Loud like lots of little bombs. Ringing ears. Spent jackets burned his face as they were ejected. Someone outside grabbed the barrel and gave it a hard tug. Adem let it go, too disoriented to stop them.
And he was next, thrown to the ground. He saw legs and dust and the shape of a man who might have been Wayne, middle of the street, surrounded by soldiers. Screams.
A boot at his face. Cracked Adem's nose. Another shot followed it. Then another. More boots, all over his body. Balls, back, knees, chest, fingers. One kick after another. Cries of "Rat!" and "Deserter!" and "Traitor!" and "American Bastard!"
Adem couldn't answer. His lip had been split, mouth full of blood he kept spitting. He shook badly. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to be sent home or allowed to die.
Two soldiers grabbed Adem under his armpits, pulled him to his knees. Everything was pain. Waves of it. He tried to think about Lake Superior, the waves rolling in. But they turned to storm waves, angry and dark. He felt one crash against him. Opened his eyes. Still in Somalia. A solider had thrown water on his face, now reached down and rubbed the dirt and blood away. It was the one Adem had grabbed by the shirt. Looked at his filthy hand and gave it a shake. Mud and water flung back onto Adem's face. The soldiers holding him dragged him to the circle of soldiers, let him through. Someone was going on and on, reading from the Quran. Loud and on edge. Wayne was on his knees, being held in place. Several younger soldiers stood behind him. They faced a boy with a handheld video camera.
Adem was too weak to put up a fight. More waves of shocking pain. One eye swollen shut. A hand slapped his cheek. "Stay awake. Watch what happens because of you."
The boy reading from the Quran kept on. Another solider pulled a knife from his belt, wiped it on his pants. He took over from the one holding Wayne. Grabbed him by the hair and forced him to his stomach. Wayne fought and kicked. Shouting for help. A soldier stepped forward, grabbed his legs. The boy with the knife knelt on Wayne's shoulder blades.
Adem tried to turn away. He knew what was next. He was slapped again, then his face pushed until he had no choice but to look. Tried to close his good eye. His minder forced it open with two fingers.
By then, Wayne's shouting had stopped. They'd already started on him, sliced right through his throat. Geysers of blood when he hit the arteries. Wayne's face like a Halloween mask. The boy with the knife kept sawing. The knife tore through gristle, hit bone. More sawing as the boy sliced around the entire neck. He stepped back. Another solider grabbed Wayne's head two-handed, lifted it easy, like a melon. Blood dripped from the neck. Oozed from the body, the hard ground soaking it up.
They brought the head to Adem, who was gagging, trying not to throw up. They held Wayne's head in front of his face. "This is what you did. And Allah will have your head next. You're next."
Wayne's face. It was like Wayne was saying it. Eyes closed, lips tight, but Wayne's voice: "Look at what you did."
"No, God, no, I want to go home. I just want to go home."
A hard blow to the back of his skull. The two men holding him let him go. He flopped to the ground face first. Still heard the reading of the Quran, like background noise. Another voice on top of it: "This is what happens to traitors and deserters. Adem came telling us he was a brother, one of us. He spoke with the Devil's tongue. All lies. This is what happens to liars!"
He was on his way to oblivion and sweet dreams of home as someone grabbed his hair and lifted his face. Lake Superior. He'd gone there one or two summers, once with the high school chorus. He could stare at the Lake forever. Something magical about it. Too cold to swim in, full of stories of lost lives, lost ships. But maybe the most peaceful place Adem had ever been.
His own voice echoed in his head: You won't feel a thing. Not one thing.
TWELVE
"Short leash."
That was the phrase the police captain had used several times after hearing their story. Which was much better than what he'd started with, aimed squarely at Mustafa: "Prison. Finally get to throw your ass in prison."
Bleeker took most of the blame. He'd come too far to let Mustafa take the fall. Said he had bullied Mustafa into taking him along, a sad guy who'd lost his woman, his child, and his sense of right and wrong.
"Really, I shouldn't have. I should've come to you guys for assistance, instead, but, well…" and a shy shrug to finish it out.
Another half-hour of battering from the captain and one of the Gang Task Force officers who couldn't stand the sight of Mustafa. Burning a hole through him, crossing his arms. Pretty typical posturing. Maybe if they'd ease up on the hate and realize what a true convert they had in Mustafa, he might help them really make a dent in the gangs around here. At least, Bleeker thought the guy was a convert. Saved his ass once already when it would've been easier to let the wolves have him.
Bleeker held them off. He was used to talking his way back to shore. Told them they'd learned nothing from Teeth. Nothing. Bleeker mimed washing his hands.
He knew Mustafa was ready to tell them, too. It was Bleeker who stepped on his words, pushed ahead with, "Guy was playing big shot with us. I think he liked having Bahdoon come calling on him. Showed how important he was."
So it came down to "You tried, you didn't get what you needed, so that's it." The captain slouched deep in his office chair, elbow on the armrest, palm holding up his chin. Made it hard to understand him. "I'm really sorry, Detective. Terrible what happened, my God, really terrible. Wish I could bend the rules for you, but, well, rules are rules to keep us safe, you know."
"It's hard, a guy like me, sitting on the sidelines."
"Oh yeah, absolutely. Geez, I hear you. We'll keep you updated, of course. I'm hoping Mr. Bahdoon is wrong about the boys ending up in Somalia. I thought that had stopped some time ago, but we'll look into it. Anything we can do, we will."
Bleeker stood and reached across the desk. The captain took his time creaking out of the chair, like he had bad knees already and hadn't hit fifty. Shook the man's hand. He gave Mustafa, still seated, a We're not done look. It wasn't going to be pretty.
But then Bleeker clamped a hand on Mustafa's shoulder. Said, "I think I owe my friend here breakfast before I head home. Even though we came up blank, he did a good job of getting us in and out safely, no drama."
The captain, all smiles. The gang cop rolled his eyes and left the room without another word.
"Sure, sure. Really redeemed himself, I tell you."
Like Mustafa wasn't even in the room.
Outside, Mustafa pulled his cap over his ears. Told Bleeker, "I'm not hungry."
Bleeker could read his face. Enough of hanging with this cracker cop. Gonna fuck it up for me.
"Neither am I. But I will be after five cups of coffee. Come on."
Couple of minutes, Mustafa looking left, right, tapping his foot. Then, "Fine. I know a place."
*
They ended up right back in Seward, closer to the University, at Pizza Luce. Beer for Bleeker, water for Mustafa, a baked potato pizza instead of breakfast. Going to close the place, it looked like. Al Jones would have to wait another day. But it wasn't so bad. Bleeker had downshifted out of his take-charge attitude, at least after the first beer, which he drained in under a minute. Ordered another.
As Mustafa sipped, Bleeker said, "Not a drinker, then. Religious?"
He nodded. "I'm trying. It's hard sometimes here, so much to distract you."
"That's got to be better than being over there."
"Most of the Somalis in Minneapolis now, yes, they still follow Islam. It's part of who they are. But so many things they would never dream of doing in the homeland, here it is nothing. Women have so many more options. So much more worldly shit." A smile. "Guess my language could use some work, but like I said, it's hard. You heard about Somali cabbies here? They won't pick you up if you're carrying alcohol."