Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) (12 page)

No, not Poe. Mustafa hadn't even noticed yet. Poe had dropped the drill and was already out the window. Goddamned Batman sort of shit. Which left Raphael there, wide-eyed, hands frozen between up and down. Shouting back, "No, no, no, okay, okay, no, wait—"

He reached for something. Mustafa tried telling him to stop, don't move, but the thing poking through his jaw, and the blood and and and—

Moaning as the Arab shot Raphael square in the chest, one two three.

The fuck?

Mustafa tried to keep his eyes open, Poe's injection fucking with how time moved. Had they been here a minute? Ten? An hour? Just the two of them. Must've capped the Kannibal outside, too.

The white guy was in khakis and a pullover polo, tucked-in. The Arab, dark navy suit, light blue shirt, no tie. They stood over Mustafa, staring for what felt like forever.

"Shit. Should we take those out?"

The white guy shook his head. "How would we stop the bleeding?"

"Let's take him to the ER, then."

"Fuck no, we'll just call somebody. Somebody's got to know a doctor."

"Back to the safe house?"

"Back to the safe house."

Mustafa couldn't concentrate any more, close to blacking out. But what worried him most—he was pretty sure that entire conversation between the two had been in Arabic.

––––––––

A
dem and the Benefactor sat side by side in the finest high-backed leather office chairs near the windows overlooking Dubai as the sun set and the lights of the city below began to flick on. They both drank from nearly frozen cans of 7-Up, a favorite of Adem's. Well, a favorite of most Somalis in the Twin Cities, at least. He had grown up on the stuff. And there in the mini-fridge were all the cans that could fit. Someone had done his homework.

The Benefactor told Adem the tale of Gunfighter, his grandson, apparently spoiled by the women of the family, so he believed. "His mother, my daughter, had everything she could have ever wanted. I gave her the world—money, cars, jewels, a jet. A license to play with the rich and powerful. What did she give me?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Enough, enough with the sir. You,
you
are sir."

"What did your daughter give you?"

"Yes, I gave her so much, she gave me Hell. She used my money but shamed me. All over. She loved America, hated me. Partying with, with, who was it then? The Brat Pack, the Hollywood kids. The NBA. All those...men. Sportsmen. You know who I mean."

You mean black
, Adem thought. "Yes."

"Please forgive me." He placed his palm against his chest. "I meant no...see, because, she did it to hurt me. She did it because she
thought
it would hurt me. As long as she was happy and
smart
, you see, I would've been okay. She thought me to be someone I'm not."

"I understand." He didn't, but he didn't know what else to say, either. It was out of his depth. How rich does someone have to be to fund his grandson's pirating hobby? Adem took another sip of 7-Up so cold it hurt his teeth. "It was a cry for help."

The Benefactor shrugged. "It was a cry for something. Her step mother was no help by then. They were only eight years apart in age, you see."

Ew.

"But then she finds this Somali in the football, you know. American football."

"The NFL."

"Yes, that, the Somali, you know the one."

Adem shook his head. "Sorry."

"Yes, well, sometimes I forget how young you are. This is Los Angeles in the early eighties, you know. Crazy, crazy, ungodly place." His head drooped, chin on chest. "All of this money, this power, and it wasn't enough. For me, this was safety, comfort, a blessing. To her, to my wife, to my cousins? An excuse to pursue life without consequences."

The old man laughed at that. His mood instantly lifted, it seemed, by the irony. Adem thought about his time in Mogadishu and almost said that religion without discipline was another way to pursue that very same thing. But of course, in order to have that, the young warriors needed money, and where was that money coming from?

No, this wasn't a crusade. This was a job. Finish it, find Sufia, and leave. That was all he needed to do. Adem yawned. Then, "So, you raised Omar like your own son?"

"I didn't even see him until he was ten. Oh, I had seen my daughter, multiple times. She left the boy with his nanny or friends. The father was out of the picture, of course. His lawyer handed her a lump sum check and told her to lose his phone number. It wasn't about money, though. She wanted to be famous. Years before the Paris Hilton and the Kardashian whores, my daughter wanted to be famous just for being rich. A footballer's wife, right? It didn't happen to her."

"What happened, then? Why did it take so long to see your grandson?"

His face grew more wrinkled, more shadowed. "Well, another thing about Los Angeles in the eighties. First the drink, then the cocaine, then the heroin and random sex. Dirty needles. She should have been more careful, but it was new. They never saw it coming."

"When did she pass away?"

"She fought the disease for three years. I threw more money at it than Magic Johnson had made in his entire career. But by that time, it was too late. She was too far gone, and nothing worked for her. I brought her and Omar home to Cairo. She lasted five more months, three of them unconscious."

Quiet. Now dark on the floor except for the few lights from the completed offices and corridors, and the glow from outside, millions and millions spent on making sure Dubai would never sleep. Adem thought about young Omar. He'd probably heard terrible things about his grandfather, all while watching his mother make ridiculous choices, giving him everything he ever wanted—sneakers, chains, video games—an All-American kid. Then he was ripped from that and dropped into some place even more giving, except here, he was mostly ignored. Mom dying. Grandfather too busy, too embarrassed. Grandmother? Don't dare call her that. She would leave nail marks across his face.

"When did he run away?"

"The first time? A day after she died. We kept bringing him back. Each time he'd get a little farther, and we wouldn't start looking quite as soon. By the time he was fourteen, he had stopped bothering with the tutors, the nannies, the bodyguards. He left without asking me for a dime. So I let him go."

"Until..."

The Benefactor turned to Adem. "Don't do that. Don't assume you know me, or you know him. You do not get to judge us, not with my money. We will pay you, we will tell you where she is."

"Please, sir," Adem said. "I beg your pardon, that was not my intent at all. I just thought..."

Silence.

He couldn't get away with saying nothing. The man was waiting, and he could wait all night.

Adem continued, "When I make this deal tomorrow, it's a one-time thing. I won't step in for him again. He should definitely take some time to think about if this was worth it or not."

"Let me worry about that. Just make the deal. I've spent more money on bringing you here and setting this up than we'll be getting in return. It's about saving face now." He stood, stepped towards the windows. Backlit. "Get him out of there."

Adem stood too. "First you'll need to spend some more. There are things I'll need."

The Benefactor grunted, almost like a lion, but Adem saw his reflection in the glass. A big grin.

*

A
dem stepped off the elevator the next day with four armed guards surrounding him. Seven more stepped out of the other elevators just seconds behind them. Adem's gray suit shiny and freshly pressed, while the guard all wore khaki suits, white shirts, leather sandals, Italian made, and holstered Grach pistols, Russian made. They walked fast enough but not too fast. This wasn't about starting a fight. It was about ending one.

The gauntlet of pros dropped back a little. This had to have pissed them off royally, which made Adem want to laugh. But he held the plastic Mona Lisa look and kept on, pushing through the doors to the conference room, now with fewer bigwigs and more security than last time. Also, no white guy and no translator. On one corner of the table, a soft leather briefcase, packed full. Could that be all of it? Nice and snug in an easy to carry case?

Adem pointed at the bag. "Is that for me?"

The angry man from yesterday, face strained and red, pretended not to hear. He barked something at the man to his left—not here yesterday, interestingly enough—and headed towards the window. The assistant, perhaps as young as Adem, gave Mr. Mohammed a blank stare.

"You should have begun more respectfully. You've already won. There is no need to gloat."

"I have my instructions."

"Just like I expected. You're a dog. Someone's dog."

Adem wanted to lash out, smack this underling to the ground. But this kid was right. Adem had made a mistake. He
should
have been more understanding. It had been so long since he had done this, his anxiety to hurry up and close the deal got in the way of propriety. If he wanted Mr. Mohammed's profile to rise again, he would have to settle down.

He bowed his head, slightly. "I do apologize. Time is of the essence. I should have expressed that in a more...respectful way."

"What do you know about respect?"

Adem bowed his head again, but this time he motioned for one of his guards, the Benefactor's promised gift from the night before. The guard pulled a folded black plastic bag from the inside of his coat pocket. He shook it out and open, then set it on the table next to the case. He picked up the leather bag and dumped the contents onto the table, bundles of American dollars piling up, slipping and sliding from top to bottom. They weren't going to count it. Another sign of disrespect. Adem had remembered that one. But there was no way they were keeping the original carrier, with its GPS locator sewed into the lining. Of course it was.

Adem stepped closer to the right-hand man and spoke softly so only he could hear, all the while watching the corporate leader by the windows pretend to be above it all. "Before you lecture me about respect, tell me the truth. He doesn't give a damn about the crew, does he? The whole stand-off has been for show, hasn't it? What that ship is carrying in its hold is more valuable than who's steering it. Pretty soon you won't even need people for that."

"How dare—"

"No, you keep that one to yourself. Keep it for when, pretty soon, he decides to pass his position on to his sons instead of you. And you will work for them for years, never gaining ground, all your contributions forgotten. Oh yeah. I bet you've already seen the signs, right?"

The guard finished loading the money into the plastic bag, gave it a spin and tied it. He turned and left, two other guards in tow. Adem started that way himself, but couldn't resist patting the right-hand man on the shoulder and saying, "Maybe next time, they'll let us both off the leash."

He turned, nodded at each and every other person in the room, and left through the gauntlet of pros, to the elevators, and all the way down to the bottom floor this time. He and the remaining guards walked through the lobby, smoothly, didn't matter who was watching or following now. Adem made a call on the new cell phone. Gunfighter picked up on the ship.

"It's done. Your ride should be on its way."

And that was that. Adem didn't wait for a response. He closed the phone, slipped the back off, and took out the SIM card. He would throw it out on the street once they got to the cars.

Outside and nearly blinded by the sun reflecting off the building across the street, the crew slipped into two waiting Aston Martins and were instantly cool and dark. It had been easy, and worth it. As soon as Gunfighter was clear of the ship and out of danger, leaving behind his crew for the authorities to mow down, the Benefactor had promised to reveal the last known location of Sufia. That's all he wanted. One and done. No more suits, no more bald head, no more legend. He sighed. The guard beside him turned, grinned, and said, "You too?"

"Always."

*

A
bout an hour later, his coffee untouched, growing cold in front of him at a crowded café, Adem stared at the aftermath on a giant TV. He knew he should have been on the move, but he couldn't believe it. Just...unbelievable.

Gunfighter's band of pirates danced out onto the deck, the Indonesian crew crawling along with them. Filthy, broken, blinking at the light. The news camera was bobbing and far away, the focus blurring, correcting, blurring again. Must have been on a boat. The view pulled out when the helicopter appeared, circling the deck.

Dancing, shouting, kids playing with guns, cracking off shots into the air.

But then Gunfighter gathered them all together, just as the chopper was coming in for a landing, and had them line up the original crew along the edge of the deck.

No no no
. Adem's mouth hung open.
God no, please no
.

Soundless gunfire. The shots slammed into the cringing prisoners, all of them trying to itch skin that was no longer there, right before they fell into the ocean.

Soundless cheers from the pirates. More dancing.

The helicopter door was opening and the camera quick-panned towards it. Adem realized it had no markings. Pure, light-devouring black all over. It was a military chopper, room enough in back for a couple of handfuls of soldiers. And that was exactly what came out of those doors. Armed, ready, fully fatigued, their faces covered by
keffiyeh
.

Adem gripped his hands together, an effort to keep them still. This was bad. Real bad. Played him like a drum, they sure as hell did. What an idiot. So what plan was he on now? C? D?

The reporters were shocked into silence, only just now peppering the scene with reminders of what they had just seen. Replaying it over and over. The ship now under command of a true terrorist cell, not a rag-tag group of kids. Back to the newsroom. The anchor struggling to regain his composure. That's when they decided to flash Mr. Mohammed's photo, one from the day before, from the hall outside the conference room. One of those security guys had filmed him. Look at his calm face and stupid grin.