All the Young Warriors

TWENTY

A European sedan, a fancy hotel, men with sunglasses and earpieces and guns escorting them, treating them like dignitaries or rock stars instead of prisoners, which neither was sure they were anymore. Bleeker had his suspicions. CIA.

Once in the hotel, they were escorted to a room on the second floor, right off the elevator bank, where more golf-shirted guards kept watch. No one manhandled them. Didn't even touch them. The guard-in-charge politely asked for their cell phones, and they didn't resist. That would have been rude. Another guard opened the room, held the door open, and let them in. It was a plain room, two double beds, almost American except for the African decor and lack of a truly cold a/c.

Mustafa went to the windows immediately, opened the curtains. He tested the glass, tried to open it. The guard didn't stop him. He looked at Bleeker. "It's been welded shut."

Bleeker picked up the phone, dialed the operator. The guard didn't stop him.

"Yes?"

"I need an outside line."

"I'm sorry sir, but it has been requested that you not be allowed to make calls while guests of the company."

"What company?"

"I'm sorry sir, but I can't tell you that either."

He hung up. He'd figure out a way around the phone, give him a few hours. He wondered if the guard would stop him then.

Not long after, the ex-Marine came in, relieved the guard. The older man closed the door, motioned for Bleeker and Mustafa to sit on one of the beds while he grabbed the other chair in the room, like something out of Pier One Imports, and straddled it, arms resting on top of the back.

"Thanks for cooperating. You need anything, open the door and ask for Carl. That's me."

Bleeker said, "Thanks Carl. I need to leave now."

Got a laugh. "Relax. I'm sure Mr. Iles will come and speak to you soon."

"Who's he?"

"My boss. I'm sure it's going to be fine." He pulled a small digital camera out of his pants pocket. "You mind? I'm supposed to take your picture."

As he lifted the camera, Mustafa reached out and grabbed his wrist. "That's what they do to hostages."

Held on tight.

Carl pulled his arm back, slowly applying pressure. The expression on his face didn't change. Mustafa's arm stretched. He held his breath, held on tighter. He was coming off the bed, dragged towards Carl. Mustafa blew out all his breath and let go, flopped back onto the bed.

Once he sat up again, Carl snapped the photo, then pushed himself off the chair. "Sit still. Watch TV. Don't try anything."

He left the room. Mustafa launched off the bed to the window. Pushing, shouldering, pulling the handle. Tracing his fingers along the edges. Turned to Bleeker. "You going to help?"

Bleeker got up and went over, took a look. "Nothing we can do."

"We can break it."

"With what? And how many whacks before the guards come in? Fifty? Sixty?" Bleeker thumped the window. "We're not going out that way."

Mustafa slapped it with the heel of his hand. He walked away, a tiger pacing the cage. "This isn't the plan. How'd they know us? We don't know them?"

Bleeker went back to the phone, picked it up. Nothing special. He looked on the bottom of it. Set it back down. Maybe it was as simple as pushing "9" for an outside line. Maybe he could keep hitting zero. He picked up the handset, waited for a dial tone. There was none. He clicked the button in the cradle over and over. Nothing.

"They cut off the phone now."

Mustafa stopped pacing and nodded. "Then we call Carl back, take him out quickly. Get a look at the hall, make a run for it. Anyone in our way gets dead."

"With what? Our incredible fists?"

"Adem is here. We know that now."

"Maybe he's the one who sent these guys after us."

Mustafa shook his head, but his eyes were closed tight like he was keeping that thought from getting inside. "No, no, that can't be. That's…it doesn't make sense."

"Your son making deals for pirates doesn't make much sense either. I mean, come on, man."

Mustafa got in his face. "They're making him! It's not his decision!"

"How are you so sure?"

"I know!"

Bleeker looked past Mustafa's face, out the window, now smudged with their sweat and oil. "I don't think you do. Not any more. What you know is what you wish Adem was. He could've shot Cindy and Poulson. He could've fought with these assholes. He might be working for pirates because he believes in their cause. Same way that mommy thinks her little angel couldn't possibly have done anything wrong."

Bleeker was off his feet, Mustafa grabbing his shirt in his fists and twisting and tossing Bleeker onto the bed like he was a sack of garbage. Bleeker went heels over head, bounced off onto the other side, crouching, ready to spring.

Mustafa stood, shoulders high, ready, huffing. "Say it again. Say it, motherfucker."

"That's a good Muslim mouth you've got there. Sounds more like Bahdoon to me."

Mustafa flexed his fingers. Pops loud like firecrackers. "Never said I was one or the other."

"Then what makes you think Adem is?"

"You can shut your fucking mouth, trying to judge him. You ain't nothing."

"Least I'm not all talk like you."

Bleeker saw the switch flick behind Mustafa's eyes. From Banner to Hulk, snap of the fingers. He was going to trap Bleeker in that corner between bed and wall and pummel him. Bleeker was looking forward to it. Show the Big Bad Bahdoon what an old Army Ranger could do. Fuck up his day.

Just as some young guy in shorts and a green polo walked it. Boat shoes, no socks. Carefully casual. He took a look at the scene and smirked. "Am I interrupting something?"

Mustafa acted on reflex, reaching for the guy, ready to drag him to the bed and throttle him. But the youngster was quick, hopping back as Mustafa barreled forward, giving him an elbow on the back as he went flying by. Right to the floor. The guy was good, confident. Maybe too much. Mustafa swept his leg, got the kid off balance. He lurched forward, face first to the carpet. Bleeker was on him, wrenched the guy's arm halfway up his back.

But then thick arms wrapped around Bleeker from behind, wrenched him away. The ex-marine. He looked over to see Mustafa on the floor, head pinched between the door and the wall as another golf-shirted guard held a pistol on him. Carl didn't try anything on Bleeker, held him rock steady while the preppie got off the floor, giddy. Clapped his hands. He waved off the guy guarding Mustafa, eased his foot off the door, still holding the banger's head in place. Mustafa sat up, dazed, hands on his ears.

"Okay, Carl, let him go." The guy shook out his arm, rubbed his shoulder. "He's not a killer anymore. Not like the old days. Even that thing in Minneapolis, what, six weeks ago?"

Carl let go of Bleeker. He felt small. "You know about us?"

"Just now you should've broken my neck. Should've been paying attention to Carl and Jim here, waiting outside the door. So, no, not the Army Ranger I was warned about."

A test? A dare? Let this guy think what he wanted, but Carl was too much for him. The others, easy.

"Take a seat, would you?" The preppie sat in the same seat Carl had earlier, hiked an ankle on top of his knee, jiggled his foot. Mustafa pushed himself off the floor, still looking pained. Bleeker sat on the bed, and Mustafa joined him a moment later on the other side.

"So, introductions. I'm Derrick Iles, the boss. These guys work for me. I know who you are, Detective Bleeker. And Mustafa Abdi Bahdoon, formerly one of Minneapolis's most wanted. But then you disappeared from the public record. It took some digging to find you, rising slowly up the ladder at the Target warehouse. Hiding from the police in plain sight. That's cool."

Mustafa sniffed. "They never proved one thing they say I did."

"Shit, no proof? There's all sorts of proof. I've got better detectives, and they don't need warrants."

Bleeker was racking his brains. Thinking about Iraq, not the war he was in, but the second. About the mercenaries. He'd seen this Iles guy before on TV, back when some of the soldiers of fortune got a bit trigger happy with no authority. Mowed down civilians, teenagers, guys goofing around.

He snapped his fingers. "I thought I knew you. Private security. What was it, ah, Liberty Shield Security, right?"

"Winner, winner, chicken dinner. Give him a cigar, Carl."

Didn't expect it, but Carl handed Bleeker a real cigar. Shit.

Mustafa said, "They're not with the government, then?"

Iles shrugged. "Sometimes they hire us, and it's good money. They don't even expect results, I'm starting to think. They're desperate for people who want to be over there, either Iraq or Afghanistan. Then sometimes private companies need protection overseas. Or sometimes some pussy-shit pirates hijack a big boat and the company would rather throw the money at us than the assholes."

"Hard to tell the difference," Bleeker said.

"You telling me you really didn't think about looking for a job with us or the other guys after your tour? We've got plenty of you. Carl here, see?"

The thick Marine nodded.

Bleeker said, "Fuck no. I was done. I was really done. I went home, became a cop. Didn't feel like war, but it felt…natural, like when the chill wears off after you've been out in the snow a while."

"I don't know how you guys live up there in the cold. I'm from Arizona, and it's perfect. The deserts here? Just like home. But look, we know who you are, and I think I know why you're here."

Mustafa blurted it out: "You know Adem?"

Iles did the kinda thing with his hand. "Know thine enemy. He's not really an enemy, but he plays for the other team. He's a good guy, actually. Business is a lot like the Art of War, have you ever heard that? Now, I'm getting paid to resolve this. If I do it by shooting a bunch of pirates, okay. Extra paperwork for me, but we'll survive. We've learned how to kill people all over the world and get away with it."

He stood. Bleeker thought he was restless, overcaffienated. Thought that Iles thought he was smarter than everyone in the room. "Most of the time, though, I've got resources that help us solve the problem without shooting anybody. Which would be good right now."

Mustafa stood. The guards got antsy. Iles sat there like he was watching a play.

"I want to see him."

"Fuck no. Sit down. I'm not done."

Mustafa didn't sit. Kept an eye on the guard who had covered him.

Iles said it again. "Sit. Down."

Nothing.

Iles sighed, dropped his eyes, and said, "Okay."

The guard whipped out a gun and fired and Mustafa was off the bed, on the floor, but there was no bang. Some buzzing. Some grunting. Bleeker got up, saw Mustafa rolling, shaking, some wires trailing from his shirt back to the guard's hands, a Taser.

"Enough."

Iles said, "I think a little more."

"Like fuck you will."

Carl clamped a hand on Bleeker's shoulder while the guard gave Mustafa another shot of juice.

"Stop it!"

The guard stopped again. Iles sat, crossed his legs, and bounced his foot again. "You've got leadership potential."

"He wants to see Adem, talk to him, so if you can make that happen-"

"If I can? Hey, I can, but I won't until I'm ready. And you can take him home or to prison or dump him off the side of the boat if you want. But not until I say so."

Mustafa was curled into a fetal position on the floor. The guard stepped over and pulled the Taser's metal prongs out of his shirt and skin, then knelt down to help him up. Mustafa's teeth chattered. His fingers were curled tight.

"You guys take it easy in here, take a nap, watch some TV. You want room service? I can get you some food up here. What do you like? Some of everything?"

Bleeker watched as Mustafa rose from the floor like he was racked with arthritis. He sat on the bed again, head hung low except for a quick look at Bleeker. A wink.

"How long?"

Iles hemmed and hawed, told Carl to check the schedule. He left the room, and Iles looked around, avoiding Bleeker and Mustafa. He said, "I know you just got here, but this is really a beautiful area. All of Puntland. When this is done, you guys should take some time, see the sights."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"It's either that or snow drifts, buddy."

Carl came back in with a smart phone, held it out to Iles, who looked at the screen and mumbled a few questions to Carl, who either nodded or shook his head, depending. Iles handed the phone back to him, said, "Tell them to wait. I haven't had dinner yet."

Then to Bleeker and Mustafa, "I'm hoping you'll be here less than six hours. Might be twelve. Either way, no worries. It could be a lot worse. Try this sort of shit in Mogadishu." He laughed. "What a hellhole. You might wake up without a head, not to mention terrible food."

On his feet, reached out his hand to Bleeker, who took it automatically. Funny how you don't think sometimes when there's a hand right there waiting to be shook. Iles did the same to Mustafa, who didn't give him anything. Not a look, a shake. Didn't move.

Iles gave Mustafa a squeeze on the shoulder. "No hard feelings."

Out of the room, Carl following, the other guard manning the door. Closed behind them. Just Bleeker and Mustafa, alone. Quiet.

"You alright?"

Mustafa nodded. "I've been tazed before."

"You're kidding?"

"Shit, you cops love that thing. Almost always justified. Cop stopped us, said we were drinking and driving. I didn't blow one drop. No bottles or cans in the car. Still wanted to search. I said no, and out comes the lightning gun. I was prone on the sidewalk after, handcuffs on, blinking away bright spots, while they searched."

"They ever apologize?"

Mustafa grinned. "You for real? I'm lucky they let me keep the car. One thing I knew, these cops can do almost anything if they stop your car. No one takes my ride. No drugs, no booze, no guns. My ride is sacred."

"Good policy."

"Worked for me." He stretched his neck, grunted a little. "So, that's Iles."

"Guess so."

"Ready to get moving?"

Bleeker stepped to the window. Darkness pushing down the red and orange and yellow into the ocean. A few lights coming on in the buildings and on the street. "I told you. We can't break the window."

"No need."

Bleeker turned back as Mustafa shoved his hand down the front of his pants, looked like he was tugging on his balls. Then he pulled his hand out again, holding a cell phone.

"They might pretend to check my crotch, but not really. They won’t grab my balls." He flipped it open, started texting. "I'm going to tell Warfaa where we are."

After, not even a minute for it to buzz. Mustafa opened it, looked at the screen, and his face lit up.

"So, what do we do?"

Mustafa slapped the phone closed, looked around for the TV remote, reached over to get it, and clicked the set on. He reclined on the bed, hands behind his head. "You

heard Mr. Iles. We relax and watch TV."

On the screen, more soccer. Bleeker sighed. Goddamn, what was it about soccer?

Adem had left Garaad without a word as soon as they made it back to their hotel. He found the farthest restroom, not wanting his bodyguard to stand over him, and finished what he'd started in the elevator. Angry dry heaves. Sweat. Weak. When he closed his eyes, he saw heads on stakes. He saw a mob surrounding him. He saw rockets exploding only a few feet away from him.

"Oh God." A moan before the next wave passed through his stomach. He couldn't figure it out. How could he blow the negotiations without the pirates gutting him? Maybe Dad was already dead. There were no guarantees. And what if he warned the pirates about the raid? Couldn't they move the ship? Make it harder for the mercenaries?

No guarantees there, either. Iles was a businessman, not a murderer. Maybe he didn't have his dad and the cop. Maybe it was all a bluff. If he called the bluff and the pirates retaliated against the company, that could cause a breakdown, get the execs loading bagfuls of cash for the ransom with their own manicured hands.

When he was able to swallow again without retching, Adem left the stall, turned on the faucet and cupped the not-cold-enough water in his hands, splashed his face. Instead of making him feel better, the water was like slime on his skin. He reached for a towel but there wasn't one. He rubbed his hands on his pants, wiped his face with his jacket sleeve.

Took a long look at himself in the mirror. Fine suit, shaved head, the beginnings of a mustache. This wasn't him. This was a character. Crazy to even think he could keep this up.

Who was more dangerous? The pirates or Iles? Who was more willing to take someone's head off? It had to be a bluff.

Kept looking at himself, leaned on the sink. His own eyes. Coward? Wouldn't anyone be in the same situation?

No time to think about it anymore. He would have to decide at the table. He straightened his shirt, his jacket, and stood straight.

*

Before entering the room, Adem heard her voice. Loud, demanding. The usual. No, more than the usual, because she wasn't saying it to him, but to another. Adem rounded the corner in time to see her shaking her hands in the air, Garaad getting the brunt of her tirade. She was speaking fast, echoing in the empty meeting room. Adem heard "Stupid to let him…" and "Never let him out of your…" and "Ruined! You are an idiot!"

Garaad took it all with his usual inane grin, hands in his pockets, hat tilted forward just so. But when he struck, it was like a cobra. His expression was flat, didn't change. Grabbed her arm with his left hand, pulled her close, backhanded her across the face with his right. She let out a yelp and he hit her again.

Adem rushed out of the hall, into the room. "Hey!"

Garaad turned. Still no expression. Daring Adem to come closer. The provocation he'd wanted all along.

But Adem stayed put. Not putting his best foot forward. Garaad, still gripping Sufia's arm. She pulled back from him but the bodyguard wouldn't budge. Staring down Adem. Waiting for the right moment.

"She works for me!" Adam was loud but shaky. "Never hit her! Never! Do you understand?"

Garaad. Solid as a rock, eyes peeking out from the brim of the hat like ice. Sufia tried to wrench his fingers off with her free hand. Garaad swatted them down without looking.

"Let her go."

Nothing.

Adem stepped further into the room. Flinching. If he was going to get his ass kicked again, it might as well be over Sufia. Here where she could see him taking a stand for her. Closer and closer. Fists tight.

"I said let her go." Adem reached for Garaad's arm. Got swatted away, too. So he reached again. Latched on, the three of them linked together. Garaad's muscles rock-hard and no end in sight. Adem turned to Sufia. "Are you alright?"

Seething through her teeth. "He's hurting me."

Adem stepped even closer, putting himself between Sufia and Garrad, touching both, nose to nose with his supposed protector. The grin, like a worm, curled Garaad's lips again. He let go of Sufia's arm. Adem still held firm. Garaad looked at the arm, then Adem, then back at the arm.

Adem let go. Garaad nodded slowly, then walked backwards out of the room. Quietly, gently.

Adem turned to Sufia, put his hands on her shoulders. "Are you okay? Let me see where he hurt you." He lifted her arm, was about to push her sleeve back when she yanked it away, rubbed it.

"I'm fine." Her cheek was swelling. "You shouldn't have spoken to Mr. Iles on your own. Garaad should have been there."

"Forget that. He's history. I'll call Farah for another guard and get rid of this creep."

"He should have been there! Why are you not listening to me? What did the man have to say? What made you so ill?"

Garaad must've enjoyed telling her that part.

"They're not going to pay." He touched her cheek. "We should get some ice for this."

"What do you mean they're not going to pay?"

"Let's go back to my condo."

"I don't think so."

"I'll tell you all about it there. Please, you can't sit at the table looking like this." He put everything he had into that line. Whatever it took to make her see it his way. Pleading eyes. A tender voice. "Please, Sufia."

She dropped her eyes. Nodded.

He led her out through the lobby, out of the hotel, and hailed a cab. He didn't need the driver keeping tabs on him. He told the driver where to go, received a long look from his eyes the rearview.

"Did you hear me? Hurry!"

The driver pulled away from the curb. Adem hoped he would never be back at that hotel again. Whatever happened next, his life as a negotiator was finished.

*

At the apartment, Adem had Sufia sit on the couch while he wrapped ice in a wet cloth. Garaad wasn't there. Adem would call him, send him on some errand to keep him away. But later. Right now, it was all about Sufia. He brought her the ice and she held it to her cheek. He crouched in front of her.

"You'll be safe here. I'll make sure Garaad doesn't come back."

Sitting there, she relaxed, but that soon turned to tears. Not out and out crying. She tried hard to keep from showing how she felt. Tight lips. Hard chin.

"It's okay, really."

"He did what he had to do. I should have kept my voice down."

Adem placed his hand on her knee. "You did nothing wrong. A man should never treat a woman like that, I don't care what god he thinks justifies it."

"He was right to do it. I deserved it."

"How can you say that? You deserve the best. I can give you the best. Give me a couple of hours, I promise, we can leave. You can go back to London. I can go with you. Or Kenya, or even Minneapolis. We can do it."

She shushed him. Then, a hard whisper: "Foolish talk!"

He took his hand away, sat back on his haunches. "I don't understand. What have I done? What have I said?"

She took the ice from her face, shielded her eyes. "How can I leave again? I came back, I honored my father's wishes, I am doing what I think is right, or was, until you dragged me into this."

"You can always come back once this war is over, when it's time to rebuild and make a new country. Even I would come back for that. But for now, we need to run. Please, come with me." He grabbed her hand. Her fingers remained limp in his grip. "If you really want to leave once we're safe, I'll buy you the ticket myself."

She shook her head, laughed. Bitter and sharp. "Why don't you slap me and get it over with? At least Garaad was being honest when he did that. Once you get me out of the country, I know what will happen."

Sufia pushed herself from the couch. Adem collapsed onto his rear, stayed seated on the floor, peering up like he was worshiping her. He didn't understand her at all. A strong woman, one with an independent mind and heart but who was loyal to a tyrannical father and an army of female-hating thugs.

She kept on. "You'll swear I'm free to choose, but you'll say the time isn't right. That I should stay another few weeks. Then you will keep pushing me to act more like them. To wear what they wear. To go to pubs like they do. Brainwashing me, that's what you'll do."

"I swear I won't."

"See? Already with the swearing." She crossed her arms. "You think you know what's best for me, but you do not."

Adem climbed up from the floor. He pointed to the cloth full of ice, and Sufia lifted it to her cheek again.

He said, "Then we'll do it your way. We need to get away from here, away from Garaad and the pirates and Derrick Iles, but you tell me where we can go. I'll follow you anywhere."

"Anywhere?"

She had him. Would he go back to Mogadishu for her? Rejoin the cause?

He said, "Anywhere safe."

Adem expected the withering laugh again. A sneer. Anything. But instead he saw a flicker of fear in her eyes. Of what? Of failure? Running away?

She said, "Egypt."

"Yeah?"

"We can go to Cairo. Would you go to Cairo with me?"

He nodded. "Yes, yes, I would. We can do that."

"From there, maybe Dubai. Maybe. I don't know. I have to think."

Adem's heart beat harder, faster. He could do this. He could save his dad and Sufia and and and…not the crew of the ship, though. This would kill them. But they knew the risks. They knew. They were on their own. Adem needed to get the money, get his dad, and get some plane tickets. And he needed to keep Garaad as far away from here as possible.

Cell phone already in his hand as he headed for the door, Adem said, "Keep the door locked. Garaad won't be coming, but if anyone does, pretend you're not here. If they break in, you can step out onto the walkway out the bedroom window. Just, please, be careful. I'll be back in two hours."

"What if you're not? What will I do?"

Hand on the doorknob. He tried to find an answer. "You go to Derrick Iles, tell him I tried, and tell him you want to go to Cairo."

Out the door, into the hall, phone up to his ear.

First, Garaad: "I need you to watch Iles. Don't let him out of your sight until I call you again. It's vital." Which should keep him out of the condo all night.

Then, Farah: "We need to meet. Send a chopper. I'm coming to the boat."

*

The ship at night was like an ancient ruin, dark and haunted. The pirates were hiding in the shadows, in plain sight, keeping an eye on the waters around them. He wondered if any of them had an inkling about Iles's soliders, somewhere out there waiting for the order. Watching the watchers.

The smell of diesel and sweat and whatever produce was rotting on deck, a portion of the goods being shipped, now worthless, was sweetly sickening. Adem's stomach was already touchy. Each step made his nausea worse. But he had to hold it together. Had to make this work.

Farah led him to the wheelhouse, dark except for a small lantern set on the floor. The windows had been mostly covered with plastic, wood, cardboard, whatever worked. Protection from snipers and night vision. But still Mahmood kept the lights off. Adem thought it was because he was paranoid. One sliver of light, and the magic bullet would find his head.

The Captain was draped across his chair, a leg dangling over the armrest. A pistol in his hand, which he was rotating, over and over. There were a few others with him, half-asleep or either experts at being still. Better trained than he had imagined. The ship's regular captain was nowhere to be seen, not like the Dutch Captain. Adem wondered if that was by choice or if Mahmood banished him. Or worse, maybe the man was sick, or maybe they'd killed him. Adem doubted that, since they really wanted the money. The pirates were good to their word-pay them, everyone lives. If they say they're going to kill someone, they do. Simple.

Mahmood looked sleepy. Did they have to wake him for this meeting? Like he had a say in this? The man's mood ran between manic and foul. Tonight, his eyes were slits. Didn't even try some American movie quote on him. Not a good sign.

Farah took a seat, nodded at Adem.

Adem pulled himself together, fingers interlaced behind his back. "It's time to abandon ship. They are not going to pay. If you do not give up the ship, they will attack. They're ready. We don't have much time."

That got the Captain's eyes open. He sat up, leaned forward, very much like an old-timey pirate. Farah's face was stone.

"What do you mean? Your job is to make it happen. You didn't make it happen?"

"Sir…I tried. I even tried talking them back into their first offer. But this time they have mercenaries. An army of them. And they don't care if the crew lives or dies. You'll all die and be dumped over the side before morning. It would be like this never happened."

"No! You go back and tell them I start killing the crew! Within the hour! You tell them! We are Clint Eastwood, remember? We are Blackbeard!"

Adem shook his head. Flicked his eyes towards Farah, who covered his mouth with his hand. He was the one to convince. "We are outnumbered. There are other ships. Let them have this one."

Mahmood pounded the butt of his pistol on the armrest. Adem saw that his finger was wrapped around the trigger. Lucky it hadn't gone off.

"What happened to you?"

Adem's jaw tightened. Thinking: Don't let it become about me. This is not my trial. He said, "I don't think they care about the crew. If you make threats now, if you slice off their heads, if you scream and yell for the cameras, no matter what you do, you will not get any money. You will have the world after you. They will find you and kill you and it won't even make the news."

He'd not finished when Mahmood bolted from the chair, pistol in Adem's face. Adem clenched. Blinked over and over.

"This is treachery! You…it's all planned, isn't it? They promised you a reward. You want to jump ship!"

Adem held his ground, still blinking, the gun barrel now on his lips. "I've done all I can! It's them, not me! Not us! They've called our hand. Now, is it a bluff or not?"

Mahmood tapped the gun against Adem's face. "I never bluff. It's never a bluff."

"If that's so, then you will lose with the best hand. That's how it works sometimes. Right, Farah?"

Mahmood growled, retreated to his chair, barked out something to his henchmen. Looked to Farah, who nodded ever so slightly. Adem caught it too late. And they were on him, one pinning his arms behind his back, the other punching him in the gut.

He doubled over and lost his breath and coughed, the hacking hurting worse than the punch. The pirate at his back kneed him upright again. The bruiser in front of him took another shot, same spot. More clenching, more hacking, strings of saliva dripping from Adem's mouth.

Mahmood was laughing. Farah was not. More punches, measured, the attacker taking his time between each one. Mahmood bellowed, "Not his face! His pretty face! He can't go back to the table with a broken face!"

Adem tried to talk between punches, finally got a lungful and shouted, "There is no more table! They will not negotiate!"

Mahmood waved off his pirates. Adem, spaghetti-legged, lumbered against the wall behind him, held himself up, barely. The Captain approached, bent at the waist, eye to eye.

"You call them. They will come back to the table for you. They will. We will tell them I surrender, but with terms, and once at the table, you announce I'm going to kill the crew, desecrate the bodies, and sink the ship."

Adem's eyes widened. He couldn't believe it. How did such a crazy bastard become Captain? Was it on some sort of dare? "They are done. They don't care anymore. It's a write-off."

Mahmood shouted for Farah, made Adem flinch and blink more. His guts were melting like candle wax. Farah handed Mahmood a cell phone, a throwaway, and the Captain handed it to Adem. "You call. They will listen to you. Unless you need more motivation."

Adem took the phone without thinking. "I don't know…I don't know the number."

Mahmood slapped the phone from his hand. "Idiot!" Spun around to Farah. "This is who you bring me? An idiot? A traitor?"

Farah shook his head. "Give him a chance."

"Oh, I am. I am absolutely giving him a chance. The same way you gave me one." Mahmood lifted the gun, not even a second's hesitation. Blew a hole in Farah's face, his left eye. Splatter all over the Captain's chair. Farah fell into a heap. Silence. Adem was frozen in place, crouched against the back wall, shivering in the heat. Mahmood stepped over the body, told his pirates to get rid of the asshole. And to find some bleach. He swiped the blood, brain and skull off his chair, then sat down. It was like he'd forgotten Adem was even in the room. The two pirates each grabbed one of Farah's legs and dragged him out of the wheelhouse, Mahmood screwing up his face and shouting after them, "Make sure you mop it all up!"

A couple of minutes passed. Adem strained against his aching gut, used his hand on the wall to guide him towards the door. Almost out when Mahmood said, "So now, I'm the boss. You go back, call them. Tell them what I said."

Adem nodded, stifled the yelp in his throat before speaking. "Yes, yes, I will. I'm sorry. I will call them." He didn't plan on doing that at all.

On the deck, he saw Farah's blood trail head the opposite way from his path to the chopper. He sucked in air, slowly made his way to the landing pad. The pilot saw him and started up. Adem climbed in. When they lifted off, the boat looked like that dark, haunted ruin again, no clue to anyone of the lunatic inside making life and death decisions on a whim.

Adem closed his eyes for the rest of the ride back to Bosaso.

*

Once there, he had the driver take him to the condo. He wanted to get Sufia and go see Derrick Iles right away. Make the deal. Iles would help. Where Mahmood would shoot his own superior without thinking, Iles liked to appear the hero without thinking. Made him feel good. That was his weakness.

The SUV pulled up to the curb outside the condo, and Adem nearly fell out, hit the ground running, fumbling his keys. Up the stairs, down the corridor, key in hand. He missed the lock a couple of times, then finally stabbed the key inside, turned the bolt, clicked the handle, and…

Garaad sat on the couch where he'd left Sufia only a couple of hours earlier. Garraad, hat tipped just right, his arms spread across the back of the couch, legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles.

They stared at each other until Garaad's grin unnerved Adem and he shouted "Sufia!" and began checking the apartment. Checked his room, checked Garaad's room, checked the closets, the kitchen, the bathroom, outside the windows. She was nowhere. She was gone.

Adem stood before Garaad, still reclined, still grinning.

"What have you done with her? Where is she?"

He shrugged. "I didn't do anything."

"Liar! What did you do?" Hyperventilating.

"Calm down. Relax. Sit down." Garaad patted the cushion beside him. "Let's talk about your next meeting."

Adem kicked Garaad's boot off his other one. Garaad pushed himself off the couch, slapped Adem across the face. It stung with enough force to take him down, but he kept standing, straightened, and lifted his hand to return the favor. Garaad caught it in mid-flight. Shoved Adem all the way to the wall, crashing into it. Adem's back pulsed with pain. Garaad's forearm was pressing into his throat.

"Listen." The bodyguard's foul breath made Adem hold his. "They took her. Our people. They took her back to Mogadishu, where she belongs. She was a distraction to your work. Now it's just you and me. We'll do what needs to be done to get the bastards back to the table."

Adem tried to answer, couldn't.

"If you need more convincing, let me call your friend Jibriil. Do you want me to do that? Will that help?"

Adem nodded, best he could with Garaad's arm crushing his throat. Garaad let go, stepped back, and whipped out his mobile. Slid it open and punched a number. Adem limped away towards the window, rubbing his throat. The raised scar. What would they do with Sufia? Why would Jibriil do this?

Garaad said, "Hey."

Adem turned around. Garaad was holding out the phone. "For you."

He didn't want to take it at first. Didn't want to know the answers anymore because he wouldn't like them. He would be helpless again, like he was back in the desert. But the phone was hanging there, Garaad gripping it, his hand bouncing.

Adem took it. "Hello?"

Jibriil so loud the phone's speaker sound like it was ripped all over. "Idiot! What were you thinking? I was trying to help you! Why, Adem, why?"

"Um…I don't know…what you are talking-"

" You sold us out! You think we don't know? You met with the enemy, then you come to the boat and say there's no money. You bring Sufia to your own condo! You've lost your mind. You brought it on yourself."

"Brought what? Are you crazy? Farah's dead now. What can I do? That crazy bastard shot Farah!"

"Of course he did. I told him to. He was as bad as you, more interested in money than the cause."

A long silence. How out of the loop was he, really? "Where's Sufia? I need her for the meetings. What have you done with her?"

A laugh. "You don't need her for anything other than fucking. That's what you wanted. I should've known. I should've said no, but I gave you some room. I thought you'd see it my way."

"Where is she?" Anger rising in his voice. "What have you done?"

"Shut up. How dare you."

Shouting now. "Jibriil! I'll find you! I swear, if anything happens to her!"

"If anything happens, it's your own fault. Remember that. You listen. I don't know how to punish her, but I'll figure it out. And it's all because of you. You couldn't live without her, could you? And now…well, she's got a mouth on her, sure enough. That's the key, I think. Keeping her quiet. Agreed?"

"She hasn't done anything wrong. Don't kill her. Please, don't kill her. I'm begging you."

A sigh. "Oh, Adem, Adem, Adem. You're down to begging now? I'll have to think about this. It's not an easy decision."

"I swear, you fucking, you…I will find you. Touch her and I'll come after you."

Nothing for a moment. Then, "I hope you do."

Then a click.

"Jibriil? Jibriil?"

Nothing.

Adem's hand dropped to his side. Garaad stepped over, took the phone away and slid it closed. He said, "So are you ready for the next meeting?"

Maybe he nodded. He wasn't really paying attention, staring out the window and wondering what awful things were happening to Sufia somewhere out there. And how long it would be before they came after him, too.