Stupid, Adem. You're not ready for this.
He waved his hand towards the table, stepped to the chair at the closest end, and sat down. He carried no papers with him, same as the others. These were not people who bothered with paper unless a low-level employee handed it to them to sign, and that was rare indeed. The fewer times these men put their name on paper, the more powerful they grew. They wanted to ignore problems like this hijacking. They wanted governments, which they usually had no use for, to come in and do the dirty work for them.
Adem could tell they wanted to sneer at him, spit on him, yell at him. But they were too amused. It was the white man who stepped forward and took the first chair, the rest falling in line moments later. So he was leading this. That meant he was the least important man in the room. Which meant he was their PR liaison.
The white man said, "While I am glad to hear there may be some reason finally taking hold, I believe we must first express our outrage—"
Hey, an American. How about that? And as he had guessed, the young Asian woman translated into Indonesian. A burbling undercurrent while the loud American got a little showy-offy.
"—such a despicable act. We demand, and that's a word I choose carefully—"
Adem said, "One of your crew is dead."
That shut off the pointless talk. And, again, as he thought, everyone in the room knew what he had told them before the translation.
He continued. "It was not something the captain wanted, of course, but it has happened and we must accept that, move on."
The murmuring began before he had finished, and grew in volume until one man, in his mid-fifties, a mustache and bald patch up top, grunted. They all shut up and waited for him. And he took full advantage, too, starting slow and sounding as if he was some sort of mystic seer reciting verse. Adem almost missed the quiet translation, the woman not even lifting her head as she recited, calmly, his words: "You are a murderer. How dare you. How dare you dictate to me. To any of us. There is one way forward now. Surrender. That is the only—"
"Unacceptable. I will tell you what we can accept and see if we can find a solution."
The man wasn't used to being cut off like that. His jaw hung open like he wasn't sure what to do with the other words he had planned to say. Adem didn't even have to raise his voice. The translator began to interpret what he'd said, but the man waved her off, a loud Shk!
The American started in again. "I'm sorry, this is...um...sudden. Um. I believe a recess is in order, wouldn't you all agree? Five minutes?"
"No." Adem let the word go calmly. Let it float away like a balloon. "The Captain requires—"
"He's not the Captain." The big boss, in English this time. Clear as a bell. "He is a criminal."
"Beg pardon, but no. The Captain runs the ship. The Captain requires four hundred thousand, American. He requires safe passage for him and his crew."
Boss stood. "Absolutely not!"
The American lifted his hand. "Wait, wait. Just...yeah, we can't do that."
"He will give you the shooter. This death was absolutely not sanctioned by the Captain. He will give you the shooter plus eleven others. That's your face-saving. That's the deal."
"It's nothing." The boss turned and spoke in his native language to the others at the table, all of whom nodded but wouldn't meet his eye. They knew better. This had gone on long enough. It was a good deal.
The American kept trying to break into the stream, the hand growing heavier each passing moment. Adem stood and walked over to the American, shook his hand. "You know how to reach me."
He ignored the boss and kept on walking. The boss shouted louder. Adem kept on.
Until the boss said, "We will not negotiate with terrorists!"
Adem stopped and turned just so, not even facing the boss.
"You're not negotiating with terrorists. You're negotiating with me. Mr. Mohammed."
And out the door he went.
*
The only thing harder than walking out of that room as smoothly as Adem had done just then was cutting off a thief's hand in Mogadishu three years earlier. He had been caught stealing food, and the job was given to Adem as a way to prove himself before his new comrades. He made a mess of it, but he did it. And because of that, he had no problem slicing off the hand of his best friend once it was clear that friend was going to kill him.
But he walked past the gauntlet of private security guards without a flinch or an off-balance step. They had lined up when they heard the shouting from inside, obviously, barely leaving room for him to squeeze through on his way to the elevator bank. Of course, all eight of the elevators were on the lowest possible floors. Only seven floors of the planned eighty floor building were actually open to the public for shopping, and many of the businesses were already gone, less than a year after opening. Adem pressed a down button, shoved his hands into his pockets, and turned. A grin and nod towards the guards, who stared back. Once the soft bell sounded and the elevator doors slid open, Adem stepped inside, pressed 6, leaned against the wall, and waited for the doors to close.
They did. He crumbled. Caught his hands on his knees before going down completely. Ragged breaths. His eyes spilled the sort of tears you got when chopping onions. Get it together. Get it together. Get it together. He needed to remember the plan. Down to the sixth floor, get lost because they'll have someone on your tail. Plenty of someones.
The doors opened and he stepped out, picked up the pace. Not as many people as he had hoped, and he figured the tails easily. Four of them, spread out, all with Bluetooth, not bothering to hide their presence. It was as much a threat as a tail. Adem turned left. He knew where he was headed, but he had to lose them.
The mall was laid out like many American malls—stores lining both sides, two pathways, an open area separating them, a view to the floors below. Echoes of soft trance music, sampled Arab folk songs and instruments alongside thumping and burbling synths. Some employees hung around outside, arms crossed, pacing or talking to other employees from the store next door. So many world-famous brands—fashion, phones, leather, the latest electronics, jewels, more, more, more. And hardly anyone here to buy any of it.
At the end of the hallway was a large department store, the front filled with glass display cases full of watches. A woman in a hijab leaned her elbows on the top of one, texting. One fat Arab in his sixties, it looked like, peered into another case, one full of women's watches. Guy was wearing a fur coat, no fooling. No Bluetooth, so maybe he wasn't one of theirs. Adem wiped sweat off his head, rubbed it into the front of his suit jacket. He took a right into ladies' shoes. A left into ladies' intimates, straight through until he found the woman working there wearing the purple dress, just as he'd been told.
"Excuse me, but—"
"Yes sir, I know." She pointed behind her. "Keep low. You'll need to go into the back through the shoes. Someone is waiting for you."
"How do you know—"
"We all know who you are. Go, hurry, and I will hold them off." She walked away without another word. Adem ducked. She stepped into the aisle just as Adem saw his pursuers spread out through the watch cases, four different headings.
Watched them through women's nighties. Adem crab-walked towards the shoe department, looking for the door out of here. He thought someone was just inside the opening, watching him. Shit. Maybe the shipping company had outflanked his own network, what few of them there were. Hastily thrown together, not even having met in real life, versus a sophisticated corporate security firm. Maybe he could skitter through housewares and find another way out.
But he looked at the door again and this time there was someone, and he was waving for Adem to hurry up.
"Sir, can I help you? Sir?"
Another glance at the woman in purple. She had placed herself in front of one of the men, stepping backwards, matching his pace. He was trying to speed up, step around her, but she matched him, the whole time in heels.
"No thank you," he said. "No, please, j
ust...no."
But there was a subtle way she had guided him away from the path, into the racks. He probably didn't realize she was leading him against his will. A blessed talent.
Adem turned to the shoe department door one more time. No one waving now. He just had to trust he could do this. Walk and don't look back and be a man. Three crouched steps, then up and making long strides. Counting them in his head six seven eight nine...
Halfway. He checked back over his shoulder, unable to help himself. No one on his tail. The woman had kept the man occupied. The other three were well across the store, no longer in sight. Then Adem bumped into a display table full of glitzy sandals, knocked half of them off and bruised his hand. He dropped to the ground, flat. How could the man following him not have heard that? The few ladies shopping turned and stared at the strange man on the floor. Adem was about to make a run for it when a pair of legs appeared next to him, men's slacks, men's shoes. The man who had waved him over. He said to the people staring, "I'm sorry. Clumsy me. So sorry."
Then to Adem without moving his lips. "Back through the stockroom, out the exit I left propped open for you. Take a left until you find the stairs."
Adem started to push himself off the ground.
"Stay down." Almost a hiss. The man knelt to pick up some fallen shoes. "He's still looking this way. Crawl."
"Crawl?"
The man looked pained. He was young, with thick dark hair and a thick, modern goatee. "I'm sorry, sir. I wish there was another way."
"It's okay, it's fine." Adem worked his knees and elbows, scraped them across the stiff carpet, chafing through the suit to his skin, but he kept at it. He had known there would be some people helping, but he never expected this. He guessed there were more people out to kill him than help him.
He still had a long way to go.
Once he'd crossed the threshold, Adem stood and kept on at a jog. A maze of shelves at least three stories tall, with robotic arms to pluck boxes from the top when needed, sending them down on mini-elevators. He followed the salesman's directions but got lost several times, panicking, unable to tell if he'd already rounded this corner, if he was going in circles, and if he was running out of time before his pursuers figured it out. The smell of too much leather was getting to him. He passed a few other workers back there, but none of them tried to stop him. Were they in on it, or did they not care that a sweaty man in an expensive suit was breathing heavily and frantically searching for an exit? What if someone had already closed the door the salesman had left open? Should he just try one at random?
Next corner, there it was, propped open with a crushed Prada shoebox. He pulled the door open, kicked the shoebox out in the hall, and tried to shut the door behind him. Didn't matter. It closed at its own speed, a nice solid click. The air conditioning back here was full-on chill. Adem leaned against the door and took in deep cold breaths, readying himself for the climb.
That was the plan. Climb right back to where he had started, the half-finished floor of offices for a contracting business that ran out of money. He had arrived earlier to find a sleeping bag, a mini-fridge stocked full, and extra clothes, enough for several days of hiding out, along with a new cell phone, a simple prepaid flip. Someone had gone through a lot of trouble, no idea who. Adem had called the number Gunfighter gave him, spoke to a man with a gruff voice, no name given. He told Adem where to go, when, and what to do next. Once he was settled in the hideout, the new phone rang and told him the rest of it, leading him to this corridor.
He finally felt solid enough to clear his throat and straighten his suit jacket before heading down the hallway, triple-wide and ultra-sleek. Like the corridors of the Starship Enterprise. It supposedly connected all of the stores around the perimeter of the entire floor, with security and business offices tucked away, as well as service elevators large enough for shipping trucks and other heavy machinery.
He walked along, alone and quiet, although noise came from all around him as subdued echoes. There were no windows here. The good views were reserved for the executives on the outer ring. The signs in the hall were LCD screens, almost like being in an airport. Info displayed: future shipment arrivals, names of celebrities and business leaders currently visiting (three of them, none of them familiar to Adem), suggested routes to other floors/stores/stockrooms. The only other people he saw were in a slow-moving electric golf cart, a man in a dark suit and sunglasses driving, a woman in full dark burqa beside him. They didn't look at him, as far as Adem could tell. He thought of the mysterious phantom hearse that showed up in horror movies sometimes, passing slowly by the protagonist, blacked-out windows, no one accompanying it.
He picked up his pace. Found the door to the stairwell, one of many, but this one was the right one. He still had a long way to go, but he was a long way ahead, and he could take his time.
By the time Adem reached the right floor, he was exhausted. The fear and adrenaline had slipped away step by step. He had loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar early on. By the halfway point, he had taken off his shoes. Now he reached the right floor and looked down at how far he had come. It gave him a slight waver of vertigo. He looked up, even farther. Then he closed his eyes and pushed through the door.
He wove around the corridors, finished on this end but growing more skeletal as he went. And then he was back to the place of half-constructed frames and dust and a panoramic view many of the people down below would kill for.
Standing in the middle of it all was someone Adem did not know.
He'd seen him, yes, once before. Where? Wait, was it...the store? The man shopping for watches? Yeah, the older Arab, fat and rich. His keffiyeh was wrapped around his head, red and white, but not the simple checkered pattern Adem had seen amongst the soldiers in Somalia. This one had several elaborate patterns lined through. The Western suit was double-breasted, grey with a chalk stripe, and draped across the man's shoulder was a fur overcoat.
They had seen it all, every move. They had planned ahead. The pursuers a ruse to make Adem feel the worst was over by the time he climbed the stairs. Yes, Adem saw all of his mistakes highlighted in his memories. All of them leading him here, to face the final "big boss" in the video game.
Maybe it had been Gunfighter's play all along, to catch Mr. Mohammed instead of use him. He had to be worth a huge reward, didn't he? The whole set-up had been staged. Stupid stupid stupid. Remind yourself, Adem—why did you turn down the CIA offer again?
He was too tired to run. They must have known he would be. He swallowed hard and stood his ground.
The man stepped towards him, hands together, bowing. Then he was close enough to cup his hand around Adem's neck and kiss him on both cheeks. The man's close-cut white beard tickled Adem's skin.
The man said, "Wonderful, wonderful. My wonderful Mr. Mohammed!"
Adem cleared his throat. "Yes, yes, that is me, yes."
The man took a step back. "So glad to meet you face to face at last. I will not tell you my name, not yet. There's still too much at stake. But I am your benefactor."
The voice was more recognizable now. A bit deep and gruff, like he had been on the phone. Adem understood now. The man who had set all of this in motion, paid for the helpers in the store, paid to buy this floor from the bankrupt company.
"Thank you, sir, thank you. You have helped in so many ways, I can't thank you enough."
The man waved it off. "I've heard about you. I know the truth about you, don't forget that. But right now he needs your help, and I'm willing to pay more to make sure he gets it."
"He? You mean Gunfighter?"
A smile. "Is that what he calls himself? It's Omar. I call him Omar. He is my grandson."
ELEVEN
They beat down on Mustafa a while. They made him swell. They made him bleed. Not Heem himself, not Poe. They were saving themselves for the rougher stuff to come. Just the four soldiers. Even Raphael stayed far back in the corner, not wanting to watch. Mustafa had taken beatings, plenty of them, and
he knew how to protect himself from the worst of it. When to tighten up, when to go slack. It still hurt like a bad fuck, and it had been way too long since the last time someone gave him a smackdown, but it gave him time to think. Gave him time to get up on all fours and pretend he was crawling for the door, spitting the blood out of his mouth on the way, but he was really trying to figure out where they would've stashed Deeqa for reals. They wouldn't have killed her, he was sure. That wasn't Heem's way. But how close would he want her? Under his thumb at all times, or shipped out of state? Jesus, Raphael, if he'd only asked Mustafa for more money, shit.
The Prince waved off the soldiers and stepped in front of Mustafa, crouched down. "You get the picture now, motherfucker?"
Mustafa grabbed Heem's pants leg, wiped his mouth on it.
The Prince gave him a pat on the head. "Do what you've got to do. I'm saying, man, why you have to disrespect what I've done for the crew you founded? Why didn't you just ask about the bitch?"
Mustafa heaved in, stretching bruised muscles and possibly fractured ribs. He had to work up enough breath and a clear passageway to tell him, "You'd've..said...no."
"Damn right I would've. But you should have asked, right? Now you done fucked up my whole operation. Now I owe my brother here in the Kannibals. The deal is I give you over to him, he does his thing, and we take pictures. Send those pics to anybody out there who ever dares think of crossing me again, and I go back home. The Killaz are mine."
Heem's balls were right there in front of Mustafa. He could punch them. It would be brutal. Might be the last good thing he ever got to do. He hoped Chi would forgive him for failing. Hoped Idil would understand that he had to try. It was family. Hoped Adem...
He was going to punch the fucker in the balls, and lifted his arm to do it, but he was too slow, too achy, and he fell down, rolled onto his back. He retched. Too much blood and drool, had to turn his head and spew it in order to get any air.
Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) Page 8
