Bleeker made it to his feet. Pulled out his pistol.
The scene: Rockstar Muhammad hadn't moved. Still serene on his pedestal. Al Jones stood over Mustafa, writhing in the middle of the floor, hand on his back. From this angle Bleeker saw more of the room, the steps and door that led to the backyard, where some of the gangbangers had surely escaped. A handful of rough and tumble guys in identical North Face parkas stood sentry over there, AR-15s in their hands. Shit.
They noticed Bleeker's pistol, took aim, started barking at him. "Drop the gun! Drop it! Drop it now!"
Al Jones turned his head, pointed a thick finger at Bleeker. "Drop it or I stomp his skull."
He lifted his foot, set his bare heel on Mustafa's head, pressed down.
Instinct. Not like on TV. Not so easy to give up his gun. Not so easy to fire, but easier to do that to solve a problem than make them both helpless.
Bleeker fired from the hip. Powerfully loud, everyone ducking, covering ears, squinching eyes. Bleeker had missed badly, way right, busting up a rack of DVDs. A burst from someone's AR-15. Bleeker dove behind the couch. Hassan, back near the stairs, grabbed his guts and dropped dead. His head flipped back when a late round got him, dead eyes and surprised, bloody mouth staring at Bleeker. The cop peeked over the back of the couch at the action.
Al Jones, screaming and waving his arms. Still standing with his foot on Mustafa. Mustafa grabbed the foot, pushed and twisted hard. Kept at it while Jones hopped with his other foot and tried to shake Mustafa off.
Bleeker was up again, took quick aim. Fired two shots in the direction of the sentries. One flinched, went down. Another dropped his gun, grit his teeth. The other two stepped ahead and started in, bursts of fire into the sofa. Bleeker dove flat on the ground, covered his head. No fucking way they could miss him. No fucking way. The rounds thudded into the wall behind him, all around. No fucking way.
Then the gunfire stopped. They run out of ammo? Were they waiting for him to pop up again? He could hear that Al Jones was still struggling with Mustafa, but then another voice, the Imam's, rose above it. In English again.
"Now is not the time! Not now!"
Bleeker raised up on his elbows, crawled to the edge of the couch where he still had cover from the end table. Sentries, guns down, helping the other two. Neither one dead. Jones still struggling with Mustafa, until Mustafa gave the man's ankle a mighty twist, the guy's knee going with it, toppling to the floor. Mustafa got up, not going for his pistol, backed away. When he saw that Bleeker was okay, he stood his ground, stared down Rockstar Muhammad, who was now standing on the box, head and shoulders hunched to avoid the dropdown ceiling.
Bleeker rose to his knees, kept the gun trained on the sentries. It didn't matter how much of a badass he'd been in Iraq. Didn't matter how intimidating he was to the Somalis over in New Pheasant Run. Here, he was scared. Trapped. Not sure how any of this was going to end. He took charge, marched over to the sentries while they were distracted, gun in their face, took their rifles, slung three over his shoulder and reached one back to Mustafa. He took it, but let it hang loose in his hand rather than covering the rest of the room.
Bleeker said, "Someone must've heard that. Cops'll be here soon."
Mustafa looked around. "Pretty soundproof room."
"Think, man! Automatic weapons fire!"
Shrugged. "A movie. Look at the set-up here."
Bleeker was about to say something else, something with lots of "fucks" and "shits" but not "niggers" because he was surrounded by black men and he hadn't said "nigger" in months and months, thanks to Cindy, but by God, it was on the tip of his tongue right then and he had to bite it back, bite it off.
The lightning crack of a handgun and the pain blacked him out. Reeling on his feet. The pain radiating up his arm, like hot lava across his back. He grabbed at the fire on his right arm. Split skin across his upper bicep, on through to his upper back. Not so bad. It would heal up with a few stitches. Still hurt like all hell. He sucked in a deep breath and turned. Hassan's wife, eyes wild, stood at the base of the stairs over her husband's body holding a pistol. Another crack, bullet went wide.
Mustafa lifted his auto and let loose, cut her down right across the middle.
Then it was quiet.
Al Jones grunted, pulled himself up onto Rockstar's box. "Look what you've done."
Mustafa, still staring at the wife. Like he was in shock. "We…wanted to talk."
"A peaceful gathering. The police can't accept that, can they? Have to make us all out to be murdering lunatics."
"But you are," Bleeker said. His arm was dripping red, filtering through the fingers clamped over the skin. "Tell them, Mustafa. Tell them why we're here."
Al Jones, sitting on the box, rubbing his ankle. "Oh, I know why. We heard you coming miles away."
Mustafa said, "Why? A couple of stupid kids. You sent them to fucking die?"
"To fight. To bring glory to themselves in the next life."
"I need to know who. How'd they get there? Where are they?"
Rockstar sat down again, tapped Jones's arm, and leaned forward, speaking low into his ear. Jones nodded.
"Come on. Where are they?"
Al Jones said, "Are the Imam and I under arrest? I think it's important we understand our rights."
Bleeker said, "Yes, goddamn it, of course you're under arrest."
Mustafa said, "No. Where are they?"
"Wait." Bleeker stepped over to Mustafa. "Yes. I'm arresting them."
"We can't do that. This was a home invasion. A Somali gang hitting the Hassans because of something their son did."
Unbelievable. "The hell are you talking about?"
"They tell us where Adem and Jibriil are, and how to get them back, and then we get out of here. They're on their own."
Bleeker, the feel of the blood all over him making him sick, trembled. So pissed. "This isn't your fucking gang we're talking about here. You're on my team. Get used to it."
"Is it going to help us get Adem back? No, all it does is make us killers."
"Makes us heroes!"
"Is that what you want? Because all I want is my son!" Mustafa's face stretched and furious. Right in Bleeker's. Stabbing his finger into the man's chest. "You started this! I would've talked to them and we would have left. But you started shooting. You wanted to kill. Not them. You."
"I did what I was supposed to."
Mustafa looked tired. Screwed up his face. "Fuck you, man. We need to get you an ambulance."
"Excuse me." Rockstar Muhammad raised his hand. Didn't wait to be recognized. "I have not done anything illegal. I do not understand, this… this…" He spoke to Al Jones in Arabic.
Bleeker couldn't figure it out. Too fast, and he wasn't concentrating. Mustafa bobbed his head, answered. Rockstar's eyes lit up. That set them both off in Arabic. Bleeker's
arm and back hurt more listening to them babble, shut out of the loop. He stepped aside while the Arabic flew over his head, pulled out his cell phone and called 911.
Told the dispatcher, "Detective Ray Bleeker, out in Eden Prairie. We've got a problem."
"I'm sorry, you're a Detective in Eden Prairie?"
"No, no, but yeah. Look, We need an ambulance. We need some back-up."
"Why didn't you call-"
"Listen, no time. I'm bleeding. How about 'off-duty officer needs assistance'? Can you put that out there?"
She told him okay and started typing, and he told her the address. Was about to tell her the situation when he heard Mustafa's gun rattle to the ground. He glanced over his shoulder. The three standing sentries now had goddamned Glocks, covering Mustafa. Al Jones helped Rockstar off the box, started for the back stairs.
Bleeker closed his phone, stepped forward. "No, no no no. You're staying here."