All the Young Warriors

THIRTY-ONE

The sandstorm at full strength, they ducked under an empty tent, half reeds and sticks, half a torn sheet, enough holes in it to keep it from filling like a sail. Huddled together, trying to hide Bleeker from the others. They'd already made a sling from the dead guard's scarf in order to hide one of his hands. He'd shoved the other in his pocket, slung the rifle over his shoulder.

The celebration gave them good cover, Mustafa asking what it was all about, translating for Bleeker. A dead novelist. Criticize Islam in public too much, and you're a target. Say something about the Prophet, draw a picture of him, and that's reason enough to die. It pissed Bleeker off. Some fucking wannabe Bin Laden gunned down Cindy and that was justifiable, but should Bleeker ever say something un-PC about lunatic Muslims on TV, then mobs of thousands all over the world believed he was the worst of the worst. Fuck culture, fuck tolerance. When he got back to Minnesota, he was going to retire and retreat up north, the woods, and hope never to see another Muslim for as long as he lived.

"What now?"

Mustafa glanced around, a pained expression. "If you want to find Jibriil, we need to ask around, find out if anyone's seen him. If that's what you still want."

Mustafa looked at him. Blank. Whatever it took. But Bleeker knew. Whatever it took now that he'd found Adem. As long as he was safe. Bleeker thought about Warfaa, shot and gutted for helping them. About the others who had lost their lives up in Bosaso. What was more important in the long run?

Maybe one day he would journey back to this shithole on his time. Plenty of time once he retired. He'd find the son of a bitch then, take the time to plan a proper assassination. Cold blooded instead of warm. A long-range hunting rifle instead of up-close, the way Jibriil shot a pregnant woman in the face. Jibriil would never see it coming. Bleeker would live to enjoy it instead of being cut down by the fanatics.

Cold. Just the way he liked it.

"Let's get out of here," he told Mustafa. "We've got Adem. This was a mistake. I'm done."

"You sure?"

Bleeker let out a deep breath. Next year. Take time to prepare. Cold. He nodded.

He could tell that Mustafa was relieved. Like he shrunk three inches, all the tension held in his muscles flowing out, carried away by the wind. Mustafa pulled out his cell phone, called Chi. He covered his mouth with his hand, pressed the phone tight against his ear. He still had to shout. Bleeker watched. All he had to do was give the guy a landmark, maybe half a mile away, tell him to come pick them up. But Mustafa's voice was growing even louder. Louder still. Bleeker couldn't make it out against the gunfire and shouting and the sand. Outside, he heard the celebrations turn into one uniform Arabic chant: "Death to the American!"

Had to be him.

Mustafa was yelling now. He stood, hunched over in the tent. Cursing in Somali. Bleeker knew those words well. Heard them every weekend in New Pheasant Run from the kids.

Mustafa took the phone from his ear, cut the call. Stared at the ground. "Adem's gone. He left."

"Where'd he-"

"Looking for her. Off looking for her. Chi couldn't shoot him. Shit. It's my fault."

Nothing to say. The chanting outside began to thunder. Mustafa caught onto what they were saying. "No."

"We knew they'd figure it out."

"Not now. How do we know they mean you?"

"You saw how they treated Adem. Guy's a star."

Dawit shook his head. "But a star who makes a mistake…" A finger sliced across the neck.

Mustafa flexed his fingers on both hands. "Shit! Goddamnit!"

Death to the American!

Death to the American!

Bleeker stood. "Let's go march with them."

"What?"

"It looks better than hiding out here. We go out, march, chant, what are they going to do?"

"You stick out like a sore dick."

"There are a few white guys here, right? Like they'll know."

Outside, boots, all marching the same direction. A few faces looked their way. A few more would follow suit. They had to get out of there, the only way.

Bleeker unslung his rifle, held it up high, and shouted in Arabic, "Death to the American! Death to the American! Islam forever!"

He headed out into the crowd, the intensity of the sand surprising him. Carried along with the flow. "Death to the American!"

He turned his head as far as he could. Mustafa and Dawit finally emerged from the tent, struggled to catch up. Bleeker looked ahead again, no idea where he was going, but chanting for his own death the whole way as he blinked sand out of his eyes.