Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) (16 page)

Shit. He was too tired for this. The dress was too tight for running. The man from the stall had finally made it outside with the others, trying to flank him. All of them breathing heavily, hands at the ready like an old American Western. More men on their way between meetings, on phones, wearing Rolexes, stopped to watch.

Adem, hands on his knees, said, "Please."

The man he had wrestled with said, "Please? Please beat the sissy out of you, is that what you want?"

His friend laughed.

Then screamed.

Then his shoulder began to bleed..

He fell onto the ground. The other man rushed to his side.

The one from the stall was looking all over. Taking small steps backwards.

His knee exploded.

Adem didn't wait for his turn in the sniper's sites. They had found him. They were coming for him. He would never make it in time.

But he had nowhere else to go.

Adem grabbed the hem of his kashibo and pulled it up to his waist, held it as he flat-out ran the hell away from there, staying close to the walls of buildings, taking turns through small alleys, not looking back. People staring, mouths going wide. He pushed past. He kept going.

*

A
block from the tower, Adem slowed down and dropped the hem of his dress, readjusted his hijab. Sweating through now. He wasn't worried about fooling the pursuers. What he wanted was to blend in with the women, slip past the security guards and cameras. He glanced around, up. Someone was watching. Where? Was this a trap? Had he tripped himself up?

The entrance to the Tower's mall was a gleaming semicircle held up by iron columns plated in silver. Huge ads lit up the walls, almost like stained-glass windows in churches—CHANEL, PRADA, APPLE. Adem watched cars with tinted windows slide up to the door, valets running over to let out people who were far overdressed for a mall, at least the malls back home in Minnesota.

Once inside, the air cooled and his skin chilled. He had to move fast. Straight to the elevators. He still had the keycard the Benefactor had given him to access the upper floors. Mood music, echoing all over the expanse, and there weren't many people there that time of day, so the crowd noise was minimal. Adem felt it all, though. He was overly sensitive, tried to calm his breathing. Sweat on his lip tickled. He itched it on reflex, then reached for the card in his pocket, but there was no pocket there. His hand slid past where it should've been one two three times before he remembered the pocket was in his pants, not the dress he was wearing over them.

He said, "Shiiiii—" and let the rest go with a hot breath. Fine. He would fix it. He looked around for the nearest ladies room, ducked inside, and waited in line behind three women, the smells of bodily function and women's perfumes and shampoos and skin creams more pleasant than the men's shit and cologne. They had to know he was a he, right? Couldn't they tell? Pheromones or something? But no one even glanced at him. They were busy texting. Every single one of them. Texting. He was the odd woman out. They would sooner sneer at him for that than for his penis.

Another flush, and he was next. He locked himself in the stall and pulled up the dress, found the card, and smoothed everything back into place. He dropped the card on the ground, picked it up again, grimy and wet, then opened the stall door. The woman outside nearly pushed him over trying to squeeze past him, elbows out wide while she tapped at her iPhone. She was a light-skinned Somali, tall, in a loose red hijab with some amber curls peeking out, which left him blinking, shocked. What were the odds? She glanced up at his face, lips parted, and said, in American English, "You need to check your make-up."

He stumbled out of the ladies room. Some sort of omen. This was going to end very, very badly. In the main hall again, he gathered some coherence, then weaved his way to the elevators, the real ones. Not the glass ones in the center that went lightning-fast, went outside, and showed you all of Dubai from the top of the world. Instead, he walked towards the back wall where three reflective silver elevator doors waited side by side, hardly anyone waiting for them. Adem needed to be the only person in the elevator. He stepped back and let several cars comes and go, a few here or there, someone running up at the last second, for nearly five minutes. He heard so many languages—Arabic, English, Chinese, Somali, French—while waiting, people passing by, all walks of life. The mall was a great democratizer. Adem thought of the things he'd done that none of these people knew about. How world-changing decisions were made by rich men in secret rooms and there was nothing the entire population of this mall could do to change it.

When he was sure there was no one nearby, with the elevator doors opening to let out a car full of shoppers, he slipped into the elevator, fumbled with the keycard. He missed the slot three times. The doors slid closed. Someone above must've pressed the button. He hit the stop button before it could rise. Finally got the card in. He whispered, "Thank God" and pressed the button for forty-six. That sounded nice and random.

But nothing happened.

Adem looked at the light beside the keycard slot. Bright red.

He pulled it in and out again. Still red. He slammed his finger against forty-six, forty-five, thirty-nine, twenty-four. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

The alarm buzzer caught him by surprise. He yelped, felt a trickle of piss on his leg, just a few drops. Time to leave. Time to find the stairs again. A long climb.

He pressed the release button and the doors slid open.

Three men, two blacks and an Arab, all security guards, stood there. They stepped onto the elevator, the black man in front palming Adem's chest and pushing him back.

"Should've padded your bra."

The doors closed, and all three were facing him. The Arab pulled something from his back pocket and handed it to the lead guard, who flicked it with his wrist. A dinner napkin? No, no, a cloth sack.

The man moved fast. By the time Adem realized the bag was going over his head, he tried to raise his arms, but they had already been pulled behind his back.

He shook his head and shouted, tried to kick, tried to leverage his feet against the elevator walls, but they slid down. The man with the bag had a good grip on it, twisting tight beneath his chin. Beige, rough, thin enough for light and air to get through but nothing else. It pulled tighter and tighter against his nose, his lips, and he began gacking as it squeezed his throat.

Lips close to his ear, the same man holding the bag. "Trust me, Adem."

The elevator dinged—they hadn't moved—and he was dragged from the elevator, dangling between the two extra guards, knees almost touching the ground.

––––––––

M
ustafa felt no rush of adrenaline or anxiety as he usually would on a night like this. The four of them—Teeth, Mustafa, Dawit, and GOAT, who they felt was better kept close than left to wonder where everyone had gone to—stood in the hotel parking lot, scattered, except that Mustafa had wanted Ali nearby to make sure he didn't text or call the Prince.

They had popped the hood of the Challenger and pulled out the starter. Now they waited for Dragoslav to take his nightly ride to collect some cash from operators in around Nordeast, check out some pussy at Dream Girls or Deja Vu, or outdrink everyone at Palmer's Bar before scoring some crank around back. He could get started anytime between eleven and two, depending on how sleepy he was, apparently. Mustafa had done a little more checking. When he wasn't here, or down South where the girls were spread across Tennessee, or overseas, he went home to Superior, Wisconsin, where he had a decent middle-class ranch house in a subdivision built in the seventies that you couldn't see the Lake from. He was married. He had three kids, the oldest eleven, youngest four. Mustafa wondered if they had any idea what he actually did out on the road.

Mustafa was having trouble giving this his full attention, though. Too busy worrying about Adem, selling him out like that. But shit, that wasn't fair. A father got to keep his boy safe. That's not selling out. That's just being a non-shitty dad. And what was all that at the end, sounded like this Jacob didn't have it all together, sounded like Adem was in trouble again? Goddamn it. Long as his mother didn't find out.

Not yet, anyway.

Idil had to know Adem hadn't gone over for no pilgrimage. Not the way he loved TV and pizza and thick winter socks. His son was American. Maybe he would have a desire to explore his faith more deeply after another five, ten years, but Idil had to know Adem was really trying to find that girl. But she sure as hell didn't need to know about the CIA.

Mustafa sniffed. His nose hadn't stopped itching. He rubbed a thumb and finger across it, winced at the sting. Ali was a real trooper, standing there with his hands in his jeans pockets. Staring at the hotel doors, barely blinking. Never looking away. The other two had hidden themselves in the shadows. Mustafa didn't have a clue where they were.

He drifted closer to the GOAT. "Let me ask you something. So if I hadn't turned up okay, you think you'd go back to banging for Heem?"

Shrug. "If he'd have me, yeah, I guess."

"But last night, didn't no one know, and you were still with us."

"Don't matter. I'm a Killa. I fight for the Killaz."

"So if Heem doesn't want you back, how about Teeth? You up for joining Black Ice?"

Ali shook his head, kept his eyes on the hotel door. He swallowed hard, throat jumping. "Look, why you asking all this? I done something wrong? You testing me or something?"

"It's okay. Just...asking. You're a good man, but when it came down to the Prince or me, you picked me. Some might say that's a shitty friend."

Finally got Ali's eyes on his. "But a good soldier."

"You right."

"I ain't never said I was your friend. Never said I was Heem's friend. That's just you making assumptions. The Killaz are my family. You started the Killaz. That one's easy. Don't go asking about me switching sides when I ain't switched
shit
, man."

Mustafa nodded. Wanted to kick himself for even bringing it up. There wasn't a whole lot about gangbanging that was common sense except in the most primal aspect—protect you and yours, and don't snitch. So now Ali would be looking at Mustafa like,
Something wrong with him
. And, shit, what was any of the Killaz going to do when this trip down South was done anyway? When Bahdoon came back with the girl and told them all, "I'm out." Again.

For good, right?

Dawit's voice in his Bluetooth: "He's coming."

Ali said, "I ain't seen him."

"From around the side, behind you. Are we waiting for him to get in the car?"

Mustafa said, "Yeah, let him get in, then get out again. Let him get distracted."

Mustafa and Ali hung back between a Grand Am and a Chevy truck. Didn't crouch, hide, any of that. It was dark out, and they figured Dragoslav wouldn't be looking for them again. He'd done his job, he'd gotten his ass kicked, but he'd gotten paid. He wasn't planning on getting revenge this way. What he would do is hunt down some of the merchandise, scare the living shit out of them, fuck them bloody, and send them back damaged. Mustafa still couldn't get the girl from the hotel room out of his head. Throwing up. More afraid of the Euro-trash skin pusher than life on the game.

Dragoslav passed them and didn't even notice. He was flipping his keys around his finger like an Old West gunslinger. Bopped his head to some invisible beat. Phone in his other hand, thumb texting. When he stepped into the nearest pool of light, his bruises and cuts became clear, faded into shadows again on the way out. He climbed into his car, tried to crank up, and then...

"Fuck you, doing this to me!"

He pounded on the wheel. Kept trying to crank it.

"Fuck, fuck, piece of
shit
, fuck!"

In Mustafa's ear, the Bluetooth. Dawit. "Almost."

The clunk of the hood release. Then Dragoslav got out, lifted the hood. Straight-armed the frame while hanging his head low. He had no idea what to do with under there.

Dawit. "Almost."

Dragoslav pushed himself off the car, and they could tell he was holding back from punching it.

Mustafa said, "Now's good."

Dawit cut the connection, and not even a minute later, Mustafa heard the jangling of more keys, figured out where it was coming from, and saw Dawit casually making his way towards another car several slots down from the Challenger. Dragoslav already had his phone to his ear, trying to get someone at the rental car company, sounded like. Mumbling, "American shit car, plastic shit." He barely noticed Dawit, but when he finally did, he went quiet. Watched for a long moment, and then he was back to whoever he found from the rental company to blame.

Dawit put on a good show—standing at the door of this Camry that wasn't his, bouncing his keys in his palm, looking back at the Challenger, then away. Then he pulled out a phone, pretended to call someone, and said, "I might be a little late. I'll call you back." Walked to the Challenger and checked under the hood while Dragoslav was still grilling the poor wage worker at the rental car place about their piece of shit leaving him stranded and how does he know the address of the hotel, right, because that's their job, not his, he's a guest.

Dawit called out, "Excuse me? Having trouble?"

Dragoslav whipped around, hung up the phone, just that quick. "I'm fine. Don't. I'm okay."

"It's no problem. I know cars. I can fix it for you."

"It's a rental. Don't touch it. I said I'm okay. You understand? Understand English?"

Ali laughed at that one, slapped his hand over his mouth. Mustafa grinned. Getting themselves ready. Just waiting for the right...

"No, listen, it's probably simple. I can fix. Really."

"For fuck's sake, what the fuck did I tell you?" Dragoslav was on the edge, arms flailing. Stepping up on Dawit. "This is not your problem. I don't need your help."

Here it was.

Dragoslav gave Dawit a shove. Dawit, who had been in more combat than Dragoslav and all his brothers combined, took him down so fast that Mustafa walked up to find the piece of shit on his knees, Dawit leveraging his arms, cheek pressed to the ground.