Just as some young guy in shorts and a green polo walked it. Boat shoes, no socks. Carefully casual. He took a look at the scene and smirked. "Am I interrupting something?"
Mustafa acted on reflex, reaching for the guy, ready to drag him to the bed and throttle him. But the youngster was quick, hopping back as Mustafa barreled forward, giving him an elbow on the back as he went flying by. Right to the floor. The guy was good, confident. Maybe too much. Mustafa swept his leg, got the kid off balance. He lurched forward, face first to the carpet. Bleeker was on him, wrenched the guy's arm halfway up his back.
But then thick arms wrapped around Bleeker from behind, wrenched him away. The ex-marine. He looked over to see Mustafa on the floor, head pinched between the door and the wall as another golf-shirted guard held a pistol on him. Carl didn't try anything on Bleeker, held him rock steady while the preppie got off the floor, giddy. Clapped his hands. He waved off the guy guarding Mustafa, eased his foot off the door, still holding the banger's head in place. Mustafa sat up, dazed, hands on his ears.
"Okay, Carl, let him go." The guy shook out his arm, rubbed his shoulder. "He's not a killer anymore. Not like the old days. Even that thing in Minneapolis, what, six weeks ago?"
Carl let go of Bleeker. He felt small. "You know about us?"
"Just now you should've broken my neck. Should've been paying attention to Carl and Jim here, waiting outside the door. So, no, not the Army Ranger I was warned about."
A test? A dare? Let this guy think what he wanted, but Carl was too much for him. The others, easy.
"Take a seat, would you?" The preppie sat in the same seat Carl had earlier, hiked an ankle on top of his knee, jiggled his foot. Mustafa pushed himself off the floor, still looking pained. Bleeker sat on the bed, and Mustafa joined him a moment later on the other side.
"So, introductions. I'm Derrick Iles, the boss. These guys work for me. I know who you are, Detective Bleeker. And Mustafa Abdi Bahdoon, formerly one of Minneapolis's most wanted. But then you disappeared from the public record. It took some digging to find you, rising slowly up the ladder at the Target warehouse. Hiding from the police in plain sight. That's cool."
Mustafa sniffed. "They never proved one thing they say I did."
"Shit, no proof? There's all sorts of proof. I've got better detectives, and they don't need warrants."
Bleeker was racking his brains. Thinking about Iraq, not the war he was in, but the second. About the mercenaries. He'd seen this Iles guy before on TV, back when some of the soldiers of fortune got a bit trigger happy with no authority. Mowed down civilians, teenagers, guys goofing around.
He snapped his fingers. "I thought I knew you. Private security. What was it, ah, Liberty Shield Security, right?"
"Winner, winner, chicken dinner. Give him a cigar, Carl."
Didn't expect it, but Carl handed Bleeker a real cigar. Shit.
Mustafa said, "They're not with the government, then?"
Iles shrugged. "Sometimes they hire us, and it's good money. They don't even expect results, I'm starting to think. They're desperate for people who want to be over there, either Iraq or Afghanistan. Then sometimes private companies need protection overseas. Or sometimes some pussy-shit pirates hijack a big boat and the company would rather throw the money at us than the assholes."
"Hard to tell the difference," Bleeker said.
"You telling me you really didn't think about looking for a job with us or the other guys after your tour? We've got plenty of you. Carl here, see?"
The thick Marine nodded.
Bleeker said, "Fuck no. I was done. I was really done. I went home, became a cop. Didn't feel like war, but it felt…natural, like when the chill wears off after you've been out in the snow a while."
"I don't know how you guys live up there in the cold. I'm from Arizona, and it's perfect. The deserts here? Just like home. But look, we know who you are, and I think I know why you're here."
Mustafa blurted it out: "You know Adem?"
Iles did the kinda thing with his hand. "Know thine enemy. He's not really an enemy, but he plays for the other team. He's a good guy, actually. Business is a lot like the Art of War, have you ever heard that? Now, I'm getting paid to resolve this. If I do it by shooting a bunch of pirates, okay. Extra paperwork for me, but we'll survive. We've learned how to kill people all over the world and get away with it."
He stood. Bleeker thought he was restless, overcaffienated. Thought that Iles thought he was smarter than everyone in the room. "Most of the time, though, I've got resources that help us solve the problem without shooting anybody. Which would be good right now."
Mustafa stood. The guards got antsy. Iles sat there like he was watching a play.
"I want to see him."
"Fuck no. Sit down. I'm not done."
Mustafa didn't sit. Kept an eye on the guard who had covered him.
Iles said it again. "Sit. Down."
Nothing.
Iles sighed, dropped his eyes, and said, "Okay."
The guard whipped out a gun and fired and Mustafa was off the bed, on the floor, but there was no bang. Some buzzing. Some grunting. Bleeker got up, saw Mustafa rolling, shaking, some wires trailing from his shirt back to the guard's hands, a Taser.
"Enough."
Iles said, "I think a little more."
"Like fuck you will."
Carl clamped a hand on Bleeker's shoulder while the guard gave Mustafa another shot of juice.
"Stop it!"
The guard stopped again. Iles sat, crossed his legs, and bounced his foot again. "You've got leadership potential."
"He wants to see Adem, talk to him, so if you can make that happen-"
"If I can? Hey, I can, but I won't until I'm ready. And you can take him home or to prison or dump him off the side of the boat if you want. But not until I say so."
Mustafa was curled into a fetal position on the floor. The guard stepped over and pulled the Taser's metal prongs out of his shirt and skin, then knelt down to help him up. Mustafa's teeth chattered. His fingers were curled tight.
"You guys take it easy in here, take a nap, watch some TV. You want room service? I can get you some food up here. What do you like? Some of everything?"
Bleeker watched as Mustafa rose from the floor like he was racked with arthritis. He sat on the bed again, head hung low except for a quick look at Bleeker. A wink.
"How long?"
Iles hemmed and hawed, told Carl to check the schedule. He left the room, and Iles looked around, avoiding Bleeker and Mustafa. He said, "I know you just got here, but this is really a beautiful area. All of Puntland. When this is done, you guys should take some time, see the sights."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"It's either that or snow drifts, buddy."
Carl came back in with a smart phone, held it out to Iles, who looked at the screen and mumbled a few questions to Carl, who either nodded or shook his head, depending. Iles handed the phone back to him, said, "Tell them to wait. I haven't had dinner yet."
Then to Bleeker and Mustafa, "I'm hoping you'll be here less than six hours. Might be twelve. Either way, no worries. It could be a lot worse. Try this sort of shit in Mogadishu." He laughed. "What a hellhole. You might wake up without a head, not to mention terrible food."
On his feet, reached out his hand to Bleeker, who took it automatically. Funny how you don't think sometimes when there's a hand right there waiting to be shook. Iles did the same to Mustafa, who didn't give him anything. Not a look, a shake. Didn't move.
Iles gave Mustafa a squeeze on the shoulder. "No hard feelings."
Out of the room, Carl following, the other guard manning the door. Closed behind them. Just Bleeker and Mustafa, alone. Quiet.