The scarf revealed more and more skin. More shouting, more pointing, hands reaching, Mustafa slapping them away, putting his back against Bleeker's, waving his gun. Fifteen hands on Mustafa's rifle, stripped from his grip before he could get off one shot. He looked over his shoulder. Dawit, also defenseless. Looked to the ground. Bleeker's rifle, off in the dust, picked up by one of the teenagers.
Someone gouged Bleeker's eye. He jerked away before they did any real damage. Someone tried to pull his scalp off. Someone shouted something about his crotch. Bleeker guessed it was someone holding a machete. All three of them, he could feel in the air, in the sand in his eyes and nose and mouth, in the chants hurting his ears, yes, all three of them were going to be ripped apart limb from limb by all these hands.
The only thing he could do was wait for it.
*
Like watching the skies for tornados, something about the crowd changed. Louder, more intense, the rhythm set by Jibriil thrown off by something up ahead, the effect rippling through the mass. Adem lifted his head, tip-toed, trying to find it. A clogged artery, stopping the flow of soldiers. Hands in the air, fingers pointing towards the center of the jam.
"They found the American! They found him!"
Adem heard it coming from all around, louder as more soldiers picked it up, carried on until all of the men surrounding him and Jibriil were telling them "They found the American!"
The smile of Jibriil's face faded. Staring ahead. Lips parted. Adem had never seen his friend like this before. As if power could somehow create new expressions, new personalities overnight. "Let me see."
"Jibriil wants to see! Let him through!"
It rippled back across the crowd, and a path opened through the men, always about five steps worth, closing again as soon as Jibriil and Adem passed by. The message still traveling forward: "Jibriil wants to see! Let him through!"
Adem thought about where he'd seen men walk the way Jibriil was walking right now-deliberately, reaching for outstretched hands, waving as if blessing the surrounding pilgrims. Like Castro, like Saddam Hussein, like Mugabe. The Pope. Those sorts of men. Jibriil had it down. He was a natural.
The opening ahead swelled wide. A handful of soldiers surrounding three men, holding their arms and legs while they fought. Their scarves had been stripped. When he saw Jibriil, Adem's dad let out a primal yell and lunged forward, breaking the grip of his captors. Dropped like dead weight when cracked on the back of the head with a rifle butt. Not out cold, but writhing. Bleeding.
The guy with the rifle was leaning over to take another whack.
Adem hit Jibriil on the shoulder, about to shout Stop him!
But Jibriil beat him, already wailing above the sandstorm howl. The rifle butt jerked to a halt in mid-swing.
Jibriil took slow, important-man steps towards Adem's dad, kneeled beside him. Adem stood over his shoulder. His dad's wound was caked with sand. He pushed himself up, got his knees under him. A string of blood and spit rolled to the ground.
Jibriil grabbed his chin, forced his dad to look into his eyes.
Said, "You'll never be part of my gang, son."
He dropped the chin, stood, and walked off, shouting orders in Somali. Guards grabbed Dawit, Bleeker, and Adem's dad, pushed them after Jibriil. Adem was left standing there, his fists balled up, no one to hit.
THIRTY-THREE
Jibriil led them to the tree where Warfaa's body swung in the wind. The longer he was dead, the more horrified the look on his face. Impossible, but Bleeker would've sworn to it. Jibrill had pointed and barked orders, and soldiers threw ropes over branches, one uncomfortably close to Warfaa. Three ropes. Who was getting the reprieve? Adem? Was he a traitor after all?
Adem had followed a few minutes after the rest of them were forced along behind Jibriil. He had stayed quiet while that thug beat up on Mustafa. He wasn't tied up. He seemed to fit cozily back into his old spot at Jibriil's side. Made Bleeker rethink all that talk about Cindy's murder being Jibriil's idea alone. Like it mattered anymore. He wouldn't get within five feet of Jibriil before they strung all of them from the tree, sliced balls to throat.
Soldiers forced Dawit, Mustafa, and Bleeker to their knees. Adem watched from over Jibriil's shoulder.
How was this going to happen? Shot then gutted? Or gutted first, then strung up, or strung up first, then gutted?
Jibriil raised his arms high. The chanting, babbling, and laughing from his army came to a gradual stop, only the wind and the sand left to speak over.
Some sort of speech. Bleeker would've preferred they go straight to the gutting.
Jibriil raised his voice, in English. Another of his soldiers translated for him. "Glorious day! We have reached across the desert to Europe, and struck a blow! And on the same day, America has come to us! Stumbled in, as it usually does, trying to be the hero. But look at them! They are fools! Pathetic, bleeding, and easy to slaughter! And our own Mr. Mohammed has brought them to us on a silver platter!"
No longer the smug teenager Mustafa had told him about. No, this Jibriil sounded like a leader. Damn near a god to these kids. Fewer than a handful of months in the war zone had changed him into this. Must have been lurking under the surface his whole life, waiting for a chance to rise. All it took was a lot of killing. A whole lot of murder without consequence.
"Where's the camera?" Jibriil searched the crowd. Always someone videotaping it all. A couple of soldiers with cameras nudged out of the crowd. Jibriil told one to circle the captives, linger on their faces individually. The other stood back, the wider shot, the whole scene in panorama.
He had the camera turned to him. "So let's show the world what we're capable of. Let's-"
"That's enough!" Adem's voice, drowning out Jibriil. Almost a howl. He stepped up to his friend, pushed the camera out of the way. "That's enough of the show. You can't kill them."
Jibriil's chest swelled. "I can do anything I want. What, you want a favor, now? I've saved you so many times already."
"No, forget saving me. Forget all of it. You're not going to kill him or that cop. We all know that. I'm tired of all this. It's not a game."
"Yeah it is." Smile. "It's a game all right. It's the only game we've got. And, goddamn, son, we're winning!"
Bleeker strained to hear. The cameraman was getting in his face again, zooming in, out, in. Adem kept on, "We're not winning anything. It's the same every day. You don't want to win, you just want to play."
"Fuck off." He pushed Adem, sent him back a few steps. Adem stepped up.
Louder. "If this is what you want, fine, but let them take me back to the States. This isn't for me. I can't do it, man. I'm done! Let them take me home."
Bleeker felt as the boys fit a loop of rope around his ankles. He looked over. Dawit and Mustafa hadn't been fitted with theirs yet. They were running out of time. Bleeker could do it. He could get out of this. He could make a run. But then the others would be left behind. How far could he get? One ranger against all these guys, trigger-happy, bloodthirsty. Bored.
What if he killed Jibriil? Then the attention of the mob would be focused on him. Mustafa could grab Adem, lose himself in the crowd until the Rover came for them.