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.
THIRTY-FOUR
Adem felt like a stickman. All bones. Unable to move. His dad knelt by Bleeker, bleeding from his lower back where Jibriil had shot him. Still moving, though. Fighting. Dawit pushed away the soldiers trying to get at the fallen cop. They finally gave up, stood off a few feet, watching the man bleed.
Jibriil, same look on his face as when he killed that woman back home. An entire family, gunned down by Jibriil, on two different continents. Then he turned to Adem, lifted his eyebrows, and started singing. The first music Adem had heard in the country. The army had banned all Somali music. All of it. But their leader was singing. And then some of his followers joined in. And then more. And then more. They knew the song. Every last one of them.
He knew it, too. American. All the soldiers scat singing a familar rhythm: DAH da da, da, doh DAH DAH /DHA da da da, doh DOH DOH...
An old Michael Jackson tune. “Wanna Be Startin” or something like that. Had he taught this song to all these soldiers? Or did they all just know it because everybody all over the world knew Michael Jackson songs?
Adem glanced at Bleeker again, trying to get upright while his dad tried to keep him still. He'd rolled over and was sitting, wincing, one hand on his back, the other gripping Dad's as tight as two men could hold on.
Jibriil's voice wasn't exactly the same as it was in high school. It was more raw, tempered by the sand. When he and Adem both sang in the choral group, Jibriil was the more talented one. He got the solos. He had an ear for the melody. But he was embarrassed to be that good when all of his friends and all the gangstas wanted to be rappers. If only he'd realized that the rappers needed people like him for the choruses—Cee Lo, D'Angelo, Anthony Hamilton—then maybe he wouldn't have wanted to join Dad's gang. Maybe he wouldn't have wanted to prove himself in more primitive ways.
They sang the opening lines, over and over.
Then Jibriil on his own in the verses. It was good. Jibriil could still hit the high notes. Impressive.
Jibriil ignored him, played to the crowd. So Adem shielded his eyes from the sand and walked over to Mustafa and Bleeker. "How is he?"
"He was shot in the kidney. How do you think he is?"
"I mean, is he going to make it?"
Dad let out a long sigh. Closed his eyes. "Make what? None of us are going to get out of here alive." He waved Adem closer, lowered his voice. "You, stay alive. Get in good with him. If that means you've got to let us go, you do it. Get in good with him until there's a chance to escape."
"No, don't, he'll listen to me. It's going to be alright."
"He won't. Promise me you'll do what it takes to stay alive."
"Don't!" Bleeker, through his teeth. He grabbed Adem by the collar. "Listen to me. Are you going to stand with him or die with us?"
"Hey!" Dad said.
Got a smile from the cop. "Just saying. That guy's led you around by your balls all this time."
"I'm not telling my own son to die."
"Good, let him decide on his own." He lifted his hand to Adem. "Help me up. I want to face this on my feet."
Dad on one side, Bleeker's arm draped over his shoulder, and Adem on the other.
Jibriil finally saw, letting the boys sing on while he lifted the gun and fired without aiming. Bullets sliced over their heads.
"What's this? Helping him to his death, Adem?" Jibriil waved the gun, loose in his grip. "That's it. You always were a gentleman. Help him over here and I'll finish him off."
Adam thought, Yeah, yeah.
"Us or them?" Bleeker, lips resting on Adem's shoulder, mumbling. "Us or them?"
Again, Yeah, yeah.
Adem took a step towards Jibriil.
Yeah, yeah.
Dad seething, "No, man, not like this!"
Yeah, yeah.
Adem took another step. Bleeker followed, forcing Dad to come along.
Jibriil laughing, whooping, to the delight of the army. "Yes, my brother! Yes, you bring that sack of bones on over. He was doomed from the start, yes indeed!"
They made it to Jibriil's feet. Adem unburdened himself from Bleeker. The man fell to one knee.
Adem said, "You killed his woman back home. Let me take this one."
Dad reached out and grabbed Adem by the back of the neck, squeezed hard. Adem hunched his shoulders. Jibriil shoved his gun barrel in Dad's face. Poked him in the eye, banged against his teeth. Dad let go. A couple of soldiers rambled over and restrained his arms.
Jibriil held out his pistol to Adem. "Here, then. Go on."
Adem shook his head. "Give me a machete."
"Really? Again?"
"I'm ready this time. Get one."
There's the grin. The smile. The he
ad bob. There it was. Jibriil held up a hand and shouted, "Bring him a blade."
A twelve-year-old boy stepped forward, already with a scar starting at his scalp, tracing across his eye, nose, and lips. He lifted the machete two-handed. Eager to please Mr. Mohammed. Lifting it another inch.
Adem took the handle. A clean blade. It hadn't been used recently. Sharp, he could tell from the way it cut the air. Swosh. What a sound. Nothing else like it anywhere. He'd heard it right before his would-be assassin settled in and put the blade to his throat. The tip slicing in when word came—the Imam wants him alive! You can't kill him! He's protected!
A favor for Jibriil. Seemed there was always someone there to do a favor for Jibriil.
Adem bit his bottom lip, arcing the blade across the air, showing off, the crowd on edge. Blood. More Blood.
Adem place the edge of the machete on the back of Bleeker's neck.
Bleeker said, "Do it already."
Adem pulled back the machete.
Yeah, yeah.
And he sliced Jibriil's gun hand clean off with one stroke.
*
There should've been more outrage. But it all went quiet except for Jibriil cursing at top volume, holding his stump while it poured blood, calling Adem every vile name a man had ever thought to call another man.
"You bleeding cunt goddamned motherfucking…aaaahhhhhWWWWWWLLLL!"
Lost all the words, twisted them into noise. The boys watched on, not sure whether to be happy or pissed or what. The blood was hypnotic, shooting out at first like a cartoon before pulsing, pulsing. One of the soldiers ran to Jibriil's side, wrapped a scarf around what was left of his commander's forearm, tourniquet tight. Jibriil grabbed the AK-47 on the soldier's shoulder. Pulled and pulled, cursed the guy for helping him, and he awkwardly got a handle on the rifle. Lifted it towards Adem, nostrils flared. The barrel wavered wildly. Adem flinched, waiting for the sound, the impact. The pain.
But nothing. Jibriil kept adjusting the gun, stone cold eyes on Adem, but then he blinked and the gun wobbled and he had to start all over.
Bleeker gripped Adem's belt, pulled himself standing. He leaned on Adem's shoulder. "He's not going to shoot you. Finish the job."
Adem tried to answer. Words had to push through thorns in his throat, it felt like. "I can't. Can't."
"I get it. Don't worry about it. You did alright, kid. That'll be enough. We can take it to our grave." Laughed a little. Weak, coughing, but still a laugh.
Adem fought it, but couldn't help it. Laughing and crying. Sniffing. Jibriil, helpless, unable to pull the trigger. Then he dropped the rifle. Walked in little circles. Then nearly fell. The closest soldier helped him to sit on the ground. Cross legged, still looking up at Adem with wrinkled anger and saying, "You motherfucker. You fucking…motherfucker, you."
A faint noise. Shifting gears. Whining engine. Adem turned, trying to find where it was coming from. Then his dad's phone rang.
A bunch of guns came up, aimed at his dad. He held up one hand, surrender palm, slipped the other in his pocket and pulled out the phone. Slid it open, held it to his ear. "Yeah?"
Listened. Listened. Mm hm. Mm hm. Then, "Yeah, you found us. That's us."
Adem saw it at the back of the mob, a dust cloud rising. Engine whine, louder. The ruckus from the crowd rising. Bursts of automatic rifle fire. Soldiers scattering. Then the grill appearing as the crowd cleared. The Rover. Chi behind the wheel. And he had help—at least six, seven, maybe eight men, all with rifles, hanging off the runners, the back bumper. Older men, business owners and fathers and grandfathers, all of whom hadn't left, sick of what the boys were doing to their city. Anyone who tried to pull them off got shot. Chi waved wildly. Get in! Get in!
Revved the engine. The soldiers kept a careful distance but they were starting to get antsy. A few fired back, shattered a window, put holes in the side, felled a man. Chi hunched, kept waving.
Dad took up Bleeker again, still leaning on Adem. Started towards the Rover, Dawit covering them, then going ahead, opened the back door for them. More potshots. No one ready to massacre them. Maybe because they still weren't sure where Mr. Mohammed stood. He brought down Jibriil but didn't kill him. Was he taking over? Was he against them?
Bleeker stopped mid-stride. Shook his head. "No, go on. Just go on."
"Into the truck, Ray."
"No, you guys need to go. Let me go. Really, let me go."
"Not gonna happen."
"Goddamn it, let me go." He pushed off Dad, let go of Adem, stood on his own. He took a step backwards. Wobbly, but he didn't fall. He made a face and reached for his back, arched it. Pain all over his face. Trembling. But Bleeker let out a breath and looked at Adem.
Pointed at Jibriil's hand in the dirt. "Get me that gun."
Adem didn't move. The fighting by the Rover was getting worse, and Dawit was yelling at them. Dad yelled back. Chi waving madly now. Bulletholes in every window.
"Come on. The pistol. Give it to me." Bleeker, his hand out.
Adem didn't move. "What do you want with it? What are you doing?"
It took a few more labored breaths for Bleeker to say it. "I'm…listen, I'm giving them a reason not to follow you, okay? I'll keep them busy."
"You can't hold off the whole army."
A wink. "I don't plan on it. Get me that gun."
Adem walked over to the hand, lifted the gun by the barrel. The fingers didn't come loose. Adem tried to pry them off. It took a little effort. The fingers already felt fake, like a Halloween prop. But he finally got them off, carefully pulling the index finger from the trigger guard, the thumb off the opposite side. Ducked and ran back to Bleeker, put it in his hand.
Bleeker hefted it, dropped the clip into his other hand, checked that it still had some ammo. Then he slid it back, not hard, pressed until it clicked. Grinned at Adem as he did it.
Said, "Now get the hell out of here. Keep your dad alive. He deserves a parade for what he's done for you."
Silly to talk him out of it. Adem knew what was next. As much as he wanted to tell him not to, they were all way beyond that. Jibriil had made his choice. Made it a long time ago. How was saving his life going to make anything better ever again?
"Can you walk?"
Bleeker nodded. "I've got a few steps left in me. Go on, dumbass, get in the car."
He backed away, needing to say Thank you but it didn't feel right. Not at all. Still eye to eye until Bleeker turned and began walking towards Jibriil, still sitting on the ground. Jibriil lifted his face to Bleeker. Other soldiers noticed. Began yelling. The helper stepped between Jibriil and Bleeker. The cop shot him in the chest three times, pushed him to the side before he fell. Now inches from Jibriil. Gun in his face, lingering. The same pose Jibriil was in before he shot that woman, watching her on the ground before taking her life. Jibriil, eyes up, mouth open just so, shrugged.
Bleeker shot him. Jibriil recoiled. A piece of his skull flew off. Blood, brain. Fell onto his back, his legs still crossed in front of him.
His dad grabbed Adem from behind. Drug him to the Rover, covering him with his bulk as the gunfire ramped up. "Into the truck! Now! Get in!"
Dawit, already in, grabbed Adem, held his head down at Dawit's knees. He had the window down, firing at the soldiers. Another two volunteers had fallen. Dad crunched inside with them, slammed the door. "Go! Go! Go!"
Chi threw it into gear and spun the tires. They caught, and he rocketed away, a hail of bullets following.
Adem lifted his head so he could see out. Saw Bleeker still standing there, smiling, as the horde overtook him from all directions.
Faster, faster. Farther and farther from the crowd. Harder to tell where Bleeker was in all of that. All of them except Chi watching through the back windows. The chase died down. The bullets stopped plinging against the back of the Rover. Dad rubbed his hand across the top of Adem's scalp.
Adem couldn't help but tremble. He was too stunned to cry. As the dust clouds kicked up by the Rove
r grew thicker, harder to see through, Adem righted himself in his seat, fell against his father, and noticed that Chi's shoulder was bleeding. His face had been peppered with glass and was running blood. He wiped it with his sleeve and said, "I'm fine. We'll be fine. We're going to be fine."
Hundreds of miles to go before they were safe. Plenty of patrols to outrun. Borders to cross. Lies to tell. But despite all of that, Adem believed him. Yeah, they were all going to be just fine.
THIRTY-FIVE
The shrug. He didn't get that. Was the bastard just resigned to it? Thought he deserved it? All out of fight? Or had he lost too much blood? Why only a shrug?
He didn't have much time to think about it, though. Once he shot the guard, he knew it had to go quickly. So Jibriil shrugged and Bleeker blew his brains out and it was done. The kid and Mustafa were in the Rover, on their way out of camp. Maybe some of the soldiers would mount up in a truck and chase them, but Bleeker hoped he would prove to be too irresistible a target—a white American to string up. Their mighty leader's assassin, even. The perfect star for their little movies.
He saw the truck hightailing it out of camp. Adam peeking through the window at him. He felt pretty good. And then they attacked. Pulled both arms out of socket. Hit him with rocks and rifle butts and fists and boots. Grabbed his hair. Knives sliced him all over. One slit right across his eye. His lips. Blood in his mouth. By the time one held his forehead and ripped the blade across his throat, he was mostly beyond feeling. He smelled the body odor around him, his own blood, felt the heat, and saw an army of hands all wanting to take their turn with him, but none of it hurt. Knew his lips were curled into a grin. It was natural, dying and grinning. They went hand in hand. But Bleeker knew it was more than that. He had beat them. No matter what they did to him next, he wasn't feeling it anyway.
All the Young Warriors Page 29
