A shot went off. Everyone flinched and pulled tight into themselves. Ricochet. The guard on the floor screamed. "Mu fuwing jhaw, da it, it hi' mu fuwing jhaw!"
He was on his hands and knees, blood dripping off his jaw all over the gun. Bleeker snatched it up, shook the blood off. All the guards had recoiled from the shot, stood back a good foot or two, all aiming for the elevator. Doing their, "Don't move!" and "Step into the hallway!" and "Get on your knees!" even though Bleeker and Mustafa had the same guns as the guards, waving them back and forth, a screaming guard on his knees behind them. But only one. They'd cleared the others out.
The doors dinged, started to close. One of the guards leapt forward to hold them open, but Bleeker shot him in the arm and he fell back. Mustafa was stabbing the Close Doors button. They finally slid shut. The elevator lurched. Skipped the second floor. Ground floor next.
"They'll be there. Maybe they'll start firing this time. Not even give us a chance."
Mustafa made a deep noise, looked down at the wounded guard, now on his ass holding his jaw. He looked weak. Blood drooling. Still moaning.
Mustafa reached down, a hand beneath his arm, and lifted him. Bleeker did the same on the other side. An arm over each shoulder. He'd lost blood, but he'd live. Maybe a doctor could put his jaw back together. Maybe not.
Mustafa said, "Follow my lead, okay? Whatever you do, keep moving."
The doors dinged open. Lots of guards. Lots. All of them aiming.
It was like Mustafa didn't even see them. Rushed straight out of the elevator shouting, "Man down! I need a doctor! Now! He's been shot! Hurry!"
Kept right on forward, all three of them. Shouting Mustafa, shouting guards, moaning guard, onward. What were they going to do, shoot at one of their own? Or shoot at Mustafa or Bleeker and risk them dropping the poor bastard?
"Ambulance! Hospital! We need to get him there quickly. Now. Come on." Mustafa pointed at some guards. "You, you, and you, come on. Get the doors."
If Derrick Iles had been there, he would've ordered his mercenaries to kill all three of them. But he was busy and this was a fellow guard and the mercs, all Americans, weren't going to have a shootout unless they got paid for it.
Two of the guards got the doors. Another came and took over for Mustafa, shouldering the weight.
"We'll get this. You need to stay put." Another right behind Bleeker. "I'll take it from here. You two can't leave. Stay here."
Then he whistled, said to the other guards, "Hey, come get these guys, cuff them or something."
But momentum carried them right out the doors, the guards, Bleeker, Mustafa. Outside, there were a handful of cars-guests, taxis, shuttles-but one beat-up red taxi began making a lot of noise. Horn blaring. Engine revving. Mustafa said, "Let's go!"
He and Bleeker ran for it, ducking low as the guards got wind and started firing. Opened the back door right as bullets slammed into it, came out the other side, barely missing both men. Warfaa in the driver's seat, already rolling even before they'd climbed inside. First Mustafa, then he turned, grabbed Bleeker's arms and pulled him in while his feet tried to keep up with the speed. Then off the ground, inside, slammed the door shut, and went rigid all over as the window beside him shattered, bullet blowing the stuffing out of the passenger seat. Another round cracked the back window. A tire exploded, rocked the car violently. But Warfaa kept going.
He said, "Who needs wheels? I got this!"
They ground along, the shrill metallic scrape making Bleeker cover his ears with his hands. He smelled the blood on his hands from the guard. Swallowed. Plenty of time to throw up on the plane home.
Mustafa pounded him on the back. "You ready?"
"Right now?"
"Has to be. We've got another car. Time's up."
They rounded a corner, then another. It felt as if they were going to flip and roll. But Warfaa kept control. A few minutes later, they pulled up behind a white Range Rover, one of the cousins standing outside. Warfaa slammed the car into park and nearly gave them all whiplash. He was out on the road while Bleeker was still fumbling for the handle. Jesus, here he thought that even after twenty years, all the Ranger training would have prepared him. Now he saw this was a whole new ballgame. He was an old man getting dragged along by young men who knew the rules had changed.
Out on the street, he stretched his back. People were staring at him. He was a white man with a torn shirt hanging off him, a pistol in his hand, drenched in blood. Made him grin. He walked to the Rover, climbed inside, and told the others-Mustafa, Warfaa, and two cousins-what his Rangers used to say to each other, even if they didn't mean it: "Let's go have some fun."
TWENTY-THREE
Might as well have a machete to his neck. Might as well chain him up. The fancy suit felt like chains. Garaad on his heels. Out of the car, into the lobby of the hotel. This one had attracted media. Someone had leaked, said this was the big one. The reporters called him by name.
"Mr. Mohammed, is this the final meeting? Have you reached an agreement?" "Are they really going to pay the ransom?" "What about rumors of the crew being murdered? Mr. Mohammed? A body was seen being dumped-" "Are you really American?"
The last one made him turn his head towards the woman, a famous correspondent for CNN. Had she been demoted? Or was this story actually big news in the States now? He wanted to stop and ask, but Garaad was there, guiding hand shoving him along. Adem resisted, but Garaad shoved harder. Kept walking. Adem looked over his shoulder at the CNN camera.
Inside, more media, local police and more of Iles's guards, easy to spot now that he knew the uniform. Golf shirts, but this time under blazers. To hide bigger guns, probably. One of them seemed eager, coming directly to Adem, taking his elbow, and saying, "This way, sir. Come on."
The urgency sent off Adem's mental alarm. What had happened? Why was the meeting room now set up for a press conference? It was supposed to be that he came in, said what he had to say, and then went to find Sufia. That had been the plan. It was coming together. Forget Iles. He wasn't a murderer. He had no authority over Mustafa and the cop. This could be even better, though. All Adem had to do was deliver Captain Mahmood's message and demands, tell the cameras that Iles was holding his father hostage, and get out. The money didn't mean anything. The money had been a means to an end, but only if he had Sufia with him. If they would take him back to her, he would go with empty pockets.
Several of the company's negotiators were on the dais behind a thick bank of microphones from a variety of news outlets bundled together, some digital recorders wedged in among them. Whispering to each other. Lawyer, exec, middleman. They gave him the stink eye as he ascended, stood off to the side. Garaad stood at the base of the steps, arms crossed. Adem moved as far back as he could, not wanting any attention until it was time for him to drop the bomb.
No luck.
Derrick Iles was already headed straight for him. Rushing, shouldering reporters out of the way, eyes on Adem. Up the steps past Garaad, hand already extended for a shake. All friendly like. Adem took it. Iles pulled him close, ear to ear, and seethed, " You're a dead man. "
Adem opened his mouth. What was he going to say to that? How do these people know what he's going to say before he says it?
" A dead man! " Clenched teeth this time.
"Wait," Adem, stammering. "What about our agreement? What about my father?"
Iles didn't even bother with the pretense of cordiality anymore. Stabbing his finger into Adem's chest. "Fuck that. Fuck your dad, fuck the money. We're taking that boat. Say whatever you fucking want now. The ship will be ours before we're done here."