Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) (23 page)

Mustafa couldn't fault him, though. He had to do what he was told. One day, if he played it smart, he
would
lead the Killaz, because they would recognize he had what it took while the Prince was just a lucky fool. That made Mustafa a little bit proud. Enough to grin through the fear, his guts roiling, and softly say, "No big thing. I understand."

Ali lifted the nine towards Mustafa, then turned a one-eighty and shot Prince Heem in the face. Once was enough. A short, loud crack and that was that. And no one else in the room besides Mustafa and Teeth looked the least bit surprised.

Kong stood from his chair, looked down at Heem, now with his right eye gone, then at Mustafa. "Like I said, he kept things nice and clean before, but what a dick. The Killaz are yours. You fuck it up and I'll come back for you."

He started for the front door, pulled his phone from his pocket, texted someone. "Oh, and that guy's yours now, too. Use him wisely." Kong raised his chin towards Poe.

Mustafa finally felt enough strength in his legs to push out of the chair and stand up, but he was all pins and needles down there. "Now what? You're just leaving?"

"Yes. These guys can help you clean up. Pretty sure it's in your best interests now to get rid of Mr. Teeth while you have the chance. Don't let me down, Bahdoon." He opened the front door, stepped out, and closed it behind him.

Ali, Poe, and the gunman looked at him. Teeth, too. But Mustafa didn't have the play. He was frozen. Shit, what just happened? How'd the Hmong end up owning the Killaz? For a moment, Mustafa thought being dead would've been better than this.

He said, "Ah, okay." But that was about all he could muster. A glance at Ali. Still no reveal from him. And Poe, the guy was standing like a soldier at attention. He should've expected to be the first man shot, but was instead full of confidence. What had Kong told him?

It was the big gunman in the kitchen doorway who finally broke the spell. "Shit, you heard the man. Let's get this over with."

He raised his gun towards Teeth, but Mustafa reached out, clutched his hand over the top of it. "Whoa, now, whoa. I didn't say kill him."

"Wasn't talking about you."

"Teeth is my call. That's what he said. Mine."

A laugh. "Whatever. Think you might need your hearing checked." He shook Mustafa's hand off the top and got his aim back.

"Wait!"

"Fuck that."

The gunman let out a deep, surprised cry and tumbled forward, the gun going off into the ceiling. Mustafa crouched and watched the man go down, then saw Dawit on his elbows, kitchen steak knife in hand, sliced through the gunman's Achilles. He pulled himself over the body and grabbed the gun real fast, tore it from his grip, and pushed the barrel against his head. Didn't hesitate. Dead gunman.

Poe was already in retreat, heading for the back guestroom. Mustafa took off after him and clenched his teeth against the numbness in his legs. Not letting that freak get away again. Mustafa rounded the corner into the hallway and saw Poe duck into the guestroom, close the door. Took Mustafa another ten steps. He tried the handle. It was open, but something was in the way. The dresser. Just a corner of it, but enough. Fuck. Poe was raising one of the windows. Mustafa reared back and threw his shoulder against the door, moving the dresser a few feet, but not enough. He did it again, hit bone, felt the pain reverb up and down his arm. He took a look at Poe, already kicking the screen out.

No way, no how, no way, no how.

Mustafa shot back through the living room, where Ali had untied Teeth and had gotten him a bottle of beer from the fridge. Dawit was leaning against the kitchen doorframe, heaving breaths, not looking so good. Mustafa didn't have time. He jumped over Dawit and on through the kitchen, out into the garage. Out the back door where he ran right into Poe, ready with a scapel that he plunged into Mustafa's neck. Goddamn this guy, already on the run again. He almost yanked it out, but worried his windpipe had been punctured. The blood would flood his lungs, drown him. So he left it there and kept on, Poe scaling the tall wooden fence at the far end of the yard, about to jump over. Mustafa poured it on and got there in time to grab Poes's foot as he was going over. He was in sandals, trying to kick them off and get Mustafa off him, but Mustafa's hand got a better grip on Poe's ankle. It left him hanging upside-down in the neighbor's backyard, his eyes clear and creepy because his sunglasses had fallen to the ground. He kicked and struggled, cursed in Somali.

Mustafa wasn't letting go.

The neighbors were having some friends over, it sounded like. Some classic rock on the radio. Some shouts and "Oh my Lord" and "Call the police!" White folks back there, retired people. Mustafa had seen them before outside mowing the lawn, tending the vegetable garden. He held onto Poe because he was afraid of what he might do to those people. The freak was banging his fists against the boards, shouting louder and louder. Mustafa was already having to clear his throat, the scalpel jabbing and slicing deeper, and he knew he couldn't keep this up for long. His arms were getting cut up by the fence.

But then it was like thunder all around. Poe's whole body slammed against the fence and stopped moving. Mustafa's arms were on fire. He peeked between the slats. His neighbor, a white, walrus-mustached retiree with bifocals, khaki shorts and Nikes, was holding a still-smoking shotgun. He
shicked
out a shell and raised it again.

Mustafa let go of Poe's ankle and high-tailed it from the yard before Poe could hit the ground. They all had to go go go. Even Ali. They could figure out loyalty later. It was more important to keep all of them off the cops' radar and out of jail.

The second blast blew a hole through the fence but Mustafa was already out of range.

Back to the house, barely in the backdoor before shouting, "Cops! Let's go!" He nearly choked. This was going to hurt like a motherfucker, but he would live. And Teeth would live. And Dawit...he wasn't looking so good. Mustafa knelt beside him as he raked in a breath now and then. The two soldiers from earlier were nowhere in sight. The front door was wide open.

Ali, helping Teeth stand, nodded at Dawit and said, "Got to leave him."

"No..." Couldn't talk any more. Couldn't leave the man like this. His own cousin, giving his life for men playing gangstas?

"We got to go," Ali said, taking over the way Mustafa should have been. He finally got a look at Mustafa, the scalpel in his throat. "Shit, got to find Teeth's doctor, like, right now, before all of y'all die."

Dawit blinked, tried to squeeze Mustafa's hand. "It's alright. It's alright. You go on."

"I'll help you. We'll get to the car. We'll get out of here."

Dawit shook his head, but it lolled forward. He fought to lift it. "It's alright. It's alright."

Ali shouted from the doorway, "Now, or I leave your ass! Now, Bahdoon!"

Another rasping breath from Dawit. Mustafa let go of his cousin's hand and bolted for the door. He could already hear the sirens outside.

––––––––

A
n Al-Jazeera exclusive. The first live interview with Mr. Mohammed since his return. No holds barred.

Adem did a damned good job, so Jacob told him after. Not that he needed to—Adem had felt it, word for word, throughout the hour. The reporter, a woman in a hijab with thick sports-car-red lipstick, was the perfect person for this, which was airing to the entire Muslim world that night and would of course be mined for quotes and clips that would saturate the news for the rest of the week.

The major news to come out of it all: Mr. Mohammed had been kidnapped and forced to do the deal with the Indonesians. He managed to escape, but his captors caught up, threw a dress on him so he wouldn't be recognized, and dragged him out of the city to a restaurant on the outskirts to kill him. But thanks to some French soldiers under U.N. command, he was rescued.

Effusive thanks to the "French," obviously.

"You see, I hope people will understand this." Adem adjusted his fake glasses, paused for emphasis. "I do what I do not to benefit these pirates. My goal is not to see them enriched so much as it is to save lives. Theirs, the crews of the ships, and the soldiers risking their lives. Money is like water. It flows from one to the other, in the hands of an Imam one day, a seller at market the next, a murderer the day after that. But those lives, those can't change hands so easily. And my heart is burdened that I have been used to take so many in this tragedy."

The reporter nodded, furrowed her brow. "Some call you a hero, others call you a con artist, and still others say you are as bad as the pirates for whom you negotiate."

He touched the side of his finger to his lips, thinking it over. He couldn't say what he was thinking—
As long as I'm still alive at the end of the day, I don't care
.

Instead: "We are all entitled to a defense. I offer the words. I help make connections. But other than that, I simply pray for Allah's guidance."

The blasphemy sat like a stone in his gut. It might have been true his first year back home, maybe even for most of his second, but he was lonely. He didn't hear The Voice the same as he had before. It had been so sure, so
absolute
, but then it faded at about the same time Adem's own confidence in his choices had waned—which was around the same time he began roaming the internet, looking for a trace of Sufia, hoping to redeem himself in her eyes. Now he sat across from the Al Jazeera reporter, her producer, a digital camera, and lights on a terrace at sunset overlooking the Gulf, dressed in a suit the pirates would never have imagined buying, even after making millions hijacking ships. Allah didn't have a single thing to do with any of it.

She asked, "What would you say right now to your captors? What message would you like them to hear?"

Adem looked directly into the camera for this one. "His name is Uzayr. He knows what he did to me. He knows the threats he made. To him, I say, maybe I could have forgiven you.
Maybe
. But I cannot forgive what you did to the people on that ship. I will do all that I can to make sure your name is mud in this world. Do you understand?
Allah yela'an Uzayr
. And may dogs piss into your dead mouth, you son of a whore."

The reporter, eyes wide, broke in. "Excuse me, excuse me, really, that's not called for."

"It was live, wasn't it?"

The producer, arms crossed, one hand rubbing his forehead, nodded.

Another look into the camera. "
Yakhreb beytak
, you piece of shit."

The producer waved his hands and said, "No, no, no," and tried to stop the camera while the reporter began to reel off a string of "Unprofessional! How dare he! He's not fit for polite society—"

The light went out and the producer said, "Clear." Immediately, the reporter calmed down, smiled, and held out her hand. "A pleasure, Mr. Mohammed. Quite an ending, too."

He took her hand. "Thank you."

"You really have a gift for this sort of thing. Maybe we should hire you."

Adem shook his head, couldn't help but grin. "No need for that. It's less fun to be shocking for a salary."

The producer, too, was smiling. The higher-ups at the network were already calling to congratulate them. Adem and Jacob had already rehearsed the final bit, knowing it would spread on YouTube like a call to prayer across the world, a call that Uzayr could not ignore.

Out of the luxury hotel's front doors into the waiting SUV, a supercharged Range Rover Sport with bulletproof glass and an engine that could easily get them far away from most troubles. Jacob was driving until they found a full-time driver/bodyguard. He pulled away from the hotel entrance while Adem took several deep breaths, surprised someone hadn't already attacked them right then and there.

Jacob said, "That was good. You're like the pirate Pope."

"I don't get it. I'm not in jail and my head is still on my neck."

"That's the power of celebrity. You end up helping both sides. As long as they don't know you're helping us."

Jacob had explained earlier that according to the legend of Mr. Mohammed, he seemed able to appear anywhere with only a few hours' notice. To make that happen, the Agency had set up a few apartments for him so that he now had bases in Dubai, Bosaso, and Sana'a. When they needed him to negotiate in Europe, Egypt, or anywhere along the coast of the Indian Ocean, there were plenty of hotels or safe houses under Agency control. If they were careful, it could appear as if Mr. Mohammed lived in the air, materializing only when called. At least to the pirates. For the corporations, it was preferable to deal with an obviously well-connected
civilized
negotiator than teenage thugs.

"Where to now?"

"Where you will be most vulnerable."

"Gee, thanks."

Jacob steered them out from the shadows of the skyscrapers towards open desert, the highway lights blinking on above them. "We're putting you on a chopper to Bosaso. You're going to speak with a group of pirates. See if you can get them to renounce Uzayr and Gunslinger. And we'll make sure some cameras pick it up and get it on the internet."

"What makes you think they'll listen to me? They don't care who lives or dies, as long as it's not themselves."

A shrug. "Up to you. You're the salesman. We only set the stage."

Adem stared outside. Palm trees, glowing in the lights. A purple sky going dark moment by moment. He saw the helicopter waiting up ahead, maybe a couple of miles. "He's coming after me."

"Yeah," Jacob said. "I sure hope so."

*

T
he first attempt came three days later. After the gathering of young pirates on the shore filling half the beach, after the frantic jostling to get photos with Mr. Mohammed on their cell phones, and after the days of fielding requests for interviews, which he had turned down, it was a man with a gun. He shouted his intentions across the café before firing, striking a server and a businessman before several men in the crowd took him down. All Adem could do was duck and pray—
yes, pray
—at that point. It was expected that the first try would be a test to see what sort of security he kept around him. For this one, Jacob had wanted it to appear as if Adem was all alone. Only the goodwill of the people around him kept the madman from succeeding. So many people helped him to his feet, and his apology to the owner was waved off. "An honor, sir. An honor.
I
apologize to
you
."