All the Young Warriors

THIRTY-THREE

Jibriil led them to the tree where Warfaa's body swung in the wind. The longer he was dead, the more horrified the look on his face. Impossible, but Bleeker would've sworn to it. Jibrill had pointed and barked orders, and soldiers threw ropes over branches, one uncomfortably close to Warfaa. Three ropes. Who was getting the reprieve? Adem? Was he a traitor after all?

Adem had followed a few minutes after the rest of them were forced along behind Jibriil. He had stayed quiet while that thug beat up on Mustafa. He wasn't tied up. He seemed to fit cozily back into his old spot at Jibriil's side. Made Bleeker rethink all that talk about Cindy's murder being Jibriil's idea alone. Like it mattered anymore. He wouldn't get within five feet of Jibriil before they strung all of them from the tree, sliced balls to throat.

Soldiers forced Dawit, Mustafa, and Bleeker to their knees. Adem watched from over Jibriil's shoulder.

How was this going to happen? Shot then gutted? Or gutted first, then strung up, or strung up first, then gutted?

Jibriil raised his arms high. The chanting, babbling, and laughing from his army came to a gradual stop, only the wind and the sand left to speak over.

Some sort of speech. Bleeker would've preferred they go straight to the gutting.

Jibriil raised his voice, in English. Another of his soldiers translated for him. "Glorious day! We have reached across the desert to Europe, and struck a blow! And on the same day, America has come to us! Stumbled in, as it usually does, trying to be the hero. But look at them! They are fools! Pathetic, bleeding, and easy to slaughter! And our own Mr. Mohammed has brought them to us on a silver platter!"

No longer the smug teenager Mustafa had told him about. No, this Jibriil sounded like a leader. Damn near a god to these kids. Fewer than a handful of months in the war zone had changed him into this. Must have been lurking under the surface his whole life, waiting for a chance to rise. All it took was a lot of killing. A whole lot of murder without consequence.

"Where's the camera?" Jibriil searched the crowd. Always someone videotaping it all. A couple of soldiers with cameras nudged out of the crowd. Jibriil told one to circle the captives, linger on their faces individually. The other stood back, the wider shot, the whole scene in panorama.

He had the camera turned to him. "So let's show the world what we're capable of. Let's-"

"That's enough!" Adem's voice, drowning out Jibriil. Almost a howl. He stepped up to his friend, pushed the camera out of the way. "That's enough of the show. You can't kill them."

Jibriil's chest swelled. "I can do anything I want. What, you want a favor, now? I've saved you so many times already."

"No, forget saving me. Forget all of it. You're not going to kill him or that cop. We all know that. I'm tired of all this. It's not a game."

"Yeah it is." Smile. "It's a game all right. It's the only game we've got. And, goddamn, son, we're winning!"

Bleeker strained to hear. The cameraman was getting in his face again, zooming in, out, in. Adem kept on, "We're not winning anything. It's the same every day. You don't want to win, you just want to play."

"Fuck off." He pushed Adem, sent him back a few steps. Adem stepped up.

Louder. "If this is what you want, fine, but let them take me back to the States. This isn't for me. I can't do it, man. I'm done! Let them take me home."

Bleeker felt as the boys fit a loop of rope around his ankles. He looked over. Dawit and Mustafa hadn't been fitted with theirs yet. They were running out of time. Bleeker could do it. He could get out of this. He could make a run. But then the others would be left behind. How far could he get? One ranger against all these guys, trigger-happy, bloodthirsty. Bored.

What if he killed Jibriil? Then the attention of the mob would be focused on him. Mustafa could grab Adem, lose himself in the crowd until the Rover came for them.

That's what he had to do. Shit. They'd tear him apart. But that's what he had to do. He wobbled, got one knee off the ground and set his foot in front of him. The boys yelled. They cinched the rope around his other ankle, tried to pull him down. He stood, turned on them. Hopping on one leg. He reached for the rope, held on tight, pulled it right through the hands of his captors.

He had slack enough to get the loop off his ankle when he was hit by a truck. No, not a truck. A brick wall. A giant fist made of iron. God himself. His back. He reached behind him, grabbed hold. Hurt more when he grabbed it. Fell forward. His hand was wet and sticky. His head was still overloaded with the shock of impact.

Mustafa at his side. "Shit, Ray, shit, stay still. Shit, don't move."

"I've gotta. I can't…you know. Jesus Christ. What…what…?"

"Don't move, I swear, man, don't move."

A peek over his shoulder. Every muscle in him screamed not to do it, not to look.

Jibriil. Holding his pistol. Grim but satisfied.

Bleeker rolled his eyes. Of course. Fuck that guy.