At the stairwell they started down, two steps at a time, Mustafa finally grabbing his own pistol. Bleeker hadn't realized he was strapped. Two floors. Three. Then they heard the noise above them. Scuffling, hurrying. Bleeker leaned over, looked up. Nothing.
"Let's go. No need to look."
Bleeker caught up. On the second floor, the hallway door banged open. Both men brought their guns up, ready to fire. Scared the hell out of some kids. Young teenagers, a boy and two girls. The girls, lip-glossed and eye-linered, and the boy in a parka too big for him.
The girls screamed. The boy's eyes went wide. Hands up. "No! I swear! I don't know nothing! Mr. Bahdoon, please, I didn't do anything!"
Mustafa let out a breath, eased up on the gun. "Go back home. Do not go outside."
He nodded, pushed the girls into the hallway. The door closed again, air-cushioning into place.
First floor. Stairwell to the outside was open, door off the hinges. Mustafa stopped on the second step. Bleeker was three behind him. Couldn't see why. Outside the door, a patch of light on a small patch of concrete.
Like Mustafa was frozen. It didn't make sense.
"They're coming fast, man. Let's go."
Mustafa glanced back over his shoulder. He nodded. But Bleeker could tell he did not want to go through that door. About to have his John Dillinger moment. Or what was the rapper who got shot? Nefarious F.A.T.? Like that sort of thing. Guts and glory.
Mustafa crept to the door, careful to keep to one side. He shoved his gun down his waistband. Bleeker's breath caught. He took aim dead center of the darkness beyond the door. What was this?
Mustafa called out, "Who's out there?"
Nothing.
Louder. "Who's out there?"
Some rustling. Some footsteps. A shadow on the concrete. Bleeker closed one eye. Two handed the gun like he was on the range. Center mass. The shadow grew, darkened. Then a man in the door.
A white man, jeans and a pea coat, wool hat. "Yeah, Bahdoon. I'm here."
Bleeker dropped his gun. Stupid. Was about to raise it up again, thinking, Right, I just assume the first white man I see wouldn't kill us?
Mustafa exhaled. Shoulders dropped. "Shit."
The white man looked at Bleeker, said, "It's cool. I know this guy. I heard he might be back here when he knows he shouldn't be."
Mustafa said, "All clear out there, Knuth?"
"Jimmy's holding down the squad. No one's doing anything."
Mustafa stood with his chin down. Eyes closed. "Okay."
"We'll get you back to your car. We checked. Some of their guys were keeping an eye on it, but we chased them off. You're good."
Bleeker, hands on hips. "I'm feeling left out over here."
Knuth reached his hand for a shake. "John Knuth, Sergeant, MPD. Let's say Mustafa and I have an understanding."
Mustafa's hands weren't so steady. He looked at Bleeker. "I'll tell you in the car. We have to go."
They stepped through the door into the darkness. Bleeker followed. Felt like a million eyes were on him. He couldn't see any one of them, but the hair on the back of his neck, on his ears, his arms, all let him know they were there. Watching. Aiming. Choosing.
The cop named Jimmy was a giant, filled up most of the front seat. Knuth asked for the banger's keys before Mustafa and Bleeker climbed into the back. Mustafa handed them over without thinking. Maybe Jimmy was going to take Bleeker back to the hotel or to grab a bite. He was starving. Something soft because his jaw was on fire. A burrito, maybe.
Mustafa didn't say a word. The squad took some corners, finally made it to the curb where Mustafa had left his car. The partner jumped out. Mustafa waited for him to open the door. But that wasn't happening.
He leaned back, spoke through the cage. "Sorry, man. Orders. I'm driving your car back to the station. Someone wants to have a talk with you guys."
Mustafa leaned forward, a tiger rushing the cage bars. "You piece of shit! It's not even funny. Let me out, Knuth. Now. This is bullshit."
Knuth shook his head. "What were you thinking tonight? Jesus, man."
"Let us out!"
"Don't worry about it. It's nothing."
He slammed the door as Mustafa shouted his name. Kept shouting.
Jimmy said, "Don't make me spray you."
Mustafa sat back, fell against the door. Knuth got into the yellow car, cranked up.
Bleeker tapped on the cage. "Hey, Jimmy, how about some drive-through? I'll buy you a couple of tacos."
"I'll think about it. Thanks."
Bleeker watched the street as they drove away, the clumps of kids trying to be bad. Trying. Some succeeding, but most doing what kids do-trying to grow up too fast. He'd never tell Mustafa, but he felt like shit. Would've broken some bones over a video game. Who the hell did he think he was?
ELEVEN
Jibriil. An officer. A leader. Only a few weeks in country. But after losing their commander the night before and somehow making it back from a raid that should have left them dead, Jibriil was promoted.
Madness. Utter madness.
Adem didn't even know why they'd been to Ethiopia. There was a lot more to the war than he originally understood. They were supposed to be defending Islam against a corrupt government who squashed religious expression and lived like kings while hundreds of thousands starved. Instead, he hadn't seen much sign of government outside of his own army. The soldiers and leaders were brutal to anyone who colored outside of their very narrow lines. They took what they needed in spite of how that would disrupt the lives of everyday Somalis, who were fleeing the city, the country even, as if it was a giant sinkhole, falling away at their heels.
Why Ethiopia? Because Ethiopians had invaded Somalia, occupied it, and killed indiscriminately. And they were Christian. Now they'd been chased back, but still attacked whenever they felt like it. Same with the Somalis, tit for tat. Mutual hatred. Nothing better to do.
They'd made it back in the early morning hours, bodies aching from the fight, the bumpy ride, the fear. Boys gathered around while Garaad regaled them with the story, told all the young warriors how Jibriil had picked up the mantle when their leader fell in the ambush. Everything was going wrong. They'd been sold out!
"But," Garaad said, his timing perfect. Could've been an actor. "While we struggled to find God's will in this, Jibriil knew. He gathered us together, an unstoppable force, and led us across the town. Devils, hiding their true selves behind shepherd's clothing, firing at us. But onward we swept, picking up our brothers as we fought."
He left out the part about running ahead of everyone else.
But he wasn't going to bring it up because Jibriil wasn't. In fact, whenever the boys would look back at Jibriil, who was resting against the truck tire, to confirm some wild sounding part of Garaad's story, he would shrug it off, say, "We all did our parts. Especially you. You saved my life."
That sort of leader. Yeah. How the hell did that happen? In less than a week, Jibriil had grown from a boy with ADD to a respected man above men right in front of Adem's eyes. No one event or moment. The entire experience seemed to lift him. He was made for this.
Adem sure as hell wasn't. He had to get out of there.
Especially because when Garaad turned the story to the mysterious rat, the soldiers grew quiet, some flicking their eyes towards Adem. The outcast. He must be the one, then. Garaad didn't exactly say that Adem must be the rat, but he did warn the boys that a traitor was among them, watching their every move. "Who knows? Maybe he'll get you next as you pray."
Jibriil broke in, reassured the crowd that the rat most likely stayed behind, played dead, so he could give the enemy intelligence. "He would be crazy to come back here now. Absolutely crazy."