All the Young Warriors

THIRTY-TWO

Jibriil, jubilant outside of the tent. As if he hadn't blown his cool two minutes before. Big smile, chanting-no, not that. Leading the chant. When he moved, the swarm moved, the way clouds of birds did in a split second. Adem was out of sync, bumping into soldiers, stepping on boots, having to grab Jibriil to keep up. The leader took deliberate steps, guiding an army on feel alone. Adem remembered the last mob he was at the center of, and he was desperate to keep Jibriil in view.

The sand, thick in the air. Hard to see beyond ten, twelve, fifteen soldiers on all sides, but Adem could hear them. They were out there, chanting and singing and shooting into the air. How did this help them find the cop? Would he surrender because the odds were against him? Would they pin him under a bush and stomp the infidel out of him?

This was what it had come to. Adem wasn't leaving Somalia. He was going to be Jibriil's puppet, the celebrity face of this ragtag army after all, but without Sufia by his side. She'd always be there, somewhere in the camp, ready to be put on display for Adem whenever he steered off the path set out for him. The sharpest reminder of all, besides the raised scar on his neck.

"Death to the American!"

For a moment he forgot about the white cop. He was the American. So was Jibriil. And it could turn on them like that, couldn't it?

*

When Mustafa caught up to Bleeker, landing a heavy hand on the man's shoulder, the cop thought he'd been found out. A moment of panic, Bleeker seeing himself shooting his way out of the crowd, only to be filled with so much lead that he'd be a statue of himself.

But then Mustafa's voice at his ear: "Easy. Don't give yourself away."

How long until Chi got there with the Rover? They needed to find their way out of the crowd, a safe place on the edge where they could wait. But the sandstorm had gotten worse and the mob was swirling and they didn't know how far they had circled around the camp.

Mustafa pushed Bleeker to the left, the slightest force, to begin threading towards freedom. Dawit shouldered his way ahead of Bleeker. Couldn't be too obvious about what they were doing. It was a trigger-happy crowd. Didn't matter if it was an American they killed or not. Someone had to die now.

Like a dance, shuffling ahead, hop, shuffling ahead, hop. Death to the American! Death to the American!

Shuffle, shuffle. Hop. Shuffle, shuffle. Hop.

Bleeker tripped on his own boots. Going down. Crashed into Dawit and the soldiers ahead. They parted like the Red Sea, and Bleeker kept falling. Mustafa was right there, hands under his arms, lifting up, up, up, but getting nowhere. A shove from behind. Mustafa shouted for Dawit, who was fighting his way back against the tide of soldiers. More soldiers behind shoving, kicking, losing the rhythm of the chant, the shuffle, descending into chaos. Dawit, finally there, kneeling to help Bleeker. Other soldiers closing the part, trampling Bleeker's fingers, Dawit's legs, and some of the soldiers were now stopping to help, making it worse. Lifting Bleeker to his feet, pointing at his white hands, looking into his eyes, the white skin peeking through. They tugged at his scarf, Mustafa slapping hands away.

The scarf revealed more and more skin. More shouting, more pointing, hands reaching, Mustafa slapping them away, putting his back against Bleeker's, waving his gun. Fifteen hands on Mustafa's rifle, stripped from his grip before he could get off one shot. He looked over his shoulder. Dawit, also defenseless. Looked to the ground. Bleeker's rifle, off in the dust, picked up by one of the teenagers.

Someone gouged Bleeker's eye. He jerked away before they did any real damage. Someone tried to pull his scalp off. Someone shouted something about his crotch. Bleeker guessed it was someone holding a machete. All three of them, he could feel in the air, in the sand in his eyes and nose and mouth, in the chants hurting his ears, yes, all three of them were going to be ripped apart limb from limb by all these hands.

The only thing he could do was wait for it.

*

Like watching the skies for tornados, something about the crowd changed. Louder, more intense, the rhythm set by Jibriil thrown off by something up ahead, the effect rippling through the mass. Adem lifted his head, tip-toed, trying to find it. A clogged artery, stopping the flow of soldiers. Hands in the air, fingers pointing towards the center of the jam.

"They found the American! They found him!"

Adem heard it coming from all around, louder as more soldiers picked it up, carried on until all of the men surrounding him and Jibriil were telling them "They found the American!"

The smile of Jibriil's face faded. Staring ahead. Lips parted. Adem had never seen his friend like this before. As if power could somehow create new expressions, new personalities overnight. "Let me see."

"Jibriil wants to see! Let him through!"

It rippled back across the crowd, and a path opened through the men, always about five steps worth, closing again as soon as Jibriil and Adem passed by. The message still traveling forward: "Jibriil wants to see! Let him through!"

Adem thought about where he'd seen men walk the way Jibriil was walking right now-deliberately, reaching for outstretched hands, waving as if blessing the surrounding pilgrims. Like Castro, like Saddam Hussein, like Mugabe. The Pope. Those sorts of men. Jibriil had it down. He was a natural.

The opening ahead swelled wide. A handful of soldiers surrounding three men, holding their arms and legs while they fought. Their scarves had been stripped. When he saw Jibriil, Adem's dad let out a primal yell and lunged forward, breaking the grip of his captors. Dropped like dead weight when cracked on the back of the head with a rifle butt. Not out cold, but writhing. Bleeding.

The guy with the rifle was leaning over to take another whack.

Adem hit Jibriil on the shoulder, about to shout Stop him!

But Jibriil beat him, already wailing above the sandstorm howl. The rifle butt jerked to a halt in mid-swing.

Jibriil took slow, important-man steps towards Adem's dad, kneeled beside him. Adem stood over his shoulder. His dad's wound was caked with sand. He pushed himself up, got his knees under him. A string of blood and spit rolled to the ground.

Jibriil grabbed his chin, forced his dad to look into his eyes.

Said, "You'll never be part of my gang, son."

He dropped the chin, stood, and walked off, shouting orders in Somali. Guards grabbed Dawit, Bleeker, and Adem's dad, pushed them after Jibriil. Adem was left standing there, his fists balled up, no one to hit.