Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) (11 page)

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."

––––––––

T
hey 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.

Prince Heem stood again, hovered over Mustafa. "I don't get it, though. What did she even mean to you? I could've given you any piece of ass you wanted. Why her?"

Mustafa shook his head. "Fuck...you."

"Ain't none of us understanding this. She, like, your little girl? Some love child? Fresh off the boat. I swear, I don't get it. You guys?" He looked up at the soldiers and Poe and Raphael. They all shook their heads. At least Raphael wasn't going to sell him out that bad. And the others out there—Teeth, Dawit, EGX—would they keep looking without him? He hoped so.

The Prince made a show of it, pursing his lips and hiking his shoulders. Going full Urkel. Then he giggled. Kind of a drunk giggle. "Alright, Poe, he's all yours. He'd better disappear, too."

Poe sniffed, nodded. Silent type.

"We good then?"

Another nod. He knew the Prince was a chump. Just a matter of time before that fool ended up on the wrong side of Poe.

Heem looked as if he really wanted to say something, too. Wanted to make fun of this guy. But he'd heard all the same stories Mustafa had. And they all knew Poe had been in the middle of the shootout last week, the one with Mustafa's boys. Nigga shot up an unmarked police car with an AK-47, made the driver wrap it around a power pole. Then Poe marched up, the cops badly hurt, and plugged them with a full clip worth.

So all Heem said was, "Alright. We cool." Then to Raphael. "I'll catch up with you later. You know what to do."

Raphael nodded, but he didn't turn to the Prince. Just kept on staring out the window.

The Prince left with his guys in tow. Poe called his own guys over and mumbled to them. Whatever it was, they listened. One went outside, down the stairs. The other slid open the closet door and pulled out a fold-up massage table, a toolbox, and a thermos. He brought the box and thermos to Poe, then set up the table in the center of the room.

Mustafa knew what it meant. He propped on his elbow and tried to rock himself into sitting. That's as far as he got before the Kannibal stepped over, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to his feet. The pain shot through like ninja throwing stars. Thought he might go down again.

"Raff, come on."

Like he hadn't even spoken. Like they'd never been friends.

"Raff."

The Kannibal dragged Mustafa to the table, clamped a hand around his throat to force him onto his back. He fought, strained, shook, but didn't have it in him. All it took was Poe poking him in the ribs with a clawhammer to drain the fight. Back flat against the flimsy table. Mustafa kicked, bucked his hips. It wasn't going to happen this way. He wasn't going out without a fight.

Another throwing star into his arm. He turned to Poe, plunging something from a syringe into him. Burned. Made him tense up. But it worked fast and Mustafa felt his energy dissipate. His arms hung down, not numb but not in his control, either. The Kannibal knelt, and Mustafa felt his wrists being cinched up with a zip tie.

"Raff..."

He couldn't tell if the name made it past his lips.

Poe leaned over. Big fucking forehead was even bigger now, pulsing. The rumor was no one had ever seen his eyes, always covered by those sunglasses. Wondered if there was anything under there at all. He said, very quietly, "It's going to hurt. It will be some of the worst pain you've ever felt before it's all over. But you won't have the strength to scream. I'm just warning you. Take deep breaths."

Raphael spun away from the window. "Man, I can't take this."

He made way for the door, but Poe hissed, and the Kannibal got there first, closed it and leaned against it. Raphael crossed his arms, looked at Poe, then the soldier, Poe, the soldier. He was thinking of making a move. Mustafa could tell he was thinking. All that Army training had to give him some sort of advantage, right? But what he did in the end was sigh through his nose and go back to his spot by the window.

Poe unscrewed the top of the thermos. He took a sip of whatever was inside, which smelled like some industrial strength alcohol, then he reached in and retrieved what looked like dental tools. He took a hooked one, and in one quick movement he shoved it up Mustafa's left nostril, scratching and tearing as he shoved it farther and farther, into the sinus and beyond. The iron chill of blood dripped into his throat, and he fought to clear it. Every gag stabbed the hook in deeper. Poe grabbed hold of Mustafa's jaw and pushed down. He held a straight picking tool in his other hand, went straight for the mouth. Mustafa chomped his teeth shut and turned his head. Poe tried to steady him but couldn't.

Poe made another hiss noise, the kind a dog trainer might, and the Kannibal started over.

"No, no, no. Not you. Him." He pointed at Raphael. "You do this."

"Man, that ain't part of the deal."

"The deal changes when I say it does. Get over here or you're next."

Raphael sucked in his lips and stood his ground, but not for long. He let them out again and stepped over to the table, looking down at Mustafa.

"Hold his head. Hold his mouth open."

Raphael grabbed Mustafa by the chin and top of his skull.

"Raff," through gritted teeth.

Blinked. "I didn't know, alright?"

"Please."

Poe said, "Open his mouth."

"Shit." Raphael pushed down on Mustafa's jaw, got nowhere, then took his other hand, pinched Mustafa's nose closed as best he could with the tool sticking out of it. Mustafa closed his eyes, held his breath, held it, held it more. Neck muscles trembling, spasming, earthquaking.

He opened wide and blew out all the air just as Raphael cupped his fingers over Mustafa's bottom teeth, just as Poe aimed for the soft tissue under the man's tongue and drove the point as deep as he could until the tip came out under the jaw. It brought on a gag reflex that made Poe grin.

"You know why I do this? Hurting you with tiny sharp things? Because I want you to realize how much worse it will be when I use bigger sharp things." He reached into his toolbox and lifted a small battery-powered drill. The bit looked twice as thick as a pencil. "Like this."

He positioned the bit straight up above Mustafa's right kneecap. The bit was long enough to go right on through to the table. Poe triggered the drill. It whined. The bit nicked the skin. Mustafa braced himself. Poe powered it down.

"This will be very slow. It will take a long time. I'm not going to apologize for that."

Another whine, the motor at full bore.

Someone tried to open the door hard, but it bounced off the Kannibal standing sentry. He turned his head just before the door slammed into his face. Mustafa could hear the crack over the motor, over his own fogginess. A white dude had kicked the door, and was now rushing in, pistol out, shouting at the sentry. Dumbass reached for his piece on his back and the white dude shot him twice. Just like that. Another guy followed him into the room. Brown-skinned. Arab, had to be. Pistol up, shouting, this time at Poe and Raphael.