back against the wall, slid down, tangled in his chair. The big Arab held his hands up, but he, too, was shot by one of the masked men. He turned for the other door before falling on his face. Adem had missed them shooting the third guard, but there he was, as Adem's vision came back into focus, sprawled over the pile of dishes, now sliding and smashing against the tile floor. All three dead. Two soldiers in desert camo to blame, masked, helmeted, narrating the whole scene into mouthpieces. Sounded like
English
. One knelt by the big Arab, searched his pockets, while the other bent over, laid a thick, gloved hand on Adem's shoulder. In his other hand, an iPhone, recording the whole scene.

"You okay?" Not just English, but American. But the flag on his uniform was France. How in the hell...?

Adem nodded. "Might have had an accident. You know."

"We'll fix you right up."

The second soldier shouted to the one by Adem. Tossed over the set of cuff keys he'd found on the Arab. Ten seconds later, Adem was rubbing his wrists as both soldiers said, "All clear, all clear. We've picked up the package." One held him by the elbow as they pushed him towards the stairs. Both of them wore the French flag, but sure as hell neither was French, Adem knew. There was a muffled sound coming from above. Helicopter rotors. Waiting for Adem.

He was more than happy to get out of that kitchen, but something didn't feel right. Right before climbing the steps, he turned for a look back at the dead men, having to strain to see between soldiers.

Not one drop of blood. Not on the tile floor, the walls, or the guards themselves.

A soldier waved his hand in front of Adem's face. "Eyes front. We've got to go."

Adem climbed the stairs quickly. The Armenian was nowhere to be seen. The van was gone, too. They were in a restaurant parking lot in what looked like an unfinished suburban strip mall from back home. A small helicopter, big enough for maybe five people, whipping up a sandstorm. The soldiers helped Adem inside. He didn't breathe again until they had lifted off the ground, swinging up and away over the desert, the Dubai skyline miles away.

One of the soldiers grabbed his knee, gave it a squeeze. "You did good!"

Adem closed his eyes, rested his head against the cool window.

No blood.

He wondered if this charade had been all for him or for someone else who might have been watching.

––––––––

M
ustafa rested his back against the cracked stucco of a shitty apartment building in West Memphis, knelt low, ass on his heels, waiting. Six buildings in this complex, two undergoing construction—good-bye to the stucco, hello to blue vinyl siding. It was just a facelift. Still the same crumbling, shitty apartments that might have been all fresh-paint smell and new appliances fifteen years ago, but were now giving away free months left and right in order to keep enough people here for more than half a year.

He and Ali sat side-by-side at the back of this building, mud-smeared children's toys on either side. A trike. A plastic princess castle. Plenty of fold-up chairs and small grills, too. It was four-thirty in the morning. Even the night owls had fallen out by then. The methheads were probably inside ordering stuff off infomercials. Teeth and Dawit were behind one of the other buildings. Dragoslav had given them the address. He'd given them the layout—six buildings, four of which had apartments housing the girls. Dragoslav had called them whores. Dawit made him pay for that.

Four apartments, separate buildings. If one got raided, it would be fair warning to the others. They also never conducted "business" in these apartments. The girls were escorted elsewhere, many times by another girl. It was less suspicious that way, the girls always in full, traditional Somali dress, always wearing hijabs. The four men from Minneapolis had watched for most of the day. Two cars, switching places every few hours, watching the girls come and go. They caught sight of some men here and there, one of them Teeth recognized from the Cities, a Killa Mustafa didn't know.

"I wonder if he knows what's gone down back home. Wonder if he keeps in touch with Heem."

Teeth said, "I'd say yeah. I mean, gang warfare is cute and all, but money is money. This operation is what you'd call compartmentalized."

More from Dragoslav: the girls here didn't have a "grandmother" with them like in the Cities. Maybe because they weren't as available here. So they had thugs like that Killa. No rules about touching or not touching the merchandise. As for how much freedom these girls had, that one was easy: none. They were locked in, always threatened, always told they were servants, paying off a ginormous debt that would only grow larger over time. They were shown the paperwork. They couldn't understand the math. They were told to work harder. Ten, fifteen, twenty per night if that's what it took. They were given dope to keep them docile, keep them from questioning any of this.

No privacy. Three bedroom apartments, four, five, six to a room. They had to be careful, make it look like a large family rather than what it really was. The girls were moved around—West Memphis, Memphis, Nashville, Knoxville—and no one knew where the girls ended up when they were all used up, although it seemed as if West Memphis was the least glamorous, so said Dragoslav. Deeqa had just arrived, and would soon be sent to Nashville.

The plan: two at a time. Get in fast. Try the passwords Dragoslav gave them, which he seethed through broken teeth and bubbles of snots and blood. Disable the "caretakers". Find the right girl.

Dawit had asked, "What about the others?"

Mustafa didn't have an answer. He had shrugged. As much as it pained him, he had to remember this was a favor for Chi, repaying him for helping save Adem. Now it was Chi's own daughter who had somehow gotten wrapped up in this right under his nose. Deeqa, in one of those apartments. So he hoped. But to Dawit he could only say, "Leave them."

His cousin had flinched, then nodded. That was the best they could expect. Freeing those girls, taking care of them, that would take an army. Mustafa didn't even have the whole gang behind him. Four men, two cars, eight guns. Not nearly enough.

Mustafa felt the sharp points of the stucco needle his back. He readjusted. His legs were going to sleep. He had forgotten that this was his call. Ali was waiting for him, not the other way around. So he looked over. "Ready?"

Stiff nod.

Mustafa peeked around into the sliding door, screen on the outside. Condensation from the A/C fogging things up. Blue TV light. Some guy in there, asleep on the couch. Somali girl next to him, young, like fourteen or something. She wore girly boxers, too tight, and a barely-there tank top. Knees up, barefoot, eyes on the TV. Zombie eyes.

He heard Ali pull his Glock from his waistband. He stood and went flat against the wall. Mustafa got up and knocked on the glass through the screen. The girl inside jumped. Put her hand over her mouth. Mustafa smiled and waved at her, pointed at the sleeping guy. She shook him awake. He swatted at her, mumbled. Mustafa didn't catch it. She shook him awake again, much louder.

He shoved her, but sat up. Mustafa hoped they would hurry the hell up. He finally got the message, realized the girl didn't know English and the guy didn't know Somali. Soon as he saw Mustafa outside, he jumped like the girl had. He found his pistol under the couch cushions and got to his feet, crossed to the door.

"The fuck you want?" Loud enough for Mustafa to hear through the glass.

"Come on, man, let me in."

Guy lifted his gun to face level, like,
Say what?
"What. Do. You. Want?"

Mustafa scrunched his face, shook his head, like,
Seriously
? He showed the guy inside the Killaz gang sign, the new lazier version. Kids now didn't do things as crisp and exaggerated like back in the Nineties. "Drove all the way from the Cities. Didn't they tell you?"

"From the Cities?"

"Shit, I got three packages for you, taking back some dirty laundry. You just going to leave us out here?"

He scratched his stomach with his free hand, turned back to the girl, a few feet behind him. "What?"

Wide eyes. "No?"

"Anybody call you about this?" He motioned towards Mustafa.

Wide eyes. Mouth a little "o".

He mimed a telephone, index and thumb. "Call?"

She turned, left and right, found a cell phone on the side table, picked it up and held it out to him.

"Fuck, bitch, listen!"

Mustafa didn't like where it was going. "Look, let us all in first. Maybe I got the wrong apartment, but come on, these girls, I can't keep an eye on them by myself anymore."

That seemed to work. Guy kept the gun in his hand, but he unlocked the glass, slid it open. Started for the latch on the screen. Then the phone in the girl's hand vibrated, started in a slow jam hip-hop:
My paper steak and shrimp, You know I bout my, my paper steak and shrimp
...

Stopped the soldier cold. "Who that?"

Mustafa reached for the outer frame of the screen door. If he wasn't going to open up, Mustafa could yank it right off the rail just like that. Probably wake someone up, but fuck it, this was smelling bad.

She looked at the screen. Sounded like the girl said, "It's Swiss. Swiss." She held out the phone again, still ringing.

"Girl, tell him I call him back. Hear me? I call him back."

He flicked the latch on the screen, started to slide it. Mustafa let out the breath he'd been holding. Took a step forward, Ali about to swing in right behind him.

The girl had answered the phone. She let out a loud yelp, dropped it, put her hands over her ears. "No! No!" It bounced off the floor. Speaker came to life. "—they got in, man! Get your ass out of there! They got in! Done shot me, G. Oh Jesus!"

The solider boy wasn't fast enough. Mustafa had slipped inside, grabbed his gun hand and held it by his side. "Drop it."

Boy pulled the trigger and the ringing started. Missed their feet. Mustafa felt the sting where the slide had sliced his skin. He held on tighter. The kid was scared. The girl had sunk back into a corner. Ali closed the glass door. Knew they were out of time. Mustafa nodded. Ali walked over, punched the soldier in the nose as Mustafa let go. Ali was all over him. Took the gun like it was a fist full of fucking Red Vines.

Had to move fast. Mustafa got down on his knees beside the girl, trying to push herself through the wall. He spoke to her in their native tongue. "Do you know Deeqa? I'm looking for Deeqa."

The girl shook her head. "Not here. Not here."

"Not here in this apartment? Not in town? Do you know her?"

"She's not here. I don't know where she is. I don't know her."

He looked to his left, down the hallway, now filled with barely dressed Somali girls, white girls, couple of Hmong girls, all of them with those zombie eyes.

Shit.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, tinged a SONAR sound. Text message.

Got her. Time to go!

"GOAT. We out." He was on his feet. Saw that Ali had busted up the kid pretty bad. No time to double-check. Ali headed for the door, slid it open, and ran. Mustafa was right behind him. Soon as they were outside, it was obvious the shot had woken everyone up. Light poured from nearly every apartment, all the windows and glass doors. People stepped outside, watched them run. The girls in the first apartment chattered, screamed, cried. People saw the gun in Ali's hand, ducked back inside. Mustafa hoped to hell most of them weren't the type to call cops, but there was always one or two. One or two. That was all it took.