Jibriil marched back to his friend, teeth hard on his bottom lip, and grabbed Adem behind the neck, vice-grip. Adem hunched his shoulders.
"Don't make me do something. Boy, I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt right now. And that bitch in there…" He stabbed a finger at the hospital. "She couldn't wait to sell you out. Wanted to go back in your place, do your job. Right, like they're gonna listen to some educated bitch, white men or pirates. All they'd want to do is fuck her."
Adem, muscles on the edge of spasming: "You're crazy."
"I did it for you. Sat by her bedside, arms and legs and head strapped down, and I listened to her scream. You think that was fun? Think I got off on that? Shit, man, it broke my heart. But I was thinking about you the whole time. Then I hear you're trying to bring me down?"
Adem went to his knees, trying to escape the grip, but Jibriil held on tight. Still talking. "Calling in Big Bad Bahdoon to deal with me? What, you want to wear this uniform? You want what I got?"
He finally let go, and Adem fell back onto his ass. Most of the Minneapolis soldiers-"the disappeared", they were called back home-couldn't even watch. Adem's muscles hitched back and forth, kept his shoulders up.
Jibriil, back to pacing a la kung-fu master, said, "I mean, if you're back because you're with me, really with me, then we're cool. That's alright with me. But first we're going to drive over to camp, have a feast for you, and wait for your Daddy to come for you so we can take his fucking head off."
He spun on his heels. Weird all over his face. "And you're the one who's going to be holding the knife."
*
Back into Jibriil's truck, the Minneapolis soldiers in the back, Jibriil, Adem, and a driver in the cab. A long hot drive back to camp. Jibriil jabbered the whole way, Adem still hearing Sufia's screeching in the back of his mind, not letting him concentrate. But he picked up that it was about battles-the Ethiopians again, the African Union, some UN bluehats who wandered too far from base. About how people were starting to give them more respect. "They talk about us in the States now. They actually know who we are! That's something, I'm telling you."
Ragtag army grows up, becomes an international terrorist organization. Just like the big dogs in Afghanistan, how they started out. One country at a time. One strike at a time. That's how Sharia was going to win in the end. The Christians, the Infidels, The Democracies, all of them, would grow too tired to fight anymore. Adem closed his eyes. Even if it took decades, centuries, there would always be someone to take the place of the fallen. More and more from America, even. If only to be on the side of the winners. Adem tried to imagine it. America? Under Sharia law? The whole reason there hadn't been uprisings in the States was because of all this freedom and tolerance the Muslim warriors seemed determined to extinguish. American Muslims had it made, right? All the conveniences of the modern world, the protection of secular law, while still free to dress up in the hijab or grow their beards or even not to touch the pork if they worked at Wal Mart. In America, Islamic women didn't have to fear acid attacks or public stonings because they happened to be in a car with a men who weren't their husbands, not to mention adultery.
Like a tennis match in his head-America, Somalia, America, Somalia. He buried his head in his hands. Felt Jibriil's hand on his back.
"Don't worry. It's going to be alright. We'll get you back to doing what you're good at. We'll get some food in you. You can have any girl you want. Marry her tonight, get rid of her tomorrow if you like. It's going to be okay. Your own room, your own bed, whatever you want."
Adem almost said I want to go home. But he didn't, not really. Not yet. He wanted to go…somewhere else. Anywhere nice.
He heard the cheering over the noise of the engine. Lifted his head, saw they were on the edge of the camp. Lots of dust kicked up. Lots of bullets fired into the air. Lots of smiling soldiers. Mobs in the streets.
The driver slid to a stop. Soldiers surrounded the truck. The Minneapolis brigade climbed out. Jibriil pushed the door open, stepped out and started shouting, "Calm down! What's going on? Somebody tell me."
Several of the teenage soldiers gathered around, all talking at once. Adem stepped out of the truck. Lots of eyes on him. None of them wanting to kill him this time. A relief.
Jibriil was smiling again, nodding at the stories he was being told. Adem picked up, "Killed him. Stabbed him! And, and, then, we found a white man, too."
A white man?
Adem leaned in. "What was that?"
Jibriil spoke close to his ear, spittle flying. "One of our brothers, in Belgium. He killed a writer, a novelist, a blasphemer."
"Really?"
"Stabbed him at a book signing! Cut his throat, too. He wrote terrible shit about the Prophet, lots of lies. One of ours did it! Killed him!"
"What did he say about capturing a white man?"
Jibriil raised his eyebrows. "Come on, let's go see for ourselves."
*
As they walked through camp, the chanting, singing, and gunfire grew louder. It reminded Adem of celebrations in the streets of Minneapolis when the Timberwolves or Vikings won a playoff, except for the guns.
Jibriil soaked it in, stopping to pat soldiers on the back or raise his arms like a beloved leader. To embrace other officers. Imams. Kids who didn't really know why they were celebrating. Many of them recognized Adem-"Mr. Mohammed"-and embraced him, too. Snapped pictures with their phones. Tried to ask him questions about what it was like on the pirate ships, but he was propelled forward, unable to answer, on to the next crowd, same questions. When he heard ululating, he thought of Sufia and turned every which way-was she following him? Pointing her finger at him? But it was some of the other women in camp. It didn't make Adem's stomach feel any less nervous.
Onward to the tents, the wind kicking up the hanging edges like flags. Cloth walls bulged inward. Sand blowing all over. It was getting worse.
They approached a tent of orange, mottled fabric, nobody guarding it. Adem looked around, shielded his eyes against the sand, and saw an animal hanging from a tree. Didn't register at first. A pig? A camel? Then the features made sudden horrible sense in his mind, and his eyes went wide. A man. Upside down, slit from crotch to neck, his intestines piled in front of his face.
He gagged. Grabbed the back of Jibriil's shirt. Pointed. Gagged again. He couldn't look, no, no he couldn't. What sort of day was this? To see the worst things he'd ever seen, one after the other, his trip through Hell led by Jibriil, of all people?
Jibriil glanced over. Solemn. Nodded. "I'm sure he deserved it. I hope."
Into the tent. Adem followed, along with two other soldiers. Before even getting a look, the smell overwhelmed him. He turned, ready to run outside. The two soldiers got in his way, wouldn't let him past.
Jibriil shouted, in English, "Fuck!"
Adem looked over his shoulder. A shocked soldier, his neck a jagged, sticky chasm, was lying in his own goo. Hundreds of flies, buzzing all at once, all over the wound and the ground. Thick in the air, a dark cloud. The side of the tent facing the sandstorm was filled, a hard bubble, the sound of sand hitting it like sleet against windows back in the Cities.
"Fuck!" Jibriil got in one of the soldier's faces. "Find someone who knows what happened here! Now!"
The solider ran from the tent. Jibriil didn't even bother with the flap. He lifted the nearest wall, tossed it over his shoulder as he ducked under. Adem was right behind. He took in a huge gulp of air. Sand in his mouth. He coughed and spit and hacked until Jibriil handed him a bottle of water. Adem drank it down, sand in his teeth, sand down his throat. Grating his esophagus.
Jibriil was shouting over the wind. "We've got an escaped prisoner! Don't let him out of camp! He's a white man! An American!"