Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem)

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Even if the agent knew how to find Sufia, Adem hadn't come over to trap her or the people she worked for. He came to bring her back. And she would come this time. He just knew it. Adem had changed. He would approach her as a Godly man, obvious to anyone who walked by him on the street, radiating purpose and light.

  But he now understood she wasn't here in Sana'a. She never had been. He was way off.

  Outside, other cars on the road nearly made him forget he was in Yemen, but he only felt at home in Minnesota. It smelled right. The air filled him the right way. He didn't like that here in the womb of his religion, with the holiest lands in all Islam only a half-day's drive north, he would never feel like he belonged. If he'd really come for the pilgrimage, that longing to belong would have been his most ardent prayer. Let me belong to You, to This, to Something.

  Instead, Adem had come for a girl, and she was a girl worth staying for, regardless of how her soft face had been turned into a horror story of scars, holes, and crust. He would have given his life for what was behind her wire-rimmed glasses and London-educated English. He should have, rather than running away from her. This time she would realize that.

  "You can let me off here."

  The driver pulled to the curb. Adem handed over some money and some thanks and got out. The cab pulled away and Adem headed back the way he'd just come. If he'd only thought about it sooner instead of panicking. A long way to walk.

  FIVE

  Dragoslav liked Taco John's. Mustafa had watched him get drive-thru three times the last day and a half. Of all the choices in the chain-store haven of Bloomington, why Taco John's? The Midwestern barely-a-taco shop was famous for its "potato ole" side dish. Tater tots. At a taco shop. Really.

  A few calls got Mustafa the info he needed on the motherfucker. Kidfucker, whatever. Fled to Africa near the end of the Croatian war against the Serbs, where he'd done massive damage as a squad leader—rape and torture was something they did to pass the time. He'd been able to sell his services in Egypt and Somalia to whoever paid him the most or found him the youngest pussy or the best heroin. Dragoslav was rolling in it. In Africa, killing was easier than it had been in the Croat Army. Then some sex traffickers hired him with promises of more money and more young pussy. Now he was something like the official "chaperone" for any Somali girls headed Minnesota-way. He knew how to work the system, get the packages to the States intact—maybe a little bruised and "less than fresh"—without attracting too much attention.

  He had to report to someone other than Lady Chablis eventually. Mustafa wanted to know who.

  Mustafa trailed him down I-494 after he'd picked up the burritos and tater tots on his way back from another meeting, supposedly with the Lady herself. Dragoslav liked to stay down in Bloomington, the hotels near the Mall of America, because he liked to style it. Total clotheshorse. He wore the stuff he thought Americans thought was cool. He was kind of wrong.

  He also liked free parking and indoor pools.

  Mustafa had figured it all out. It took a day and a half. Would've been much easier if Heem hadn't started the war. Much much easier if he could just get one of his foot soldiers to do this for him, but he knew, just knew knew knew they'd fuck it up. The Prince had turned away from "smart" long ago and recruited a lot of poseurs who thought their every move was being filmed for a Hollywood movie. How had they stayed out of jail so long?

  Dragoslav pulled away in his rented Challenger. Pathetic. Why rent a car you'd never have a chance to open up? Traffic, traffic everywhere. The man just wanted to look cool. Looking cool meant getting noticed. Mustafa knew how to not get noticed. His Buick Roadmaster was an old man's car that no one paid a lick of attention to. They circled the Mall, a Delta jet coming in for a landing at the airport, practically next door. A kid's bouncy castle was set up in the Mall parking lot next to some booths and a radio station's gaudy van. KTCH! THE HITS FROM NOW AND THEN AND THEN AGAIN or something. No time to look. Mustafa knew where his prey was headed anyway. Dragoslav had never stayed in the same hotel twice until he'd stayed at the Radisson. Guess they gave him a little extra. Maybe he liked a teenage night desk girl. Maybe they didn't have the best security camera coverage. Maybe they had a better porn selection.

  Dragoslav pulled into a parking spot way out from the hotel. It was his habit. Mustafa pulled up right by the door, slipped a phony Disabled rearview hanger in place, lensless glasses over his eyes. Dragoslav wouldn't pay the Buick any attention, but just in case he was suspicious, the glasses would throw him off. So Mustafa hoped.

  But the Serb in the leather jacket got out of the Challenger and walked tall and cocky past all the cars and into the hotel without even a glance. Even with the thick padding over his broken nose, purple under his eyes, and other bandages for the cuts Mustafa had inflicted, this guy walked like a badass. He disappeared past the sliding glass doors. Mustafa relaxed, but knew he would have to move. He would go in, ask the desk clerk a typical touristy question and would be instantly forgotten. Then he would camp out in the restaurant lot next door and wait.

  So he went in, acted like he needed directions to Target Field, and then settled into the Buick at the rear of the family seafood joint while the smell of frying fish lulled him. How long? Maybe a couple of hours. If Dragoslav wasn't on the move by then, he would go back to Heem's house, which he had taken over, call Teeth and check on the new packages, find out who else Chablis and her people were delivering to. No room for competition in this business. Not if he wanted to do it right. Then he would come back. If the Challenger was here, he would wait, see where the man spent his nights. Mustafa would call his wife and apologize, and she would tell him not to worry. They were in this together.

  The air smelled like old grease. Mustafa hated pissing into a two-liter pop bottle. His back was throbbing. The radio set him on edge but it kept him distracted enough from his own thoughts to keep him focused on the Challenger.

  It was a soft brake squeal that made him turn, a car parking right next to him. A Honda Accord that had been made-over into some sort of rolling art exhibit. A "ricer". Big spoiler on back, wide rims, low-riding body kit, and a red-to-purple pearl paintjob. Beautiful. It reminded Mustafa of the car he'd owned before the Buick, a yellow one. Everyone knew it was him, always. That was a plus back then.

  He looked at the driver and passengers. Should've looked at them first before admiring the ride because they're the ones who might shoot you, not the car. Hmong boys, all shapes and sizes. There was a big bruiser getting out of the back, wifebeater tee under a short-sleeved checkered shirt, tattooed from the left side of his neck all the way down to his fingers. He walked around to the other side of Mustafa's car, opened the passenger door, and stood waiting.

  The front passenger, spiky hair up top but a mullet in the back, stared through oily sunglasses. Said, "Kong wants to talk to you."

  Kong was in the backseat. Pullover polo, looked like a Hilfiger. Looked like anybody. Nothing distinctive. Regular guy haircut. Mall clothes, well-known brands. Three dots around his right eye—tattoo—but if you didn't look close enough you'd think those were moles. He didn't dress gangsta, didn't act gangsta, but he'd cut a lot of guys and held a lot of grudges. You did not want to be on the bad side of his piece of the Asian Crips. Called themselves River Leopards. RLTC.

  Mustafa nodded. "Anytime."

  Kong opened his door, got out. Slightly baggy jeans, old-school Nikes he probably bought an hour ago. He looked around, then made his way to the opened door. He said a few words to his man before he eased himself into the Buick. He pursed his lips. "Surprisingly comfortable."

  "Thanks."

  The big man shut the door softly and turned away, crossed his arms. Mustafa was sure the spiky-haired guy had him covered just in case. RLs ran prepared, always bet on that.

  Kong rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. "Jesus, Bahdoon, what the fuck are you doing?"

  "I didn't start it. All the boy had to do was—"

  "Didn't start it, shi
t, like, you're the architect. I know all about you, you know."

  Mustafa remembered Kong when he was a tween back in the day. Skinny and wore shorts a lot. His big brother pretended to be a Crip. Hung out with Crips and got high, but wasn't ever, like, full-fledged. Little brother, though, was whip-smart and told some of these slackers in his basement how to make some serious money if they had someone with brains to help them out, keep them out of trouble. Got himself a big but stupid street-wise guy as a front, but Mustafa knew better. It was always Kong, and Kong didn't put up with shit. Shit equaled anything that might get him exposed.

  Kong kept going. "You were living the big dream. You survived. You didn't go down, didn't go out. Why are you back? And what's the war supposed to distract us from?"

  Mustafa tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. The Challenger was still there. If Dragoslav hopped in while they were talking, then Kong was getting a ride. No doubt. Might be the death of Bahdoon, but it would have to happen. "You know what Heem's been into lately?"

  "I keep out of that shit."

  "But you know, right?"

  "You even have to ask?" A huff. "Like I got all day for your story."

  Pointed at the hotel. "Then you know who's in there."

  "The Serb. Yeah, got it. You're not listening. Why is the Big Bad Bahdoon doing this? Why aren't you in a penthouse on a throwaway phone talking to foot soldiers? Why are you out here where anyone can find you?"

  "He reports to someone. I need to know who."

  "Okay, you're trying to get rid of the middlemen. Without Chablis in on it..." He paused, stared off like he was thinking it through. Then his cell buzzed and he checked the text. Fast-fingered a reply and shoved it away. "Makes sense, you're in to take that action for yourself. Why would they want you instead of her? All they know about you is you fucked up a couple of their guys. Took down the Prince, busted up the Serb, and now you're sneaking around parking lots. You're losing them money."

  "I'm paid up."

  Shook his head. "Not what I heard. Took yourself a discount for damaged goods. For whores? You getting principled over him fucking girls that you're going to sell to get fucked anyway?"

  "That's not his choice. My customers don't need this guy's prick poking where it shouldn't. Shit, they got enough to worry about. Chablis is getting sloppy, her people need to know it. I can get rid of the Serb, put my man in there. Chablis will work for me."

  Kong didn't look him in the eye the whole spiel. He stared out the side window, fingers rubbing his chin. "Shit, you're crazy, nigga, you're just...shit. Thought you'd do your research, old man like you."

  Mustafa let the nigga slide, for now. "What else do you know?"

  Another one of those scoffs. "Like it's that easy. I'm just going to tell you?"

  "Fine with me. You want this war to suck your crew in, I can't help it. Things just happen."

  "You'd threaten a Crip?"

  "I'd threaten you."

  Another cell phone buzz, but Kong ignored it. "I came here as a friend. Never had trouble with you. I respect you getting out while you were on top. Nothing ever stuck to you. Coming back like this isn't good for anybody. End this war or I will cut you down."

  He was so intense on Kong that Mustafa had forgotten about the guys in the other car. A hand on his shoulder made him jump. The driver of Kong's Honda. Kid squeezed until Mustafa calmed his ass back down.

  "Thanks for the advice."

  Kong sniffed. "Fuck you."

  He nodded, barely, and the hand slipped away. The hulk opened the passenger door and Kong was gone just like that. Mustafa didn't watch the Honda as it drove away. He didn't react much of any way. He kept watching the hotel entrance and the Challenger. He watched for three more hours. When nothing happened, he went home. His real home.

  *

  Mustafa sat with Idil at the kitchen table and they drank hot spiced tea together. Arms crossed. Heads bowed, close.

  He whispered, "You would think I could...I could have had this all handed to me, but they're hiding stuff. Hiding it from me. That's how little they think of me now. I didn't expect this."

  "There was probably a better way. Why couldn't you have called in a few favors? Asked a few questions?"

  "I don't know. He asked me to keep it quiet—"

  "Not for this. He didn't ask you to take over the Killaz. That was all you. You wanted to be a hero. I went along with it. Blame me."

  "I can't."

  "I know. So there's nothing we can say. No remorse. Do what you need to do and get out."

  She made a good point. Would he have granted a favor like this? It didn't matter. The question had to be would Heem have done so, and Mustafa didn't think he would have. Even if he had, Heem would've wanted something in return. But Idil cut right through it all. Yes, he wanted to be a hero. Yes, he wanted to be top dog again after all those years at the warehouse. Yes, he wanted to do something big.

  "You should call him, you know." Idil lifted her eyes. "He's called me several times while you've been gone."

  Mustafa nodded. Three days out of the house, sleeping in Heem's ridiculous "HQ". Ornate bed, satin sheets, just like a rap star's crib, sure. He'd seen them on TV. He'd watched them talking about muthafuckas and bitches and weed while standing next to an 18th century Chesterfield or some sort of British Colonial bedroom suite. Yeah. Ridiculous.

  Mustafa pushed back from the table, eased himself tall. Knees were aching, too much time in the car. He leaned down, kissed his wife's cheek. She turned her lips towards him for another, then went back to her tea, both hands clasped around the cup. Mustafa went into the other room to call his cousin Chi in Kenya. Unfortunately, he didn't have much good news to tell him. Yet.

  SIX

  At an internet café several blocks off the boulevard, Adem tracked his phone. He hadn't thought he would be using the app to hunt down his own phone somewhere in Yemen, but had hoped his dad could use the service to find him if something bad happened. Now something bad had happened and he was turning it all around.

  The café was a second-floor apartment, two rooms full of computers, some older, some newer, some laptops, with a heavy smell of someone's dinner still in the air. It was crowded and he heard banging pots in the kitchen. There were little internet cafes all over, the perfect new home business, cheap and busy. Anonymous.

  Unless the CIA had a way to keep tabs of each and every one of them. Adem had to risk it. He got a hit on the phone, wrote down the address and disappeared into the streets again for a while, walking around the same block several times to see if he noticed anything unusual. Could he really spot a tail, even if he knew what to look for? Did one of those hijabs look familiar each pass, the eyes behind it watching? He didn't know how it all worked here, the layers of everyday life. Men gathered in doorways chewing khat and talking sports. Teenagers and kids carried jugs for water, plastic containers for fuel. There were long lines waiting for everyday basics at stores, and it took a few tries to catch the order in the chaos.

  When he had no reason to wait any longer, Adem walked back to the main street and grabbed a cab, asked to be dropped off several blocks from his destination. It was getting cooler, less crowded, and he didn't have much cover. What was he going to find at this location anyway? An embassy? A safe house? Or his CIA contact chewing khat and apologizing to his superiors?

  Instead Adem found just another building. No clues, no sign of an American presence or Jacob or anything out of the ordinary, and he wondered if his man had moved on since the trace. He doubted it. He pulled out a disposable phone he'd bought at the airport and hidden on himself before meeting Hasan. He had three of them.

  He called his own smart phone.

  A few rings. Did Jacob even realize he had the thing on him?

  Someone picked up. The voice was familiar. "Adem, don't hang up, just listen."

  "I'm not going to let you track me."

  "We can find you in less than a minute."

  "Then good-bye—"
<
br />   "No, wait, we want to get you out of Yemen. You're a target. If these people get you, they own the pirates, so they hear. I'm telling you, we're on your side."

  "Where would I go?"

  "Let's worry about that later. Work with us and you can take her back. They can perform surgery. She'll be beautiful again."

  It was tempting, but did they really know where she was after all, or were they bluffing the same as Hasan? Even with all the resources of the CIA, would they follow through on their promise or was this all a sham?

  He didn't have long to decide. He hung up the phone and tossed it, stepped on it. He walked around the building, keeping an eye out. Had they found him? He kept going a few more blocks, pulled out another disposable, and called back.

  Jacob answered, "Don't do that again."

  "Where is she?"

  "You can't do it on your own. We'll find you if you try."

  "Just tell me where she is and I'll decide."

  "I can't. That's not what we're going to do. Adem, I know you're close by. You should look over your shoulder. If you hang up this time, our people will grab you and the deal is off. At least I'm letting you walk through the front door on your own."

  "Okay, Jacob, so now I know."

  Adem hung up, crushed the phone, and realized he had to cut ties—his real passport, his phone, his bag. He was a fugitive again. A glance over his shoulder. Was that the same red hijab from earlier? Come on, he'd seen hundreds like it. No way. He walked straight on, plenty of money in his pocket for a room, for food, for a boat ride out of the country. As he suspected, no one was waiting to pick him up. It was all typical American bluster.

  He needed more time, more research. Maybe she never left Somalia. So that's where he needed to be. But first he needed to get back into character, play the role of Mr. Mohammed. He would need to shave his head and buy a gray suit, wire-rimmed glasses like Sufia's. He would need to take a job to rebuild his reputation. After one of those, he should be able to sweet talk the info he wanted out of his people, the true believers who thought he was some sort of saint. Most of the stories about him weren't true, of course. Why not use that to his advantage?