He took a few more blocks, then made his way down a narrow street, mostly rubble, some smoke here and there from fires, people trying to cook a goat, it smelled like. All of them gave him looks as if he were a strange creature, walking alone amongst them. Not backed by a gang. Just a man with a gun and a covered face.
He glanced down a side street and caught a glimpse. A white truck, maybe. He went back. It was two blocks over, definitely white but filthy. Mud and dust. He tracked down the street, one where the shadows kept everything cool, dark. He passed what he thought was a sleeping man. But then the smell hit him, the buzzing of flies. Didn't even want to take another look, but saw part of his leg. The man's skin looked like tight paper that had been ripped by a knife. Discolored, lighter than it should be. Not any of his business. He held his breath until the next block.
This was it. Had to be. The directions he'd been given were sketchy but got him here, barely. He stepped out onto the street. Two of them, flatbeds with large cabs, old but workable. Some flag draped across the front, nearly falling off. Letters in Arabic-something about peaceful and legal. Bored soldiers, most dressed more like him than the usual mix and match of street clothes and military fatigues, stood around, hands hanging off the weapons strapped around their necks. A Somali man in a black but faded Jay-Z concert t-shirt stood in front of one of the trucks. He was with a white woman, wearing a hijab but also short sleeves, capri pants. Another man with them, half-Chinese at first glance, had a bandage across the top of his head and another wrapped around his left forearm. He was lucky to still have both hands. He wondered if the woman had been beaten.
He stepped up to another soldier. "They're the ones? They're leaving?"
"Not fast enough. They're waiting for a friend. He's late."
"Why's he late?"
The soldier shook his head. "He's not coming, really. But they don't know that. He's dead."
Anywhere else, this would be a big problem. The soldier sounded like he was amused by it.
"Something he ate. He shat himself dead. But we're not telling them."
"They're going to wait?"
"If they don't leave soon, we'll start making noise. They'll get moving."
"I want to talk to them."
"No."
"For a moment. My captain wants me to question the girl."
The soldier pulled his scarf down so his whole face showed. Looked at Adem for a long moment. "She is shameful. She is of no use."
"But it's important."
"Then tell your captain to come speak with her himself."
Adem had had enough. No more time. He grabbed the solider's shirt and twisted, pulled him closer. "You think you're superior to my captain? Would you tell yours the same thing? You ass!"
Shoved him. The soldier held his ground. Eyes burning. Breathing hard through his nose. This was a guy who could crush Adem. Easily.
"Yes?"
The soldier finally nodded. "Go on."
Adem hid the relief. Waited until he was walking towards the trio of aid workers before letting out a deep, aching breath. As he approached, the woman of the group stepped out to meet him, speaking exaggerated, slow English with a German accent.
"Our friend, is he coming? Do you know…" She pointed to her temple. "About our…um…" She pointed at the other two. "Friend? Another man? Do you know?"
Adem thought she should be careful. Almost like she was asking if the soldiers were planning to shoot her companions in the head. He pretended to not understand her, took her by the arm and led her back to the other two. She tried to pull away, but not so hard. Like Adem, ready to go home. Let God forsake the whole country, which He seemed intent on doing anyway.
Huddled with the others, he pulled his scarf from his nose and mouth. Dripping sweat. He wiped it off with the back of his hand. "You all speak English, right?"
The Chinese man blinked, looked around. Adem thought, No, don't make it look any more suspicious than it already is. The aid worker said, "You're American?"
Not only that, but his accent was as American as all the TV shows Adem was missing. "Yes, yes, I am. You are?"
They shook hands. "Wayne. I'm from Oregon, man. What the hell are you doing here?"
"I made a mistake. I need a ride out of here. You're heading home, right?"
"Once they bring our friend back, we're gone. I had no idea it was this bad, man. This is hell."
"You're lucky they're letting you go at all. But we've got to hurry."
The German girl said, "But what about Jeff? We have to wait."
Adem shook his head, pulled his scarf back into place. "When I tell you this, don't look shocked. Don't cry. Don't faint. Please. Get in the truck and go."
The Somali man screwed up his face. "No, it can't be. No."
"What? Isaac, tell me." The woman, looking from face to face. "What is this?"
"He's not coming. Jeff's dead."
Her eyes went big. The Somali man put his hands on her arms, pulled her closer. "No, Greta, don't. Cry later. Now, let's go. Come on."
She swallowed hard. Isaac helped her into the cab of the first truck from the driver's side. He climbed in behind her. As Adem and Wayne walked back to the other truck, the first one's engine came to life. Rattled and grumbled as Adem turned in a slow circle, rifle ready, to check on the soldiers. They were watching closely, but not moving to stop the trucks. About ten of them, Adem counted. All of their faces were covered, obscured, turned-couldn't tell if he knew any of them.
Wayne opened the door of the truck. "How many Americans are over here? Are you, like, a CIA guy?"
"Hurry, get in. I'll tell you on the way." Adem kept his eyes on the soldiers. Once he climbed into the truck on the other side, what would they think? What would they do? His heart was thumping so hard in his chest that he worried it might spring a leak. A few blocks behind them, one of the troop transport pickup trucks turned onto their street, coming their way.
God, no.
"Get in! Get in!" Adem pushed Wayne into the driver's seat. Closed the door. The first aid truck lurched ahead, eased up to speed. Soldiers got out of the way, let it drive past. Score one point. Adem breathed a sigh of relief. But the other truck, soldiers dangling off the sides, packed like sardines, guns at the ready, was gaining fast. Spewing dust behind it. As it got closer, he heard a voice over the engine.
" Stop him! Stop him! Don't let him get away! "
The soldiers on the ground hopped into action. Rushing towards Adem. He ran around to the passenger door, yanked it open and climbed in.
"Hurry! Fuck, hurry!"
Wayne was cranking it, but the truck wouldn't turn over. That terrible noise, Ru-ru-ru-ru-ru. Almost, almost, almost.
Soldiers now at both doors, pointing guns, slapping the metal. The pickup truck had skidded to a stop. More soldiers jumped off and joined the mob.
"Now! Go!"
Wayne cranked harder, stomped the gas pedal. "I'm fucking doing it! Damnit! I'm doing it! It's flooded!"
More slapping. Gun barrels now clinking against the windows.
Ru-ru-ru-ru-ru…
The butt of a rifle slammed into the driver's window. Glass exploded, pebbles all over. Wayne scooted in Adem's direction. A hand scrabbled in, cleared off remaining glass, unlocked the door. More hands grabbed at Wayne's legs, began pulling him out.
"Shit! No, no, no, I'm going home! I didn't do anything!" Crying, too. Kicking at the hands. Kicking. He was sliding.
One shot. Pistol. Wayne screamed, reached for his foot. It was shredded, bleeding. More hands. Wayne slid from the truck, banged his head against the frame on the way down to the street.
Adem launched for the driver's side. Tried the key again. Nothing but clicking. Soldiers now grabbed for his arm. Adem brought the rifle around in his right hand, turned it. Squeezed the trigger.