Adem's heart sank. Even more when Garaad saw Sufia and said, "What's this one doing here? What's her problem?"
Adem stepped up. "She's coming with me. My assistant. My rules, understand? You keep me safe, but we play this my way."
A round of ohs and ahs from the crowd, applauding the American's balls, standing up to an obviously much stronger, tougher, and deadlier soldier. But even standing toe to toe, Garaad smirking, looking down on Adem like he could crush him in one go, all Adem could remember was Garaad running away from the gunmen in Ethiopia, passing all his brothers-in-arms as if they were stumps. Somewhere deep in those muscles lurked a coward.
Farah placed his hand on Adem's shoulder. "No. My rules. Are we clear?"
Adem sucked his cheeks tight against his teeth. "Yes."
"Excellent." The tall man in the suit started for the jeep. "Shall we?"
Jibriil embraced Adem one more time, a hard hug, one that hinted that Jibriil knew this might be it. "Be safe, brother. Don't give them a reason to kill you. Do it right. For me."
"You stay safe, too. Come see me. We can get you off the battlefield, you know."
Jibriil let go. "Why would I want to leave? I love it here."
Then Jibriil embraced Garaad, a fine, undeserved send-off. The silent guard was looking to be a good choice right about then, but Adem didn't dare mention it. He knew exactly why Garaad was the one Jibriil wanted. He was the one who wouldn't put up with any bullshit Adem tried to throw at the pirates. He might say all those kind things, call Adem his brother, but all of it was nothing compared to his distrust.
Sufia sat in the front seat of the jeep, since to put her in back would have her rubbing up against two men. Adem thought it was a place of honor, but the others he knew considered it shameful that she was coming along alone. If any other soldiers happened to see this, they might drag her off the jeep and stone her immediately, no trial.
But they made it down the road, Farah between the two men in the back. Bumpy road, traveling too fast. Not much was said. Adem wanted to ask many questions-what boat? How many hostages? What's the hold up with negotiations? Has there already been talk between them? What's my job, really? But he had already guessed that Farah was not a man who liked questions. He preferred giving orders. So Adem kept quiet, bumping along until they came to a clearing where a helicopter waited for them, blades already whirring. No wasting time.
They held onto their scarves to keep them from whipping around as they ran from the jeep to the chopper. Sufia struggled the most, her hijab threatening to fly clean off her head. Adem helped her up into the chopper, climbed in after, and there they were, finally, sitting next to each other.
He said to her, "Trust me, this is going to be better for both of us."
She didn't answer. Didn't even look at him. He couldn't understand why this wasn't okay. Why was she giving him the cold shoulder? Maybe it felt like a demand-Adem turning into one of the other men, always demanding but never thinking to ask what she had wanted.
He turned to the windows, watched the chopper lift from the ground. His first chopper ride. His stomach knotted tighter as they moved forward, the land and the beach and then they were over the open water, leaving purgatory for a lesser kind of hell.
SIXTEEN
It was better to be cold and alone. By his third week back from Minneapolis, now suspended pending trial for… well, for whatever the hell happened in that basement, Bleeker should have been looking for an apartment, but he retreated to the ice shack instead. He brought along a toaster oven, a space heater, plenty of gas for the generator, and plenty of rum and pop. He set up the fishing line but set free everything he caught. He drank, slept, and dreamed. His dreams confused the massacre in Eden Prairie with the missions he'd had in Iraq. Gangsta thugs in street clothes kicking up the sand as they crossed the dunes, swords held high. Hell, that wasn't even Iraq. That was Lawrence of Arabia or some shit.
Another three weeks. When he had enough of the ice shack, he'd roll back into town, stop by and talk to his boss. Not much to talk about. Not when you've got an ex-Army Ranger showing up in a basement full of dead people, swearing he just happened on it, following up on a tip about the missing college student. Self defense. He had the wound to prove it. But there had to be someone else. Forensics told them that. "Just me," was all Bleeker had to say. "Got lucky."
So he floated, sneaking back home when Trish was gone. A cheap hotel when he wanted to sleep and shower. Driving, aimlessly, the whole time thinking he should've turned Mustafa in rather than letting him slip away through the door. He should've ratted out Rockstar and Al Jones. If it meant those two kids ended up dead, then fine. At least one of them shot Cindy. Let the universe work out the blame.
But he couldn't do it. The look on Mustafa's face, the weakness in his voice. The tough guy gang leader crumbling like stale bread. Bleeker kept his mouth shut. It was killing him. So he got drunk a lot. A whole lot. Got drunk and let the fish go and curled tightly in his sleeping bag, dreading the coming thaw when he'd have to face the world again. Some said it was due earlier this year. He hoped not. If so, he would stay until he felt the ice crack beneath him. Maybe even go down with the shack, all the way to the bottom of the lake.
Day after day of waiting for whatever it was that would make him stop waiting.
Like a knock on the ice shack's door.
Gun out. One in the chamber for weeks now. When they came for him, there would be a lot, but he'd get off a whole magazine first. Kill at least three or four. Make it hard for the survivors to get to him. Might even save one shot for himself to spite them.
Another knock. "Yo, Ray, man. Come on."
Mustafa's voice.
Not good enough. Bleeker sat up, aimed for the door. Breathing calm. Center mass. Focus.
A fist slamming the wall. "I know you're in there, alright? Don't fuck with me."
Bleeker cleared his throat. He hadn't spoken in days. "Door… door's open."
A click. The door swung open. Mustafa, in his parka and wool cap, stepped inside. His face, though-bags under his eyes. Unshaven. Didn't even blink at the gun leveled at him. In one hand, a bottle of pop. In the other, a jug of Bacardi.
"Thirsty?"
Bleeker's gun hand shook. He dropped it to his lap. "I thought you didn't drink."
"Not the rum. But I'm up for the Coke."
Bleeker pushed himself off the floor, kicked his sleeping bag to the side. Sweatpants and socks, a filthy undershirt. His uniform for a week now. He grabbed the two folding chairs, handed one to Mustafa.
"How'd you find me?"
"Your wife. Didn't want to tell me at first, but I guess you'd told her about me. Soon as I said my name, she wrote down the directions."
Yeah, he had told her. It was too late to reconcile, too late to keep living at home, so he went to her parents' house, sat her down in the kitchen and told her what happened. The only person he'd told the truth to. As much as she hated him, she had never betrayed his trust, something she'd take to her grave. Payback for Cindy.
Bleeker and Mustafa sat. Nothing to say for a long time. Five minutes. More.
Mustafa nodded at the line in the water. "Catching anything?"
"Plenty. I throw it all back."
"Didn't think you had it in you. Remember? 'I go after someone, I get them'?
Shrug. "People, not fish."
"You doing alright?" His voice rougher than usual.
Bleeker inhaled, let it go. "I sleep. When I'm awake, all I want to do is get back to sleep. I don't want to think. I don't want to do anything. Your son's life depends on me, and all I have to do is forget what I saw and move on. But I can't. It's not fair."
Mustafa picked up one of the plastic cups that littered the floor. Sniffed it. He poured some Coke. "Got ice?"