All the Young Warriors

TWENTY-FOUR

The African teenager coming out of the hotel wore a summer shirt, a fedora, and was already running at a good clip when the two cousins posing as police stopped him. Mustafa said, "He's the one that was with Adem just now."

That was all it took. Bleeker climbed out of the Rover while Mustafa tried to pull him back in. Had to be Jibriil. Had to be. Single-minded. Bleeker got to him as he tried to shamble away from the cousins and gave him a vicious crack on the head with the butt of his pistol. He went down. Bleeker straddled him, turned him over, and punched the living shit out of him. Nose, teeth, eye, jaw. Rained down his right fist over and over. The cousins stood back, had no idea what to do. Same with the doorman and Iles's guards. The media cameras immediately swung around, red lights blazing on all of them. The cousins lifted their guns, shouted at the cameramen and the journalists, scattered them back into the hotel or out into the streets while Bleeker kept punching, finally dragged off the kid by Mustafa, dragged back to the Rover. The cousins lifted the teenager by his armpits. He was woozy, dripping blood. They led him to the van that had met them on the way to the hotel.

Warfaa had gone inside, undercover as an Interpol agent, with two fake cops. These two had stayed outside. Another couple of cousins were somewhere else in the city, preparing for the next step. The whole plan was simply to get Adem and Jibriil into the vehicles and get out of there before anyone realized what had happened. But seeing the arrogant bastard trying to escape, Bleeker had to…well, had to do something. The cousins were more than capable of handling it, but Bleeker didn't want to watch anymore. He'd heard of Jibriil shooting Cindy secondhand. He'd heard about the recruitment of the Minneapolis Somalis. He'd seen Adem on a laptop screen negotiating for pirates. He was tired of letting others handle what should have been his.

So yeah, it was his turn.

Then Warfaa came out with Adem, got him into the Rover. Then Iles figured it out and started a firefight. Then Warfaa and his cousins got the Rover away, but the van had remained. And Bleeker watched his chance at revenge fade behind them.

Until Adem and Mustafa told him the boy he'd beaten so severely wasn't Jibriil anyway.

Later, after dumping the Rover and making their way to a warehouse where the cousins had set up a temporary rest stop, Adem explained who Garaad was, why he was in the picture. Explained how Jibriil was now an officer with the ragtag army in Mogadishu.

But it wasn't Bleeker's party. Mustafa and Adem, a big embrace as soon as they could all take a moment to breathe again, the kid asking about his mom, other family and friends, Mustafa making fun of the suit, the shaved head. Bleeker didn't think Adem seemed the murdering type. Definitely not the soldiering type. He waited at the door, looking out into the dark, listening to the small talk. He finally shook his head and let out the breath he was holding. He marched up to Adem.

"You were in the car that night in New Pheasant Run. You swear you didn't fire a shot? Not a single shot?"

Adem raised his palms. Eyes wide. "I didn't even touch a gun, I promise! I didn't know he had a gun! I pleaded with him to let it go, to leave the police alone. But I couldn't stop him. I wanted to, but he didn't listen. I'm sorry. The poor woman. I'm so sorry."

Bleeker cut him off with a growl. "Why? Why did you come here? What's all this about?"

A shrug. He'd seen the same shrug from many Somali teenagers. Hell, he'd seen it from plenty of Hispanic, Nepalese, and white teenagers, too. As if the only answer to any question anymore was I don't know.

Adem said, "He was my friend. I…it was something new. I needed to know if it was real."

Mustafa said, "So how about it?"

Adem shook his head. "It's not like they're wrong about everything. But they're doing it the wrong way. That's the hardest thing to get your head around. Why would they do what they do to other people? Every little thing. Killers and sadists telling people how to live or something terrible will happen to them."

Bleeker snorted. "Whole fucking religion."

Adem turned to Bleeker, finding some energy. "No, it's not. Not at all. It's…like, Sufia. I met this girl, see? She was great. I thought she was, anyway. I don't know. She's brilliant. She went to school in London, and she knows English and Arabic and Somali like me, but also French and Portuguese. And she's strong, you know? Sort of like a feminist, something like that, but she's a believer. And she's loyal. And she wants them, those boys in the army, her whole family, she wants them to be better."

"That's not going to happen."

"Not in a week. Not in a year. Maybe not ten years. But, who knows, right?"

Bleeker grinned. "Sounds to me like you want to get laid."

Mustafa backhanded Bleeker's shoulder. Not hard, but enough. "Don't."

Nothing else to say for a long moment. Dark in the warehouse except for a couple of small kerosene lamps floating around the vehicles as the remaining cousins checked for bullet holes. Warfaa was on the phone. Bleeker couldn't pick up the entire conversation, but the tone and the tears told him he was letting his family know that they had lost two men. Mustafa's cousins, but probably Warfaa's brother, uncle, or nephew. All to help Mustafa, a man Warfaa hadn't spoken to in decades. It left Bleeker feeling tired, like all his vengeance wasn't worth the price these others were paying.

Mustafa said, "Adem, is the girl in town? Is she going to be alright?"

"Gone." Cleared his throat. "I think Jibriil's men took her back. Or she left on her own. I don't know. That's the worst part."

Bleeker said, "You'll meet a good one back home. Have some fun first, don't get so serious."

"You think love is about fun? Is that why I feel like my stomach is full of bile? Because it's fun?" Adem, in Bleeker's face. Surprised him. He shoved his hands in his pockets and let the kid go on. "She's special. She's good. I have to know if we had a chance together."

"You're talking about going back to Mogadishu?"

"If she's there, you know. All I need to do is ask."

Mustafa said, "No way. No, we're not going there. They already tried to cut your head off once."

"You'll be with me this time"

"Who said?"

"That's why you're here, right? You want to help me?"

Mustafa got in Adem's face, reached up and loosened the fancy tie that complemented the fancy suit. He spoke softly, but hard. "I am here. To take. You. Home. Period."

Adem blinked. More. Then said, "What about Jibriil?"

"He made his choice. We should go."

Adem stepped back, rolled his shoulders and fixed his suit, slipped his tie flush to his collar. "I'm going to find Sufia. You can go home without me."

Bleeker heard Mustafa's breathing, growing louder. His back muscles tightened through the shirt, relaxed. "Ungrateful. What was about to happen back there at the hotel? Who was that shadowing you, the one Ray beat up? Should I take you back, drop you off with Derrick Iles?"

"I'm grateful, don't you see? I am. I am so happy to see you. But it's not that easy. I can't leave her. And, and, Jibriil, you can't leave him. It's not-"

Mustafa didn't even let him finish before unleashing, full volume: "I can and I will!" Waited for Adem to shut up. "We're driving out of here tonight and flying home tomorrow. We'll find an American Embassy and sort out your passport. That's the way it is. I will not tell your mother that I had you, saved you, and then let you go, like some fish or something."

"I'm not leaving!"

"You fucking well are!"

Bleeker said, "Adem?"

He turned. Maybe a lot of bluster in the kid, but he was scared.

Bleeker said, "I'll go with you. Back to Mogadishu."

"Just you?"

Shrug. "I want to talk to your friend. So I'll go with you."

Mustafa stepped between Bleeker and Adem, leaning in close, whispering to the cop, "What are you doing? You can't."

"I told you when I signed up. I've got to. Same as he's got to find this woman."

"You want me to fly home empty handed?"

Bleeker tried to grin. Not much to it. "I don't want you to go home at all. Not yet."

Mustafa turned his head, looked at Adem over his shoulder. Then back to Bleeker. "You're white. Very white."

"I thought we were done with that."

"I didn't mean your skin."

Mustafa walked off, began speaking Somali to his cousin Warfaa. It got loud. It got animated, hands waving, stabbing the air. Mustafa angrier and angrier, but in the end it seemed he won out over Warfaa, who stalked off, talked to the cousins. Solemn nods. Time to pack up.

But Bleeker heard Adem sigh. He turned to the kid. "What?"

Adem laughed. "Dad told him we're going to Mogadishu."