All the Young Warriors

TWENTY-SEVEN

The only reason to take Bleeker as a hostage was because he was white and they could make demands, get attention, before doing unspeakable things to him. Some while alive. Most after he was dead.

He didn't know if Warfaa was alive or dead, limp like a scarecrow between two soldiers. They'd been walking a half hour, it felt like. But the sun was too bright for him to place it in the sky and follow it. All he could do was look down and try to create enough saliva to keep from drying out. He was determined not to ask these bastards for water. Sand in his boots, his socks. Grinding against his skin, creating blisters, then grinding into the blisters.

It didn't matter what shape he was in when he got to his destination. All he wanted was a chance at Jibriil. He'd hidden the blade. A stiletto. He'd taken off the handle, wrapped the bottom in electrical tape. Enough so he could grip it without slicing all his fingers at once. Flat. Taped to his shin.

Fuck Mustafa. Fuck Adem. Fuck justice. This was exactly what he'd wanted.

The streets were thicker with soldiers now, much closer to home, Bleeker guessed. Some of the boys were ignoring him, on their cell phones. Excited. Others stared at him as if he was a zoo exhibit. Chants. More of that inane laughter that made his skin crawl like he was cold in spite of the broiling heat. He could feel the sweat on his skin boil away.

The army had taken over the neighborhood. Buildings were teeming with soldiers, looking more like some kind of orphanage than an HQ, all the kids running around. A few women, the only ones who seemed to being doing any work, carrying supplies for dinner. Guns everywhere. A group of children on his left, looking up at him, all dragging rifles in the dirt.

Then there were the tents past the buildings, all made of rough tarp, held up on tall poles with heavy rope. Heading for one of those. The man in front swept open the flap and held it for the two men carrying Warfaa. Then it fell in Bleeker's face. He pushed through in time to see Warfaa being dropped to the floor. Warfaa screamed. Alive, good, alive. How much pain? How much life left?

Bleeker went to him, turned him onto his back. He'd been shot twice. Both on his left side. His shirt was gummy with blood, his breathing like a train on bad tracks. Bleeker looked back. What was Somali for "Doctor"? His Somalis all said "Doc-tar" but that was English, right? He tried it: "Doc-tar. He needs a doc-tar."

The first man came over, looked over Bleeker's shoulder at the blood. "Doctor, yes. No. No doctor."

Bleeker pointed at the blood. "Yes, Doctor! Come on." Bleeker found where the bullet had made a hole in the fabric, stuck his finger in. Warfaa gritted his teeth and whined. Bleeker ripped the shirt open wide. Rifle bullets. Full jackets. In and out, no massive exit wounds. The shirt had helped soak up the blood, hold it close to the wound. Now there was more blood flowing. Bleeker freaked, pulled the scarf from around his neck and shoved it against the wounds. More screaming. More shouting, "Doctor! Doctor! Goddamn it, get a doctor!"

One of the men mocked him, trying on a Minnesota accent: "Dok-tor! Dok-tor!" His buddies laughed.

Bleeker stood, ready to grab the man closest to him. "Listen, you-"

Rifle stock to the gut. Put him to the floor. The soldier lifted his boot, pressed it against Bleeker's face. Pushed his nose to the side, pushed until Bleeker's face was touching dirt. Then a last, dismissive shove that tore the skin under Bleeker's eye.

The soldier knelt beside Bleeker, said, "You lose head, American. You will beg for mecry."

"Fuck that right now. What about him?"

The soldier spit onto the ground by Warfaa's feet. "Hang him in tree, let him bleed."

Two other soldiers got up, each grabbing one of Warfaa's feet, and dragged him out of the tent. Bleeker scrambled to get up, to latch onto Warfaa's arm. More screams. More soldiers using their rifles as clubs to beat Bleeker back. He had Warfaa's wrist. Bleeker's hand covered in blood. Slipping. Slipping. A couple of whacks to the back of Bleeker's head. Slipped.

Warfaa was gone. Out of the tent flap, his screams loud then less so then faint.

The soldier kneeling by Bleeker smiled. "You're next."

He left the tent. Bleeker heard him shout a couple of names. Moments later, a handful of gun-wielding teenagers swarmed inside, took up posts all around the tent. One of them held up a knife. Nasty looking thing. Pointed it at Bleeker.

"Your neck. Mine. It's mine."

Bleeker sat up and pulled his knees to his face, wrapped his arms around. They weren't going to cut his fucking head off, not these kids. If he was going to go, he'd be fighting. A bullet. Not by fucking knife in front of a camera.

Or if it had to be like that, he'd demand that Jibriil do it. The only way. Jibriil had to be man enough to do it himself. And Bleeker would sure as shit bite the hand that held the blade.