That's what he had to do. Shit. They'd tear him apart. But that's what he had to do. He wobbled, got one knee off the ground and set his foot in front of him. The boys yelled. They cinched the rope around his other ankle, tried to pull him down. He stood, turned on them. Hopping on one leg. He reached for the rope, held on tight, pulled it right through the hands of his captors.
He had slack enough to get the loop off his ankle when he was hit by a truck. No, not a truck. A brick wall. A giant fist made of iron. God himself. His back. He reached behind him, grabbed hold. Hurt more when he grabbed it. Fell forward. His hand was wet and sticky. His head was still overloaded with the shock of impact.
Mustafa at his side. "Shit, Ray, shit, stay still. Shit, don't move."
"I've gotta. I can't…you know. Jesus Christ. What…what…?"
"Don't move, I swear, man, don't move."
A peek over his shoulder. Every muscle in him screamed not to do it, not to look.
Jibriil. Holding his pistol. Grim but satisfied.
Bleeker rolled his eyes. Of course. Fuck that guy.
THIRTY-FOUR
Adem felt like a stickman. All bones. Unable to move. His dad knelt by Bleeker, bleeding from his lower back where Jibriil had shot him. Still moving, though. Fighting. Dawit pushed away the soldiers trying to get at the fallen cop. They finally gave up, stood off a few feet, watching the man bleed.
Jibriil, same look on his face as when he killed that woman back home. An entire family, gunned down by Jibriil, on two different continents. Then he turned to Adem, lifted his eyebrows, and started singing. The first music Adem had heard in the country. The army had banned all Somali music. All of it. But their leader was singing. And then some of his followers joined in. And then more. And then more. They knew the song. Every last one of them.
He knew it, too. American. All the soldiers scat singing a familar rhythm: DAH da da, da, doh DAH DAH /DHA da da da, doh DOH DOH…
An old Michael Jackson tune. “Wanna Be Startin” or something like that. Had he taught this song to all these soldiers? Or did they all just know it because everybody all over the world knew Michael Jackson songs?
Adem glanced at Bleeker again, trying to get upright while his dad tried to keep him still. He'd rolled over and was sitting, wincing, one hand on his back, the other gripping Dad's as tight as two men could hold on.
Jibriil's voice wasn't exactly the same as it was in high school. It was more raw, tempered by the sand. When he and Adem both sang in the choral group, Jibriil was the more talented one. He got the solos. He had an ear for the melody. But he was embarrassed to be that good when all of his friends and all the gangstas wanted to be rappers. If only he'd realized that the rappers needed people like him for the choruses-Cee Lo, D'Angelo, Anthony Hamilton-then maybe he wouldn't have wanted to join Dad's gang. Maybe he wouldn't have wanted to prove himself in more primitive ways.
They sang the opening lines, over and over.
Then Jibriil on his own in the verses. It was good. Jibriil could still hit the high notes. Impressive.
Jibriil ignored him, played to the crowd. So Adem shielded his eyes from the sand and walked over to Mustafa and Bleeker. "How is he?"
"He was shot in the kidney. How do you think he is?"
"I mean, is he going to make it?"
Dad let out a long sigh. Closed his eyes. "Make what? None of us are going to get out of here alive." He waved Adem closer, lowered his voice. "You, stay alive. Get in good with him. If that means you've got to let us go, you do it. Get in good with him until there's a chance to escape."
"No, don't, he'll listen to me. It's going to be alright."
"He won't. Promise me you'll do what it takes to stay alive."
"Don't!" Bleeker, through his teeth. He grabbed Adem by the collar. "Listen to me. Are you going to stand with him or die with us?"
"Hey!" Dad said.
Got a smile from the cop. "Just saying. That guy's led you around by your balls all this time."
"I'm not telling my own son to die."
"Good, let him decide on his own." He lifted his hand to Adem. "Help me up. I want to face this on my feet."
Dad on one side, Bleeker's arm draped over his shoulder, and Adem on the other.
Jibriil finally saw, letting the boys sing on while he lifted the gun and fired without aiming. Bullets sliced over their heads.
"What's this? Helping him to his death, Adem?" Jibriil waved the gun, loose in his grip. "That's it. You always were a gentleman. Help him over here and I'll finish him off."
Adam thought, Yeah, yeah.
"Us or them?" Bleeker, lips resting on Adem's shoulder, mumbling. "Us or them?"
Again, Yeah, yeah.
Adem took a step towards Jibriil.
Yeah, yeah.
Dad seething, "No, man, not like this!"
Yeah, yeah.
Adem took another step. Bleeker followed, forcing Dad to come along.
Jibriil laughing, whooping, to the delight of the army. "Yes, my brother! Yes, you bring that sack of bones on over. He was doomed from the start, yes indeed!"
They made it to Jibriil's feet. Adem unburdened himself from Bleeker. The man fell to one knee.
Adem said, "You killed his woman back home. Let me take this one."
Dad reached out and grabbed Adem by the back of the neck, squeezed hard. Adem hunched his shoulders. Jibriil shoved his gun barrel in Dad's face. Poked him in the eye, banged against his teeth. Dad let go. A couple of soldiers rambled over and restrained his arms.
Jibriil held out his pistol to Adem. "Here, then. Go on."
Adem shook his head. "Give me a machete."
"Really? Again?"
"I'm ready this time. Get one."
There's the grin. The smile. The head bob. There it was. Jibriil held up a hand and shouted, "Bring him a blade."
A twelve-year-old boy stepped forward, already with a scar starting at his scalp, tracing across his eye, nose, and lips. He lifted the machete two-handed. Eager to please Mr. Mohammed. Lifting it another inch.
Adem took the handle. A clean blade. It hadn't been used recently. Sharp, he could tell from the way it cut the air. Swosh. What a sound. Nothing else like it anywhere. He'd heard it right before his would-be assassin settled in and put the blade to his throat. The tip slicing in when word came-the Imam wants him alive! You can't kill him! He's protected!
A favor for Jibriil. Seemed there was always someone there to do a favor for Jibriil.
Adem bit his bottom lip, arcing the blade across the air, showing off, the crowd on edge. Blood. More Blood.
Adem place the edge of the machete on the back of Bleeker's neck.
Bleeker said, "Do it already."
Adem pulled back the machete.
Yeah, yeah.
And he sliced Jibriil's gun hand clean off with one stroke.
*
There should've been more outrage. But it all went quiet except for Jibriil cursing at top volume, holding his stump while it poured blood, calling Adem every vile name a man had ever thought to call another man.
"You bleeding cunt goddamned motherfucking…aaaahhhhhwwwwwwllll!"
Lost all the words, twisted them into noise. The boys watched on, not sure whether to be happy or pissed or what. The blood was hypnotic, shooting out at first like a cartoon before pulsing, pulsing. One of the soldiers ran to Jibriil's side, wrapped a scarf around what was left of his commander's forearm, tourniquet tight. Jibriil grabbed the AK-47 on the soldier's shoulder. Pulled and pulled, cursed the guy for helping him, and he awkwardly got a handle on the rifle. Lifted it towards Adem, nostrils flared. The barrel wavered wildly. Adem flinched, waiting for the sound, the impact. The pain.
But nothing. Jibriil kept adjusting the gun, stone cold eyes on Adem, but then he blinked and the gun wobbled and he had to start all over.
Bleeker gripped Adem's belt, pulled himself standing. He leaned on Adem's shoulder. "He's not going to shoot you. Finish the job."