All the Young Warriors

FOURTEEN

People back in New Pheasant Run were looking for Bleeker. Calling him day and night. He only returned one or two calls, told them he was ice fishing and to leave him the hell alone.

He worked out in the hotel gym. He was alone because it was after four in the morning and he couldn't sleep. More and more of those nights. It hurt but pain wasn't something you tried to get rid of. It was something you used to get you back to good. He needed pain, goddamn it, or he wouldn't know which direction to go. Cindy had been brutally cut down. To end that pain, Bleeker needed to see her killer's body on a slab.

He got tired of the weight machine, just bricks on wires. Not the same rush of free weights. He moved to the stairclimber. Would've been happy to take a run outside, but the wind was blowing like hell and the snow was coming down again. Didn't bother him out in New Pheasant, but here he was a fish out of water. Too much slick ice, too many cars. So he pushed himself up the fake stairs on the hardest setting, pumping, pumping. Gritting his teeth. Bring on the searing jaw pain. He'd push through that shit, too.

Mustafa. On his mind. Not what he expected. The gangsta mannerisms of that first meeting had slacked off. That shit was even infecting the Somali kids out west. Whatever video they'd seen, whatever music had been spewing from the speakers. A collage of it all, pasted all over these kids' fashions, language, attitudes. And the baddest of them all, supposedly, had turned a new leaf.

It wasn't the most comfortable feeling, pairing up with this guy, but the one thing he trusted was that Mustafa wanted his boy back safe and sound. And that he hated the cop-killing fuck Jibriil. God, a bit naive, thinking Adem was clean like spring water, but Bleeker would go along for now, see where it led.

After punishing himself on the stairs, legs like overcooked pasta, he walked across to the hotel pool, dove into the cool water, blew out as much breath as he could and did a few laps underwater until he was burning all over, the water around him going to boil if he kept it up. Then exploded up from the middle of the pool and sucked in as much of the room's air as his lungs could take. Stood shoulder deep, slicked his hair back. Finally noticed a housekeeper, middle-aged woman, Hispanic, watching him. Holding towels, hypnotized. They eyed each other a long time. She looked like she had worked so hard all her life that each hour had etched itself onto her skin, but she carried it with pride and a lot of eye make-up. She looked nice.

Bleeker swam to the ladder at the deep end, climbed out, and motioned to her to throw him a towel. "Please?"

He imagined her dropping the entire stack, stripping to her bra and panties, and diving in with him. Chasing each other, finally tiring, and floating together, wrapped arm in arm, kissing her lips, neck, shoulders.

But she looked weird instead. She didn't give him a towel. He stepped over, took one off the top, and said, "Thanks, yeah."

She nodded. Walked away. Placed the stack of towels on the rack near the door, and pushed through into the hallway. He kept watching as she went down the hall past the long windows lining the wall. Once she was out of sight, Bleeker felt cold. Stupid fantasy. Weeks since he'd been with Cindy, at his house while Trish was at work. Now she was dead. Hard to connect that.

He looked at the hot tub. Good long soak might finally relax him, let him sleep so he could be ready for the night's work. See if Al Jones could confirm that Adem and Jibriil had been sent to Somalia. Yeah, turn on the whirlpool and close his eyes. Maybe go back to the room, keep on thinking about the housekeeper, about taking her on the bed, stretching her toned worker's legs and hard scrabble feet for him. Jack off, fall asleep. Doze until dinnertime.

Instead, he dropped the towel and dove into the cool water, colder still now, for more breathless laps.

*

Mustafa knocked on his door after ten. By then the snow had piled at least six inches. Bleeker had slept maybe thirty minutes since parting ways with the city cop outside the pizza place. He chose not to pursue the housekeeper in his mind, keeping himself wound tight. Fell asleep mid-afternoon watching a butchered 80's flick on AMC. All the cursing tripped out. All the violence de-fanged. A joke. How the fuck did all those changes make it any more classic?

Now up, two pots of hotel room coffee in him, another two large Burger King pops. Pissing all evening waiting, but awake, ready, and willing.

"You think anyone's tailing you?"

Mustafa shrugged. "If they are, we'll lose them later."

Bleeker didn't invite him into the room. Mustafa acted as if he didn't want to come in anyway, leaning against the opposite wall of the hallway. Bleeker slipped on his jacket, hunter's cap, and closed the door behind him. "Let's go."

Outside, the temperature drop was like stepping onto another planet. They climbed into Bleeker's Roadmaster, cranked up and waited for the engine to heat up. Five minutes. Ten. Warm air began to flow through the vents. Bleeker pulled out of the spot and slowly made his way through the lot, down the service road, and down the on-ramp to the interstate.

Mustafa said, "Eden Prairie."

Bleeker laughed. "You're kidding. Come on."

"Serious. Took a lot of work, so let's go."

"Are we expected?"

Mustafa rubbed his gloves together. "I hope not."

Eden Prairie was a suburb down in the Southwest metro, closer to Bloomington and the Mall of America than to the city proper. Bleeker drove through it every time he came and went, usually stopping at their mall to shop and their fast food joints to eat because it was less crowded, easier to navigate.

The drive was slow, the plows not out yet. Slippery roads. Not a lot of traffic on the way out. Mustafa brought along a Tom Tom he'd borrowed, the computer pointing the way, except it wasn't updated and got confused the closer they got.

Mustafa said, "A couple of sources, plus a couple more guys from my old posse confirmed this. They'd left the gang about the same time I did, got married, grew up. Both still Islam, but not the extreme kind."

"No offense, but it seems they're all extreme to me."

"Thanks, real helpful."

The machine told them to go straight and stay right.

Bleeker said, "Sorry, but, okay…keep going."

"So there's an Imam, like a pastor-"

"I know, remember? I'm the Somali guy. I know the lingo."

Mustafa sighed. Bleeker cringed inside. Couldn't help himself. It wasn't that he was trying to disrespect Mustafa, but it seemed so goddamned easy to do. He was touchy. Guy gets away with killing some punks, and now he's noble or some shit. Still, Bleeker knew better than to burn a bridge while standing on it.

"I didn't mean…" Trailed off. Bleeker shrugged.

Mustafa started again, quietly. "This Imam, the kids call him Rockstar Muhammad. He revels in it. Anything to increase the flock. He's smart. He uses the language of the streets when necessary. Knows hip-hop lyrics. Hates them but knows them. So he ends up looking like he understands these young men when all he really wants is for them to be exactly what he wants them to be-Warriors for Allah. He wants them to either go and fight in Somalia, or head to Europe and Africa and all across the states and proselytize, keep building, until they can attack."

"Like Nine Eleven?"

"Not as flashy, but pretty much. Bombs, fires, mayhem, times a hundred. Also, sneaking themselves onto city councils, state legislatures, all the things Americans are scared silly of. Except, you know what they really want?"

Mustafa glanced over, hint of a grin. Held Bleeker's eyes.

"What's that?"

"White. Converts. Undercover Islam. Totally unsuspected."

"Like tonight?"

"No, no, not tonight. All Somali tonight. Rockstar travels around to the homes of donors, brings in new recruits, and pretty much tells them their lives are shit. All the violence, all the bling, all the drugs. Meaningless."

"And how's that go over?"

"Let's say there's thirty, forty there tonight? He'll get maybe ten, fifteen who want to join him. They'll play militant for a week or two, then fade back into what they were doing before."

"Because they don't like being told what to do."

"Exactly. He'll push them hard, too. Weed out the lazy, the rebellious, and the proud. Until there's one left."

"Like Jibriil."

"Just like Jibriil. But the Imam doesn't do all the legwork. He's very subtle. He's a preacher, that's all. A religious teacher. He has a small mosque in Roseville. Nothing fancy, very modest. From the outside, almost like a storefront. I think it used to be a pet shop. Behind the facade, he's building an army."

"And Al Jones is the one doing all the heavy lifting."

"You got it."

They didn't say anything else the rest of the drive.

*

For three blocks around the house, cars stretched in all directions. Lots of them tricked out imports like Mustafa's, some old Chevys and Lincolns from the 90's, mom and dad's old cars getting a second life. All of them dark, empty, the snow not yet covering them completely, but coating the windshields. Footprints converging on the two-story suburban cookie cutter in a development built maybe ten years ago.

Mustafa said, "The family who lives here owns two Super America stations. They're doing pretty well. It's their son who put this together. He's not a banger, but he knows plenty of them. And they got carried away by Al Jones singing the Rockstar's praises."

"What do we do?"

Mustafa smiled, pushed the car door open. "This."

He got out. Bleeker followed. Mustafa was striding, not a care in the world. Bleeker was starting to worry, though. So two uninvited guests show up at a private recruiting party. One obviously a white cop. Everyone will face the wall and wait to be handcuffed, sure, exactly.

"Seriously, what do we do?"

Mustafa kept on walking. "Ring the doorbell."

"You have no idea."

Mustafa stopped, turned. Middle of the street. "Got something better?"

"I'm not walking in on a bunch of gangbangers and terrorists if you've got no plan."

"Do you have one? I can't call for back-up. How about you?"

"This is crazy."

"Nobody is going to do anything." Mustafa reached over, gave Bleeker a couple of pats on the arm. "Keep cool."

Up the walkway, which had been plowed, shoveled and salted, only a sheen of frost and clumps of wet snow on the concrete. Bleeker wondered if he should have his shield ready, but then decided against it. He was going to shove his hands deep into his jacket pockets and not say a word unless someone asked him a question.

Mustafa rang the doorbell.

Moments later, a tall Somali woman opened the door. Hard to tell her age with skin that smooth, but Bleeker guessed around forty. The elaborately patterned yellow and violet hijab covered her head and neck, framed a face that immediately recognized Bleeker as police. The rest of her was clothed like an American. Slacks and a loose silk blouse. Maybe flaunting her freedom in front of Rockstar, or maybe he was the type that turned a blind eye.

She said, "I'm sorry officers, is there a problem?"

Mustafa said, "You have a lot of cars out here."

"I'm sure we can move some if they're in the way."

"What's going on here tonight?"

She knew they knew. Something about the tight lips, the posture. "A private party. For our…church."

Mustafa nodded. "May we come in?"

She backed away from the door. "Please remove your shoes, coats, and hats. Don't drip on the hardwood."

They stepped inside the foyer, tiled, that opened into a sitting room, obviously not used all that much. They had taken great care with the decor-much to remind the visitor of the family's Somali heritage, art and pottery, alongside a contemporary American leather couch and glass and wood tables, very pricey. Dim table lamps barely lit the room, throwing amber light and creating fuzzy shadows. The lady of the house took their coats, hung them in the entryway closet. A man came from the hallway at the back corner of the room, gray slacks and a blue button-down shirt, your typical middle-class manager ensemble. Clean-shaven, rich brown skin. Obviously the husband, and probably ten years older than his wife.

He said, "Late arrivals?"

Mustafa didn't wait for the wife to warn him. He stepped out of his shoes-slip ons. Smart. Bleeker was still untying his boots. Reached out for the husband's hand. "Mr. Hassan? Nice to meet you. I'm Mustafa Bahdoon."

Hassan's cheeks sank, eyes widened. If the wife hadn't recognized him, the husband sure did. "Bahdoon. You are here to see…here for…?"

"Please, tell me what's going on tonight."

He glanced at his wife. Smirched his mouth. Bleeker checked her out. Talking with her eyes. Looking down at the floor. The basement. They were all in the basement.

"It's nothing." Hassan spoke low. "A sermon, my son's friends. He's a good boy."

"Sermon?"

Hassan motioned. "I'll show you. Downstairs. Please don't interrupt, though. I'm sure the Imam will talk to you after."

"I'm not really interested in him."

They stepped out of Bleeker's sight. He yanked off the boot, dropped it. It bounced off the tile onto the hardwood, the gorgeous rug laid out in the room. Melted snow splattered and Hassan's wife let out a sharp breath.

"Sorry." He stumbled, pushed himself up with a hand on the wall, and followed the men.

They had gone through the kitchen, still talking softly, and turned at the stairs to the basement. Bleeker saw trays of crumbs. Spices in the air, more than one, swirling and combining and releasing. Made him hungry. He'd need a Smashburger later.

He caught up with the men on the carpeted stairs. They'd ceased talking. Below, a voice in Arabic, louder than conversation, not quite shouting, then another loud voice right behind the first, in heavily accented English. "When Jay Z tells us it is a hard knock life, we accept it to be so. We accept whatever we are told. We think the government hands us our rules. The government judges whether it's hard knock or not! Does that make any sense to you?" Then more Arabic.

Mustafa and Hassan stood at the bottom of the stairs, watched. Bleeker made it down, looked out at the very American den with the large flatscreen TV, entertainment center, sectional sofa, La-z-Boy recliner. Nearly every square foot of floor space covered with young men in hip hop jeans, T-shirts and polos, their shoes lined-up in a utility room to the left. Riveted. Before them, a man sitting crosslegged on top of a big wooden box set in front of the TV. He looked old but vital. Salt and pepper beard. Chubby. A white robe, white prayer hat, very dark skin. He was the one speaking Arabic.

Where there had once been a bar, Bleeker supposed, was now what looked like a place to pray. Several rugs on the floor. A woven wallhanging, more Arabic. The flag of Somalia beside it, a creamy blue with a single white star in the center.

Too busy noticing all that to notice the bottom step. He missed it, flung out his arms, grabbed Mustafa and Hassan before falling on his face, slammed his feet hard onto the floor. Plenty of bangers turning to look, creased brows, angry eyes. The Imam stopped mid-sentence. The translator stood. Somali guy in a fine business suit, fine silk tie, spread collar shirt. Balled his fists. Like he was going to beat the shit out of whoever dared interfere. Then he saw Mustafa.

Fists loosened into fingers again.

Mustafa wrapped an arm around Bleeker's waist, pushed him towards the utility room while Hassan apologized, begged them to "Please continue. Please. Don't mind us."

But there was nothing else to come. The Imam began speaking again-in English this time-blessing the boys and telling them there would be time to talk again later. A rumble in the room, disappointed Aw, man all over the room. This is bullshit, scared of the police same as any bitch and Shit, Bahdoon just shut him down, man. That's cold.

In the washroom, Mustafa shoved Bleeker against the washer, turned him around and grabbed him two-handed at his collar. Boiling eyes, red veined.

"Let go."

"How the hell can you be an expert on us? You step on us like dog shit!"

"I said let go."

Mustafa let go. The gangbangers had to come in to retrieve their shoes on their way up the stairs, getting a glimpse of their hero. Like an idol, the way these guys looked at him. More reverence than they showed Rockstar Muhammad, even.

Bleeker said, "I missed a step. Anyone could've."

Hissing. "Anyone would've been more careful. Like handling a beehive."

"I'm sorry, okay?"

Hands on his hips. A step left, one right. Head down. What was the deal?

Hassan waited at the door. Bleeker was about to leave, wash his hands of the whole damned mess, when the thick black man in the suit shoved Hussan and Bleeker out of the way, headed right for Mustafa. Mustafa shouted and smacked the man on the side of his head, over and over. Didn't phase him. Punched Mustafa in the face, sent him reeling into the wall, knocking over detergent, fabric softener, and a bag full of lint. Mustafa went down. The translator picked him up like a rag doll. Grains of detergent in Mustafa's hair, stuck to his face. The translator held him up, arm over his shoulder, and drug him from the room. With his free hand the translator gave Bleeker a hard shove that knocked the wind out of him.

Bleeker, wheezing on his hands and knees, got the picture. That translator was the "Al Jones" they'd been looking for.

He heard the big man's voice booming. "The Big Bad Bahdoon thinks he can interrupt our teacher? Thinks he can tromp his traitor ass all around, drag this infidel along with him?"

Bleeker made it to his feet. Pulled out his pistol.

The scene: Rockstar Muhammad hadn't moved. Still serene on his pedestal. Al Jones stood over Mustafa, writhing in the middle of the floor, hand on his back. From this angle Bleeker saw more of the room, the steps and door that led to the backyard, where some of the gangbangers had surely escaped. A handful of rough and tumble guys in identical North Face parkas stood sentry over there, AR-15s in their hands. Shit.

They noticed Bleeker's pistol, took aim, started barking at him. "Drop the gun! Drop it! Drop it now!"

Al Jones turned his head, pointed a thick finger at Bleeker. "Drop it or I stomp his skull."

He lifted his foot, set his bare heel on Mustafa's head, pressed down.

Instinct. Not like on TV. Not so easy to give up his gun. Not so easy to fire, but easier to do that to solve a problem than make them both helpless.

Bleeker fired from the hip. Powerfully loud, everyone ducking, covering ears, squinching eyes. Bleeker had missed badly, way right, busting up a rack of DVDs. A burst from someone's AR-15. Bleeker dove behind the couch. Hassan, back near the stairs, grabbed his guts and dropped dead. His head flipped back when a late round got him, dead eyes and surprised, bloody mouth staring at Bleeker. The cop peeked over the back of the couch at the action.

Al Jones, screaming and waving his arms. Still standing with his foot on Mustafa. Mustafa grabbed the foot, pushed and twisted hard. Kept at it while Jones hopped with his other foot and tried to shake Mustafa off.

Bleeker was up again, took quick aim. Fired two shots in the direction of the sentries. One flinched, went down. Another dropped his gun, grit his teeth. The other two stepped ahead and started in, bursts of fire into the sofa. Bleeker dove flat on the ground, covered his head. No fucking way they could miss him. No fucking way. The rounds thudded into the wall behind him, all around. No fucking way.

Then the gunfire stopped. They run out of ammo? Were they waiting for him to pop up again? He could hear that Al Jones was still struggling with Mustafa, but then another voice, the Imam's, rose above it. In English again.

"Now is not the time! Not now!"

Bleeker raised up on his elbows, crawled to the edge of the couch where he still had cover from the end table. Sentries, guns down, helping the other two. Neither one dead. Jones still struggling with Mustafa, until Mustafa gave the man's ankle a mighty twist, the guy's knee going with it, toppling to the floor. Mustafa got up, not going for his pistol, backed away. When he saw that Bleeker was okay, he stood his ground, stared down Rockstar Muhammad, who was now standing on the box, head and shoulders hunched to avoid the dropdown ceiling.

Bleeker rose to his knees, kept the gun trained on the sentries. It didn't matter how much of a badass he'd been in Iraq. Didn't matter how intimidating he was to the Somalis over in New Pheasant Run. Here, he was scared. Trapped. Not sure how any of this was going to end. He took charge, marched over to the sentries while they were distracted, gun in their face, took their rifles, slung three over his shoulder and reached one back to Mustafa. He took it, but let it hang loose in his hand rather than covering the rest of the room.

Bleeker said, "Someone must've heard that. Cops'll be here soon."

Mustafa looked around. "Pretty soundproof room."

"Think, man! Automatic weapons fire!"

Shrugged. "A movie. Look at the set-up here."

Bleeker was about to say something else, something with lots of "fucks" and "shits" but not "niggers" because he was surrounded by black men and he hadn't said "nigger" in months and months, thanks to Cindy, but by God, it was on the tip of his tongue right then and he had to bite it back, bite it off.

The lightning crack of a handgun and the pain blacked him out. Reeling on his feet. The pain radiating up his arm, like hot lava across his back. He grabbed at the fire on his right arm. Split skin across his upper bicep, on through to his upper back. Not so bad. It would heal up with a few stitches. Still hurt like all hell. He sucked in a deep breath and turned. Hassan's wife, eyes wild, stood at the base of the stairs over her husband's body holding a pistol. Another crack, bullet went wide.

Mustafa lifted his auto and let loose, cut her down right across the middle.

Then it was quiet.

Al Jones grunted, pulled himself up onto Rockstar's box. "Look what you've done."

Mustafa, still staring at the wife. Like he was in shock. "We…wanted to talk."

"A peaceful gathering. The police can't accept that, can they? Have to make us all out to be murdering lunatics."

"But you are," Bleeker said. His arm was dripping red, filtering through the fingers clamped over the skin. "Tell them, Mustafa. Tell them why we're here."

Al Jones, sitting on the box, rubbing his ankle. "Oh, I know why. We heard you coming miles away."

Mustafa said, "Why? A couple of stupid kids. You sent them to fucking die?"

"To fight. To bring glory to themselves in the next life."

"I need to know who. How'd they get there? Where are they?"

Rockstar sat down again, tapped Jones's arm, and leaned forward, speaking low into his ear. Jones nodded.

"Come on. Where are they?"

Al Jones said, "Are the Imam and I under arrest? I think it's important we understand our rights."

Bleeker said, "Yes, goddamn it, of course you're under arrest."

Mustafa said, "No. Where are they?"

"Wait." Bleeker stepped over to Mustafa. "Yes. I'm arresting them."

"We can't do that. This was a home invasion. A Somali gang hitting the Hassans because of something their son did."

Unbelievable. "The hell are you talking about?"

"They tell us where Adem and Jibriil are, and how to get them back, and then we get out of here. They're on their own."

Bleeker, the feel of the blood all over him making him sick, trembled. So pissed. "This isn't your fucking gang we're talking about here. You're on my team. Get used to it."

"Is it going to help us get Adem back? No, all it does is make us killers."

"Makes us heroes!"

"Is that what you want? Because all I want is my son!" Mustafa's face stretched and furious. Right in Bleeker's. Stabbing his finger into the man's chest. "You started this! I would've talked to them and we would have left. But you started shooting. You wanted to kill. Not them. You."

"I did what I was supposed to."

Mustafa looked tired. Screwed up his face. "Fuck you, man. We need to get you an ambulance."

"Excuse me." Rockstar Muhammad raised his hand. Didn't wait to be recognized. "I have not done anything illegal. I do not understand, this… this…" He spoke to Al Jones in Arabic.

Bleeker couldn't figure it out. Too fast, and he wasn't concentrating. Mustafa bobbed his head, answered. Rockstar's eyes lit up. That set them both off in Arabic. Bleeker's

arm and back hurt more listening to them babble, shut out of the loop. He stepped aside while the Arabic flew over his head, pulled out his cell phone and called 911.

Told the dispatcher, "Detective Ray Bleeker, out in Eden Prairie. We've got a problem."

"I'm sorry, you're a Detective in Eden Prairie?"

"No, no, but yeah. Look, We need an ambulance. We need some back-up."

"Why didn't you call-"

"Listen, no time. I'm bleeding. How about 'off-duty officer needs assistance'? Can you put that out there?"

She told him okay and started typing, and he told her the address. Was about to tell her the situation when he heard Mustafa's gun rattle to the ground. He glanced over his shoulder. The three standing sentries now had goddamned Glocks, covering Mustafa. Al Jones helped Rockstar off the box, started for the back stairs.

Bleeker closed his phone, stepped forward. "No, no no no. You're staying here."

"Let them go." Mustafa, disarmed, standing like a dead tree.

"The police are on the way." Bleeker chased Al Jones, who escorted the Rockstar like he was James Brown. Hand on Jones' shoulder. A sentry stepped up, shoved the Glock against the side of Bleeker's nose. He blinked, looked away. Finally held up his hands. "All right, all right."

Up the stairs, into the night. Jones and Rockstar were gone. One by one, the sentries backed up the stairs, the seriously injured man helped out first. Bleeker was sure they were going to fire. Last two witnesses, no need to keep them alive. But then…nothing. Mustafa and Bleeker stood alone except for the bodies of the Hassan's wife crumpled over the husband, his expression even more alarming when Bleeker took a second look.

Mustafa let out a long breath, looked at Bleeker's arm. "How bad?"

"Flesh wound. I couldn't even get shot in Iraq, but here, Jesus."

Mustafa shook his head, sat on the couch. Knees wide, held his head in his hands. "Damn it, Ray. Listen, when they get here-"

"How about I take care of that?"

"No, you don't see it at all. You can't tell them about Jones. Not a word about Rockstar."

"This isn't a game, man. What happened is what happened, and that's what we've got to tell the cops."

"Then they'll die!" Mustafa's head lifted. Face bright with tears. "If you tell them what really happened, Jones is going to make a call, and Adem and Jibriil will die. Their own guys will cut their heads off, and they'll send me the videotape. But you'd like that. You want to see them dead. Justice, right? What they deserve, right?"

Sirens, closing.

"That's what he told you?"

"I didn't make it up! He said…he can't tell me exactly where they are, whose command they're under, but he knows they made it. Alive. And they're still alive. He's alive. One call, and that's it."

"Shit." Bleeker closed his eyes. True, if Mustafa was telling the truth about Jibriil, then watching him die would be sweet justice. Dying in the worst possible way, having his head sawed off in some godforsaken alien landscape. But if Adem was innocent, even if there was the tiniest whiff of doubt about his part in Cindy's murder, was it worth it?

Less than a few minutes to decide.

"You swear to me Adem didn't take any shots that night. Didn't egg on Jibriil, didn't have any idea the son of a bitch would do it, right?"

Mustafa, exhausted and limp, swiveled his head. The heel of his hands press into his eyes. "I'd stake my life on it. I'm already done. When these police arrive, I'm in big trouble here no matter what. My whole family. And the best we can hope for is that Adem finds a way to survive without his own men killing him because of something I said."

"You're giving up."

"It's the only way to make sure he's safe."

Bleeker knelt beside Mustafa, but then fell off his knees to the floor. Grabbed the Somali's knee to steady himself. Weak from blood loss, shock, fear, whatever. About to piss himself, but too tired to stand again and stumble around looking for a toilet.

Sirens louder still. Fever pitch, then they stopped. Then voices, chatter, footsteps above them in the house.

Shit.

Bleeker tightened his grip on Mustafa's knee. "Hey?"

Mustafa looked up.

"Get lost. Go." Bleeker nodded. "Okay? You were never here."

Shook his head. "I can't. I… you can't."

"I'm a fucking cop. I sure as hell can. Get out of here. Now."

When Mustafa didn't move, Bleeker got up and grabbed Mustafa's shirt, dragged him to his feet, and threw him towards the stairs. " Now. Forget about me. Get out of here."

Another moment of hesitation, then there were footsteps on the basement stairs. Bleeker huffed and bit his lip, and he was gone. Up and out.

Radio noise. The footsteps stopped, a cop at the bottom of the stairs saying, "Uffda! Look at this shit."

Bleeker thought, Yeah, fucking uffda indeed.