All the Young Warriors

TWENTY-TWO

If they hadn't been prisoners guarded by guys in golf shirts with Glocks, then Bleeker would've thought he was in the lap of luxury. He took a steaming shower to get rid of the thick layer of sweat dried on him like a molting snakeskin, and it was as fine an experience as he'd had in any American hotel. He stood there until the hot water ran out. Fuck Mustafa. If he wanted a shower, he could chatter his teeth under the ice-cold spray.

Closed his eyes. Saw Cindy. Saw her in her uniform. Saw her out of it, hand on her stomach, beginning to show. He wondered what sort of father he would be. If he'd been any good at all, maybe Trish would've wanted to have kids with him. But she'd let it go on so long. It never felt the right time to talk about it. He just always assumed this was the life they chose, and that was enough. Until it wasn't. Getting Cindy pregnant was an accident. And maybe that was all it took. You don't plan. You just either become a father or you don't. And when fate ripped away a kid the way it had with his unborn child, odds were that his first instinct had been correct and the universe had ways of fixing mistakes. God, Bleeker as someone's dad? God.

He had promised himself to be a better father than his own dad had been to him. Not that it was a bad childhood or anything. But his dad was the typical too-quiet, too-interested-in-the-game stereotype that rural men slipped into as easy as a warm bath. If Cindy hadn't been killed, if the little guy or girl-pretty sure it would've been a girl, going to call her Linda, like his mom-had been born with ten fingers and toes and her face on right, then Bleeker was going to be different, spend more time with her. Be someone worth loving.

His last chance to do that was to get out of this hotel, rescue Mustafa's dumbass kid, and go strangle the life out of Ja-brill or Gerbil or however you said it. He tried it a few times, mumbling as the water thundered onto his shoulders.

"Ja-brill. Jibree-ell. Jibriil. Jibriil."

Mustafa had called Warfaa earlier, found out the cousins had all split, knew they had some eyes on them, but were able to lose themselves in the sidestreets and meet back up later once the pursuers gave up. One of them had discovered which hotel housed the meetings between Adem and the shipping company. Now they were waiting for someone to show up.

"So, we…what? Go wait with them?"

Mustafa said, "If we do that, they'll know where to look. When Warfaa wants us, he'll call."

"Is that when we ask Carl to please let us go sightseeing?"

A smile. "Relax, man. We got this."

More soccer on TV.

After ten minutes of that, Bleeker had headed to the shower.

The water turned cold. Bleeker let it cool him, braced himself for it to get even colder. Wanted to remind himself of what it was like in New Pheasant Run right then while the sun baked the city outside. He wondered if anyone was looking for him anymore. And once he was back, provided no one threw him in jail, what would he do next? Time to face the fact that he was done as a cop. As soon as he'd heard Cindy had been killed, the law never crossed his mind. None of that "seeing justice served" crap. Every day, hoping he would find the asshole before the authorities or an enemy bullet did so he could make sure the man died badly.

After living with that for this long, and now so close to realizing it, there was no way he could do what was expected of him anymore. He was even tempted by Iles's offer. Jesus, how low did that make him feel?

He climbed out of the shower, toweled off, and wiped the steam off the mirror. Leaned in for a close look. Bags under his eyes. The beard, so much gray in it, shaved down to look more like a Muslim's. Gray in his hair, too. Cracked lips. Wrinkles around the eyes cut deep. All this time he'd thought the Minnesota winters had been preserving him, but he'd been fooling himself.

He put his damp clothes back on, clammy now. Took a deep breath and stepped out into the room, where Mustafa was pulling the leg off the wicker chair.

"What the hell? Where am I going to sit?"

Mustafa shrugged. "Floor. Doesn't matter, we won't be here long. Warfaa called. Looks like some of the players are arriving at the hotel. Soon as Adem shows up, we can get out of here."

Bleeker shrugged. He checked the clock. They'd been in the room seven hours. One of the guards had delivered room service. Decent stuff, club sandwiches, would make you think you weren't in Africa. It was like they'd done everything they could to make it look African while stripping it of the real tastes, textures, and air. Another guard had checked on them from time to time, asked if they needed anything. Lucky the phone didn't buzz. Lucky they hadn't come in when Mustafa was tearing up the furniture. That would get him another round of electricity.

Bleeker said, "Sounds like you didn't need me for this at all."

"Sure we did. Couldn't have made it without you." He pulled the leg free, hefted it and gave it a few swings. It was a front leg, so when he righted the chair and set it back under the desk, Bleeker couldn't tell it had been amputated.

"Can I have one?"

Mustafa tossed it under the side of the bed against the far wall, then reclined on the mattress, one hand behind his head and the other taking the remote control.

This time, no soccer on TV. Looked like a news report, mostly noise except for a handful of Somali sounds he recognized, and some English sprinkled in every now and then. Mustafa turned the sound up until it was nearly unbearable.

Bleeker understood, came around the bed and knelt, turned his ear to Mustafa's mouth.

"They'll come check this out. Make out like you're hard of hearing. We'll turn it down some. Soon as we get the call, we'll turn it up again."

Bleeker stood. Mustafa handed him the remote, but kept a hand on it. Sure enough, a guard came in the room, no knocking. Mustafa yanked the remote and started turning the sound down.

"You crazy? That's too loud!"

The guard said, "What's going on?"

"Tell 'em. I ain't putting up with it."

The guard looked at Bleeker. Waited.

"Iraq. I need the TV loud."

"You're not here on vacation."

Bleeker shrugged. "But I can't hear it, man."

The guard looked about to yell. Cheeks went red. He calmed down, took a deep breath, and said, "Do I have to take you to another room? One not as nice as this? With a blindfold?"

Bleeker held up surrender palms and shook his head. "Sorry."

The guard pointed his index finger. First at Bleeker, then Mustafa. "No bullshit, we clear?"

They mumbled stuff and the guard retreated, slammed the door. Bleeker started laughing. Couldn't help it. Mustafa shushing him, but he was about to crack up, too. They shushed each other, tears streaming. It was…funny. The whole thing. People had died, and there were Americans holding them hostage, and somewhere out there was a bunch of pirates. Just funny. What could he do but laugh? Laugh until he cried. Laugh until he fell to his knees, holding it in but laughing still and then the big, bellowing, breathless sobs. He looked up at Mustafa, mouth wide open, and shook his head. Goddamn, he was going to make some noise and he couldn't hold it in any more and the guards could come running because he hadn't cried yet. He'd talked himself out of it so many times, drunk himself out of it.

Mustafa must've seen it coming. His eyes went wide. He glanced towards the door, then back to Bleeker. He lurched forward, grabbed Bleeker's head, held it to his torso.

"It's okay. You can do it. Okay."

Bleeker let go. A long tortured moan, muffled by Mustafa's body. Upping the volume and rage, pouring it out. More, more, more, until he ran out of breath and his muscles ached and that was that. Mustafa loosened his grip, patted Bleeker's shoulder.

"You okay? Gonna be okay?"

Bleeker sat back against the wall, wiped his eyes and nose with his sleeve. Said, "Yeah" between sniffles. Said it a few times. He felt his body crawling back down into the cold, the familiar restraint of a true Minnesotan. It was an eruption, that was all. Pushed to the surface, ejected, then turned to stone.

Mustafa again. "You alright?"

"I said I am."

"Come on, man, take a break. Lie down for a while." Mustafa got off the bed, reached down for Bleeker's arm. Bleeker pulled it away.

"Said I'm fine."

"Cool, cool."

Mustafa's pocket buzzed. He pulled out the phone, checked the number, and answered. "Yes?"

Listened for a bit, nodding, answering, "Hm" and "Um hm". Some Somali that Bleeker knew. "Okay". Then a grin. "Okay. He's fine? He looks good?" A sigh. "That's good."

Bleeker rolled to his knees, got off the floor with the help of the wall and desk. It sounded like they were about to make their move.

The conversation got more complicated, so Bleeker tuned out. He hoped Adem would lead them to Jibriil. He hoped to get through this without having Mustafa on his bad side. But if Adem was lying or holding out, Bleeker wouldn't hesitate. Kid deserved as much punishment as his friend in that case.

His sweat on the clothes and the smell of the soap mixed into something like dying flowers. He took in a deep breath. Going to kill somebody soon, that was all there was to it.

Mustafa closed the phone behind him. "Adem's arrived. He had some sort of bodyguard with him, but Warfaa doesn't know Jibriil. Could be him."

"Most likely."

"We'll find out. He says Adem looks okay. Nothing wrong from his point of view."

"Okay. Well…let's do it."

"One more thing."

Bleeker raised his eyebrows, turned around.

"Iles is there, too."

*

TV: loud as it could go.

Mustafa: shouting as loud as he could, tucked around the corner so the guard wouldn't be able to see him when he came through the door. Holding his chair leg.

Bleeker: standing in front of Mustafa so the guard could see him. Giving as good as he got. Barking.

The guard, through the door fast, this time with Carl in tow. Ready to kick ass.

Bleeker grabbed the first guard by the hair and yanked hard, dragged the bastard all the way to the bed. He shouted, "Carl!"

Mustafa got it, already had the chair leg swinging before the ex-Marine got past the corner. A shot to the mouth. Lips split, blood flowing. Carl had to stop in his tracks. Mustafa aimed the next one for his nose.

Connected. Carl went down. Mustafa was on him, kicking his head, then reaching down, pulling out the Taser while Carl's hand flopped around, trying to find it. Mustafa searched more. Shouted, "Just the Taser, nothing else!"

Same thing from Bleeker. He'd already wrapped the guard's hands with phone cord, hit him on the head with the phone to make him stop squirming. Searched all over and came up with the Taser. That was it. "Where's your gun?"

Guard shook his head.

"You're a fucking mercenary! Where's your gun?"

"No, no, really. No guns on guard duty. Tasers only!"

Bleeker heard the buzz before he realized that Mustafa had pumped some volts through Carl. Payback. But it left them with one less gun.

Bleeker ran to the hallway. His guard was already screaming for help. Another couple of guys out in the hall. One on his radio already. Shit.

He heard the chair leg back at work, Mustafa telling the guard on the bed to shut up as he gave him a few knocks.

If these guys in the halls only had Tasers, too.

One went for it. Bleeker gave him the juice. Dropped him to his knees. Bleeker rushed forward, kept the juice up till he was right on the guy, kicked him forward, lifted his shirt and grabbed the Taser.

He got himself turned around in time for the radio guard's prongs to catch on and slap him like a lightning strike. Holy shit it burned. Made his hands tighten on the Taser, had to be sure not to pull the trigger. He needed that gun. His other hand, fingers curled, nails biting into his skin. Teeth biting his tongue.

The radio guard's gaze went past Bleeker, then the burn stopped. Guard was backing up, trying to fire his Taser again. Mustafa ran past Bleeker, chair leg ready. The guard fired. But Mustafa swiped at the air in front of him, wrapped up the barbs and the wire with the bat, slung it aside, and kept on towards the guard, grabbed him by his shirt and threw him down hard on the floor beside Bleeker. Held out his hand. Bleeker's Taser. He handed it over.

He shot the guard in the ass. The tik tik tik tik noise giving way to the man's high-pitched whine, grinding teeth.

Mustafa said, "These things got three charges on them. Get his and you'll have a shot left."

Bleeker picked the barbs off his shirt. One had broken his skin, made him bleed. He made his way to the Taser on aching hands and knees, finally got it, cleared the wires, and tried to stand up.

Mustafa was behind him a second later, lifting him to his feet. "The stairs."

"He called on the radio. They're already headed up."

"Don't care. We've got to try."

There was a stairwell at the far end of the hall, and they slammed through the doors, ready to shock anyone waiting. No one yet, but they heard noise below.

Bleeker said, "Didn't we just do this back in the Cities?"

Mustafa didn't answer. Checked over the railing. Pulled his head back quickly. "They're going to be coming from both sides, elevator and stairs."

More noise below.

They looked at each other, nodded. Headed back into the hall. The elevator was dinging. They got there in time for the doors to open and see four golf-shirted guards with guns ready. Before they could say a word, Bleeker and Mustafa let the Tasers go to work, then hopped one on each side of the doors. Lots of clamoring and yelling in the elevator and the tik tik tik tik tik tik of the electricity. The doors began to slide shut. Mustafa shouldered them open, fell in, Bleeker behind him, grabbing heads and slamming them against the walls of the elevator. The doors slid closed again. Two of the guards were still in shock, while the other fought hard. Bleeker grabbed a wrist, pushed the barrel of the pistol out of his face. Mustafa had grabbed one from a shocked guard.

The elevator lurched and Bleeker found the panel. All the buttons were lit. They were going up before going back down. No way. No fucking way.

Bleeker's guy clamped his free hand around Bleeker's neck. Squeezing tight. He couldn't take much more. He pulled his head back, broke the grip. Slammed his head forward, forehead to forehead. The guard dropped his gun. It clattered to the floor. Bleeker dove for it. Someone was grabbing his collar, nearly ripping the shirt off his back. Someone stepped on the back of his hand. He kicked at a leg or a face or-

The elevator dinged. Third floor. The doors opened. Bleeker turned to see more guards try to rush in. Everyone got slammed against the back wall. Mustafa got one of the stunned guards up on his knees, then standing, sort of, and shoved him against the new wave. They parted and the guy fell to the floor. Bleeker got wise, stood, his foot on the gun, and pushed another one to the doors, almost off. He caught his hands inside on both sides, tried to stay in. Mustafa was kicking, Bleeker was prying the fingers off. A guard behind Bleeker was biting his leg, trying to get the gun from under his feet.

A shot went off. Everyone flinched and pulled tight into themselves. Ricochet. The guard on the floor screamed. "Mu fuwing jhaw, da it, it hi' mu fuwing jhaw!"

He was on his hands and knees, blood dripping off his jaw all over the gun. Bleeker snatched it up, shook the blood off. All the guards had recoiled from the shot, stood back a good foot or two, all aiming for the elevator. Doing their, "Don't move!" and "Step into the hallway!" and "Get on your knees!" even though Bleeker and Mustafa had the same guns as the guards, waving them back and forth, a screaming guard on his knees behind them. But only one. They'd cleared the others out.

The doors dinged, started to close. One of the guards leapt forward to hold them open, but Bleeker shot him in the arm and he fell back. Mustafa was stabbing the Close Doors button. They finally slid shut. The elevator lurched. Skipped the second floor. Ground floor next.

"They'll be there. Maybe they'll start firing this time. Not even give us a chance."

Mustafa made a deep noise, looked down at the wounded guard, now on his ass holding his jaw. He looked weak. Blood drooling. Still moaning.

Mustafa reached down, a hand beneath his arm, and lifted him. Bleeker did the same on the other side. An arm over each shoulder. He'd lost blood, but he'd live. Maybe a doctor could put his jaw back together. Maybe not.

Mustafa said, "Follow my lead, okay? Whatever you do, keep moving."

The doors dinged open. Lots of guards. Lots. All of them aiming.

It was like Mustafa didn't even see them. Rushed straight out of the elevator shouting, "Man down! I need a doctor! Now! He's been shot! Hurry!"

Kept right on forward, all three of them. Shouting Mustafa, shouting guards, moaning guard, onward. What were they going to do, shoot at one of their own? Or shoot at Mustafa or Bleeker and risk them dropping the poor bastard?

"Ambulance! Hospital! We need to get him there quickly. Now. Come on." Mustafa pointed at some guards. "You, you, and you, come on. Get the doors."

If Derrick Iles had been there, he would've ordered his mercenaries to kill all three of them. But he was busy and this was a fellow guard and the mercs, all Americans, weren't going to have a shootout unless they got paid for it.

Two of the guards got the doors. Another came and took over for Mustafa, shouldering the weight.

"We'll get this. You need to stay put." Another right behind Bleeker. "I'll take it from here. You two can't leave. Stay here."

Then he whistled, said to the other guards, "Hey, come get these guys, cuff them or something."

But momentum carried them right out the doors, the guards, Bleeker, Mustafa. Outside, there were a handful of cars-guests, taxis, shuttles-but one beat-up red taxi began making a lot of noise. Horn blaring. Engine revving. Mustafa said, "Let's go!"

He and Bleeker ran for it, ducking low as the guards got wind and started firing. Opened the back door right as bullets slammed into it, came out the other side, barely missing both men. Warfaa in the driver's seat, already rolling even before they'd climbed inside. First Mustafa, then he turned, grabbed Bleeker's arms and pulled him in while his feet tried to keep up with the speed. Then off the ground, inside, slammed the door shut, and went rigid all over as the window beside him shattered, bullet blowing the stuffing out of the passenger seat. Another round cracked the back window. A tire exploded, rocked the car violently. But Warfaa kept going.

He said, "Who needs wheels? I got this!"

They ground along, the shrill metallic scrape making Bleeker cover his ears with his hands. He smelled the blood on his hands from the guard. Swallowed. Plenty of time to throw up on the plane home.

Mustafa pounded him on the back. "You ready?"

"Right now?"

"Has to be. We've got another car. Time's up."

They rounded a corner, then another. It felt as if they were going to flip and roll. But Warfaa kept control. A few minutes later, they pulled up behind a white Range Rover, one of the cousins standing outside. Warfaa slammed the car into park and nearly gave them all whiplash. He was out on the road while Bleeker was still fumbling for the handle. Jesus, here he thought that even after twenty years, all the Ranger training would have prepared him. Now he saw this was a whole new ballgame. He was an old man getting dragged along by young men who knew the rules had changed.

Out on the street, he stretched his back. People were staring at him. He was a white man with a torn shirt hanging off him, a pistol in his hand, drenched in blood. Made him grin. He walked to the Rover, climbed inside, and told the others-Mustafa, Warfaa, and two cousins-what his Rangers used to say to each other, even if they didn't mean it: "Let's go have some fun."