Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) Read online

  But something strange had happened after the whole operation fell down when his dad and the white cop came for him, took him back to Mogadishu so they could face Jibriil one more time and try to find Sufia. Somehow, Mr. Mohammed became a folk hero. His legend grew by leaps and bounds so much that by the time they arrived on the outskirts of Mogadishu, all of the soldiers wanted their photos taken with Mr. Mohammed. They mobbed him like a movie star. They reached out to touch his hands, his suit, his shaved head.

  And then he and his dad had barely escaped the city with their lives. They returned home to long debriefings, interrogations, and threats. But they found a way to deal their way out of trouble. For nearly a year, Adem pushed the thoughts of that trip into the back of his mind.

  Until that web search.

  The legend was now global. Mr. Mohammed sightings all over. He had become like a holy man for the pirates and the terrorists and the soldiers. He had faced down the infidels and the corrupt and escaped intact, waiting for the day he could return safely and resume his work. Hundreds of pleas from pirates in chatrooms—"Please help us, Mr. Mohammed. We will give you sixty percent." "We are weary, two years on this ship. Please come and give us our freedom!" "We need you! We pray every day for your wisdom!" And on and on.

  Adem could only hold back for so long. A few months, but then no longer. While there were plenty of frauds out there purporting to be the "real" Mr. Mohammed, the fans always found them out, debunked them. Adem created a handle—"MrMohammedWaits"—and said he had been contacted by the great man himself, who had authorized him to consider some of these requests in turn for information about his former assistant, Sufia.

  No one believed him. They bombarded him with questions.

  Every one of which he answered correctly.

  It was then he began to save his money and rethink his future.

  *

  He de-planed in Sana'a, Yemen's capital, and was surprised to find the mood to be business-as-usual all around. He'd heard that protests and government pushbacks had everyone tense, fearing a possible airport shutdown. Adem wouldn't have known from what he was seeing. The shops were open, the lights on, and plenty of businessmen, both in western suits and Arab bishts and keffye, engaged in casual conversations. Or reading newspapers. Or checking their phones for emails and texts. Echoing announcements. Adem had to adjust his ear. He'd kept up his Arabic much better recently, planning for this trip, but to have so much come at him at once knocked him off his game for a little while. Reading it was easier, and he found the signs pointing to the Exit. He was prepared for the heat this time, had changed clothes in Cairo, now wearing a long, white, thin shirt, lightweight pants, and sandals. He rolled his one barely-packed suitcase behind him. He remembered the last time, when his bags had been scavenged by young soldiers, eager for American brand-name sneakers and jeans while at the same time cursing the country they were most associated with.

  At the doors near baggage claim, a young Arab man waved at him. He wore a thin beard. Shorter than Adem, wearing similar clothes, a little darker shade, green. Online he called himself Hasan. He was the first, from all the chat rooms and forums Adem had combed through meticulously, that had a solid lead on Sufia. Described her affliction as Adem had remembered the last time he saw her—screaming at him, bleeding from the throat where her skin had been shredded in the acid attack, the way some of these soldiers punished "bossy" or "modern" women. Took away their faces, forced them to hide behind thick burkas.

  Hasan responded to Adem's call, the "girl with wire-rimmed glasses (he hoped she still wore them) and a jaw like a zombie." Yes, he had seen her. And yes, she was in Yemen. A half-blurred cell phone pic got Adem's hopes up, and he started planning the trip.

  They greeted each other with an embrace, smiles, everything the last trip had lacked. Hasan took the handle of Adem's bag and rolled it past the tinted glass doors into the sun, not as hot as it was in Somalia, but brighter, maybe. Adem slipped on a pair of sunglasses. Yes, much better prepared this time.

  Hasan was hyper, chirping and polite. He walked a few steps ahead of Adem, but always looked back, nodding, saying, "Yes, yes, good trip?" in English. "Yes, yes, so good, eh, to see you. Good flight?"

  "Fine, fine, thanks so much," back at him in English before Adem switched to Arabic. "My brother, please, you've been way too kind. Let me—"

  He reached for his bag, but Hasan pulled away, waved him off. "No no no no no. My guest. Please, my pleasure."

  They wheeled towards a dusty sports sedan, fine German engineering. Sharp reflective black beneath the dust. Hasan popped the trunk and loaded the bag. It was like they were college buddies meeting for a golf weekend. Adem stepped up to the passenger side door and pulled it open, but Hasan was there closing it instantly. "No no no no. Honored guest." More English. Adem didn't get that. The internet chats had been mostly Arabic. Hasan knew Adem was fluent, right? So what was with the English? Did he want the practice?

  Hasan opened the back door for him. "Please. I drive you."

  Adem stood his ground. In Arabic again, "You don't have to honor me. Let's sit together, talk. I'm just like you, man. We're all equal here."

  More English. Slower. Louder. "I insist."

  Stand-off. What was this, anyway? Adem knew the customs. He'd read up. He'd practiced. He'd learned to push his American instincts aside—the entitlement, the need for comfort, the brashness. And here he was insulting someone he thought was a friend. How'd he get it so wrong?

  "Okay, yes, no problem. I'm honored." Surrender palms out. Adem dropped into the backseat. Hasan closed the door and started around to the driver's side, got in.

  Adem watched Hasan's eyes in the rearview, flicking off to the side, watching the traffic until he found an opening to pull into. "Nice car. If I had one of these back home, the bottom would rust out and I'd slide all over the ice."

  Flicking eyes. "Yes, yes. Nice."

  "You rent it? Is it yours?"

  Hasan was moving a little fast. Jerky. Adem hadn't put his seatbelt on, but he grabbed the clasp by his thigh, wondered if he should strap in. This Hasan was not exactly like the Hasan he thought he knew. Had he even been talking to the same man? There was a catch in his throat now.

  In the rearview, flicking eyes. Barely watching the road.

  Not even off the airport property, several gates down, they jerked into the parking lane beside the terminal in front of a Land Rover where two more Arab men, one in loose desert clothes like Hasan, the other in T-shirt, blazer, and jeans, leaned against the SUV until Hasan pulled to a stop. They looked around as they walked over to the car, Jeans in the back and the other in the front. Doors slammed. Hasan jetted off. Adem kept a tight grip on the seatbelt clasp. The two new guys had whooshed in dust and a heavy sweat stink. Mumbling up front. Adem barely made out, "That's him, right? You sure?"

  "Yeah, I checked. I checked over and over. This is him."

  New guy up front looked over his shoulder. Shook his head. "Doesn't look like him."

  This wasn't right. Not at all.

  Adem said, "Friends, Hasan?" To them, "I'm Adem, by the way. We're all good here, right?"

  The guy in jeans stared straight ahead. "Good."

  Should've peed back at the airport. They were going like a bat out of hell. Where were they going, anyway? The whole thing felt like some sort of set-up.

  Adem said, "Hasan? What's going on, buddy?"

  Flicking eyes. Over the shoulder glance. More muted Arabic. Sharp whispers, too. The new passenger pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. Unfolded it. "He does not look the same. This is him. Look."

  "Three years ago. It's him."

  "I don't see it."

  Adem leaned forward to peek over the seat. The passenger was holding a smudgy inkjet photo of Adem as Mr. Mohammed three years ago, a still capture from news footage, when he was being interviewed.

  Jeans put his hand on Adem's shoulder. Strong grip. "No no, is okay."

  English again.


  "You've got the wrong guy. I've never even seen him. He emails me."

  "It's good. Like you said. It's good."

  Adem pulled away and leaned towards Hasan. "What are you doing? All we were talking about, all that was a lie? You kidding me?"

  Jeans said, "It was me you were talking to. I'm Hasan. I'm not really, is not my name, but neither is he. But it's all good. We need to talk to you about your friend, and then you can see her. You can see the woman."

  Adem leaned back in the seat. Couldn't let them see him panic. "Good. That's what I want to hear."

  Thinking they didn't know Sufia.

  Thinking how he'd fallen right into it. Fly in a Venus flytrap.

  Thinking he had been thinking about this, about what would happen if trouble reached out for him this time, like it had before, blade to his neck before someone stepped in and saved him. He didn't want to need saving this time. He wanted to save himself.

  Adem lurched up, hands around Hasan's neck, twisting his head side to side. Hasan took his hands off the wheel, tried prying off Adem's fingers. Jeans tried to get Adem in a headlock. The Passenger held the steering wheel with one hand. He had a folded knife in the other, trying to open it with his teeth. The car started to drift right, off the road. A neighborhood here. Businesses. People scattered.

  Adem slipped the headlock. The car bucked, crumpled into the wall of a restaurant and screeched along it but Adem didn't care because he opened the door and was out. He hit the ground running but not fast enough before the door hit a pedestrian and slammed back and it hurt it did oh my God but he had to keep going. Had to run. Throbbing. Had to run.

  Car alarms. Screams. Shouting. All behind him. Back to the airport? How far, a mile away already? Two? Getting stares. But he had to keep...

  Shots. They echoed. He felt miraculously better. He straightened and gritted his teeth and turned a corner. He had to get lost. He had to get lost and not look lost. He had to make sure that the further he went, the fewer people noticed him, and he looked like he belonged.

  He'd thought about this, he sure had.

  Hoped it wouldn't come to this, but so stupid, stupid, of course it would. Of course.

  Adem kept running...

  THREE

  Tinted windows. Goddamn thing was a tank, this creamy-white Escalade, incognito for now but it wouldn't be for long. A few hours more until he was made, maybe. Mustafa rode in the back. He had Teeth with him, an uneasy truce getting easier every day. It used to be both their gangs hated the shit out of each other, now it was a couple of old men versus the youngsters. Mustafa let the driver and passenger up front pump the beats, drive low and slung back, but he could give a shit about the tunes and the style. Let the kids be kids. As long as they were with him today, ain't neither of them getting killed, at least until Prince Heem's rebel army figured out what they were driving.

  Mustafa stared out the window. They rolled down Riverside Ave, on their way across to St. Paul for a secret meeting with some former TC Kings, survivors who had no beef with Bahdoon, might be able to get them to talk the new Kings out of siding with Prince Heem. Kept his voice low. "Didn't need a turf war."

  "Got to deal with what you got. You thought he'd just bow down?"

  Shrugged. "Been a dad too long, I guess."

  "Don't treat them like your boy, okay? I know you don't want them dying on you and shit, but that's what they signed up for. Baby 'em like so, and even the loyal ones with cut you down."

  "I know. I know."

  Back to the beats. That low bass itched Mustafa's ear. Driver had said it was Big K.R.I.T. Not bad. Not bad at all. Just, y'know, not his thing. Mustafa hadn't really felt a song in weeks. Had too much on his mind. Didn't need We never get along 'til I'm pullin' on her thong taking good space up there in his head. Bitches, they say. All about the bitches. Fucking kids don't know what a bitch is, even.

  Teeth went, "Even got some Ice niggas giving me grief. Hey, you ever see The Warriors?"

  "Yeah, that shit."

  "Yeah. That's us real soon. Surrounded, just cause you got some crazy notion. Cops be wondering, Heem be wondering, Kings be wondering. Even my mom's asking what the fuck you thinking."

  "They're not going to like it."

  Bobbed his head. "Oh I know. I'm not sure I like it. But it's got to be." Teeth's phone pulsed, laser sounds. He answered, grunted. Never said much on the phone. Had code grunts and shit. Not even fifteen seconds. Hung up and said, "The buy is on."

  Mustafa heaved a sigh. Finally. After Heem upped and left instead of staying on as "right-hand man," Mustafa hadn't been sure if they would get the contact on their side. Guess money trumped loyalty. He waved his hand at Teeth. "Call the Kings, see if they can wait 'til tonight." Then he told the driver to change course. He sank back into the leather and itched the inside of his ear with his pinkie. That goddamned bass.

  *

  The hotel was a shithole cheapie chain on the edge of S Paul, right across from a hardware store and about three blocks from the Amtrak station. It had a tight parking lot, two floors of rooms with outside doors, but the inside was a claustrophobic maze. It was where you went to do things you didn't want anyone to know about, for about sixty bucks a night. That sixty bought you some privacy. It didn't keep the clerk from turning around and selling the info to anyone who wasn't a cop, though.

  Teeth texted the contact. Got the room number in return. It was one with an outside door. Always would be. Mustafa took a deep breath and let it out. Hands on his knees. "All right. All right now."

  "It's cool. Go in with your head up, come out with your head up. You're not meeting with no fool."

  Mustafa reached forward and tapped the front passenger on the shoulder. It was the one with dreads he'd shocked with the stun gun that first night. Heem's best bodyguard, but this one was smart. He knew who would win. He ended up sticking around, had apologized for pulling a Glock on Mustafa and the others. And he'd been good to his word. Quiet type, almost blended in with the furniture. Perfect.

  "GOAT, you're with me." Guys called him GOAT cause his name was Ali, the Greatest of All Time.

  Got a nod back.

  They climbed out of the SUV, left the driver, kid called Hot Cruze, and Teeth to wait for the call so they could have the doors open and waiting, make sure no one was watching too closely. Mustafa was more nervous about this than about the shootings in Minneapolis. Not what he had wanted out of this. Some asshole Kings had nearly taken out a couple of cops who got caught in the crossfire. Very much not what he fucking wanted. He buttoned his khaki suitcoat, shrugged his shoulders a few times to get it right. It had cost him what he made in a whole three weeks' pay at Target. About a few hours worth of drug money. Designer shirt, too, extra-thin and soft like a woman's skin. He'd even gotten Ali to dress up. Kid looked like an NFL player on signing day. Fucking baby-blue alligator loafers. Double-breasted suit. Pinstripes. Sunday go to meeting.

  Mustafa asked, "You nervous?"

  Ali shook his head, kept tapping his right knuckles into his left palm.

  "Good."

  He knocked on the dented door, which had been kicked plenty in its day. Room 148. Heard a sharp, "Quiet! Quiet, all of you!" and then it opened to a Somali woman, tired-looking, on the cusp of thirty, in flip-flops, jeans, and a printed t-shirt that said Ecko across it with the rest a chaotic mess of color and shape that made Mustafa's eyes hurt. She had a cigarette in her left hand—it was a non-smoking room. Her eyes widened just enough for him to know that his reputation preceded him.

  "Lady Chablis?" What a name. Mustafa said it with respect but it was hard.

  She moved to the side. Mustafa and Ali passed into the room. Your basic two double beds, ancient block of a TV, particleboard desk, couple of chairs. The room smelled like cigarettes and industrial vomit cleaner. A hint of citrus. Four girls in colorful hijabs—orange, yellow, orange again, purple—sat huddled on the bedsides facing each other but not looking up. On the TV, Sportscenter. Near the wi
ndows in the room's only comfy chair, a white man in a leather jacket and scalp-buzzed hair, ageless. He turned down the volume with the remote, looked over the visitors. From the bathroom, retching. A fifth girl getting sick.

  Lady Chablis closed the door, scooted around the two men before they could get too far into the room, and blocked their way. "Wait, a second please."

  She turned to the white man, took a long drag on the cigarette while he examined Mustafa and Ali from his seat, too good to even frisk them, before giving a nod and returning his attention to the television.

  Chablis flicked her ashes into a plastic cup, already four butts smashed in there. She sniffed and pointed out the girls, one at the time. "Okay. You have fourteen, fifteen, fifteen, sixteen. Another fifteen is in the restroom. She's fine. She's fine, I give my word."

  He guessed Heem would've made a big scene, argued for a reduction in price. Damaged goods. He shook his head. "It happens."

  "She's a fine girl. Best looking girl. Good for whatever you want." But then she leaned closer, arms crossed. "Now, that one, Sixteen, she is no virgin. She's from the Cities, only dresses this way because she's a freak. Gives the man a good show."

  Mustafa caught the eye of the girl in purple. That was a tough look. Flirty but hard. Mustafa turned instead to the guy watching TV, but once he felt Mustafa staring him down, the white man got up and walked over to Chablis, hands on his hips. Mustafa saw the gun tucked into his waistband.

  "I don't understand the problem. What, are you not happy? I thought...I was told..." Chablis was fidgety, bouncing her cig back and forth. She said something to the white guy, a language Mustafa didn't understand. He wished Adem was here. Kid was good with languages. Wait, God no, he didn't want Adem here. What was he thinking? The white man answered, and Mustafa thought he sounded vaguely Russian. Maybe Eastern Europe? Like he would know.