Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) (6 page)

The agent stood up, shouldered his bag. Full of guns? Money? GPS locator? Hadn't touched his food. "Can we go now?"

Don't move a muscle. Stay still. Look away.

"If it helps, my name's Jacob. What I have to offer you is a good thing. A way to get her back, help your country, bring peace to the Middle East, save kittens. Just
listen
to me for a little while, okay?" He reached out his hand.

Adem unfolded his legs, took the agent's hand, and was pulled to his feet. Jacob handed money to the server, who apologized if the food was not good or the service or—

"It's all excellent. We're late, that's all."

Out into the dry air of the late afternoon, the street less crowded than when Adem had ducked into the restaurant over an hour ago. He didn't know if the agent's name was really Jacob, or if this really was an agent at all, but he followed blindly, not having a better play. Plan B went out the window.

Jacob led, speaking over his shoulder. "I've got a car nearby. We'll head to the place I've been renting and meet up with the SAC who has the details."

"Wait." Adem put it together. "You actually know where she is?"

"Not here, okay? Keep it down." This agent was too nervous. He should own this street. Instead, he was stepping too fast. Watching too many windows and peering down too many alleys. But Hasan hadn't found him. The others hadn't found him. Could be they were tangled up in steel and brick and heading to the hospital, or they could've been gunned down by soldiers. If Jacob was for real, then it was the passport. No other way.

All around him, louder voices on the streets than he would've heard in Minneapolis. The smell of the food, the people, the animals, all at a different pitch than back home. But what if he thought like he was back in the Cities? No need to rethink the wheel. A city is a city is a city.

He inched closer to the agent, spoke into his left ear. "I need to know. You have to understand. If I let you lead me into a trap—"

"It's not a trap."

Adem stopped Jacob in the middle of the street, hand on the agent's shoulder. Eye to eye. "Give me something. If you try to force me along, in front of all these people, would that be a bad thing for you?"

Adem saw wheels turning. How much could Jacob tell him? How much could he leave out? How much of it would be utter bullshit?

Jacob shook his head. "You've done it before. We're just asking you to do it for us now."

"Do what? What are you talking about?"

A sigh. "Play Mr. Mohammed again. That's what we want. We bankroll you, set you up, and you play for their team. Every once in a while, we'll need you to tell us something, or need you to tell someone else something. Otherwise, we leave you alone."

That was what he was afraid of. Hasan had wanted him for more sinister reasons, but now Jacob wanted him, all because he'd been a crap fighter in an awful war, and his friend had helped get him out of a bad situation. He closed his eyes, jostled by passers-by. Why couldn't everyone leave him alone? Jacob took him by the arm and led them out of the street to a wider boulevard, a jumbled-up jigsaw of cars and pedestrians, horns and shouts. Once they rounded the corner, Jacob took the lead again, talking again, in Arabic this time. Adem could barely catch what he was saying except when he flicked a sentence or two over his shoulder.

"—which will give you protection...seriously, not like last time...better success rate than you'd imagine..."

"Will I have a choice? I mean, can I just go home now?"

"Why? You've come this far. Why not keep going? We're not just talking a reunion with that girl. This is a chance at redemption. A paycheck. Service to your country. I'm kind of jealous, really."

But Adem wasn't listening because they'd come to a busy intersection with lots of foot traffic, car traffic, animal traffic. He slipped his passport and cell phone into the agent's canvas bag, then stopped walking, waited as the still-talking agent got several steps ahead, then turned right and got as lost as he could.

*

A
mazing. Two escapes in a day. Thanks to novels from Jeremy Dun and Barry Eisler and Daniel Silva, detailed explanations of how their superspy characters got out of tight spots over and over again. Adem memorized them, practiced in the Cities. Documentaries on the Discovery Channel, History Channel. Black and white movies on AMC and TCM. So what if the CIA had known about his plan all along? They hadn't predicted this part, and that was why he was in the back of a cab, miles away from the agent and his passport. With no idea what to do next.

Even if the agent knew how to find Sufia, Adem hadn't come over to trap her or the people she worked for. He came to bring her back. And she would come this time. He just knew it. Adem had changed. He would approach her as a Godly man, obvious to anyone who walked by him on the street, radiating purpose and light.

But he now understood she wasn't here in Sana'a. She never had been. He was way off.

Outside, other cars on the road nearly made him forget he was in Yemen, but he only felt at home in Minnesota. It smelled right. The air filled him the right way. He didn't like that here in the womb of his religion, with the holiest lands in all Islam only a half-day's drive north, he would never feel like he belonged. If he'd really come for the pilgrimage, that longing to belong would have been his most ardent prayer.
Let me belong to You, to This, to Something
.

Instead, Adem had come for a girl, and she was a girl worth staying for, regardless of how her soft face had been turned into a horror story of scars, holes, and crust. He would have given his life for what was behind her wire-rimmed glasses and London-educated English. He should have, rather than running away from her. This time she would realize that.

"You can let me off here."

The driver pulled to the curb. Adem handed over some money and some thanks and got out. The cab pulled away and Adem headed back the way he'd just come. If he'd only thought about it sooner instead of panicking. A long way to walk.

––––––––

D
ragoslav liked Taco John's. Mustafa had watched him get drive-thru three times the last day and a half. Of all the choices in the chain-store haven of Bloomington, why Taco John's? The Midwestern barely-a-taco shop was famous for its "potato ole" side dish. Tater tots. At a taco shop. Really.

A few calls got Mustafa the info he needed on the motherfucker. Kidfucker, whatever. Fled to Africa near the end of the Croatian war against the Serbs, where he'd done massive damage as a squad leader—rape and torture was something they did to pass the time. He'd been able to sell his services in Egypt and Somalia to whoever paid him the most or found him the youngest pussy or the best heroin. Dragoslav was rolling in it. In Africa, killing was easier than it had been in the Croat Army. Then some sex traffickers hired him with promises of more money and more young pussy. Now he was something like the official "chaperone" for any Somali girls headed Minnesota-way. He knew how to work the system, get the packages to the States intact—maybe a little bruised and "less than fresh"—without attracting too much attention.

He had to report to someone other than Lady Chablis eventually. Mustafa wanted to know who.

Mustafa trailed him down I-494 after he'd picked up the burritos and tater tots on his way back from another meeting, supposedly with the Lady herself. Dragoslav liked to stay down in Bloomington, the hotels near the Mall of America, because he liked to style it. Total clotheshorse. He wore the stuff he thought Americans thought was cool. He was kind of wrong.

He also liked free parking and indoor pools.

Mustafa had figured it all out. It took a day and a half. Would've been much easier if Heem hadn't started the war. Much much easier if he could just get one of his foot soldiers to do this for him, but he knew, just
knew knew knew
they'd fuck it up. The Prince had turned away from "smart" long ago and recruited a lot of poseurs who thought their every move was being filmed for a Hollywood movie. How had they stayed out of jail so long?

Dragoslav pulled away in his rented Challenger. Pathetic. Why rent a car you'd never have a chance to open up? Traffic, traffic everywhere. The man just wanted to look cool. Looking cool meant getting noticed. Mustafa knew how to not get noticed. His Buick Roadmaster was an old man's car that no one paid a lick of attention to. They circled the Mall, a Delta jet coming in for a landing at the airport, practically next door. A kid's bouncy castle was set up in the Mall parking lot next to some booths and a radio station's gaudy van. KTCH! THE HITS FROM NOW AND THEN AND THEN AGAIN or something. No time to look. Mustafa knew where his prey was headed anyway. Dragoslav had never stayed in the same hotel twice until he'd stayed at the Radisson. Guess they gave him a little extra. Maybe he liked a teenage night desk girl. Maybe they didn't have the best security camera coverage. Maybe they had a better porn selection.

Dragoslav pulled into a parking spot way out from the hotel. It was his habit. Mustafa pulled up right by the door, slipped a phony Disabled rearview hanger in place, lensless glasses over his eyes. Dragoslav wouldn't pay the Buick any attention, but just in case he was suspicious, the glasses would throw him off. So Mustafa hoped.

But the Serb in the leather jacket got out of the Challenger and walked tall and cocky past all the cars and into the hotel without even a glance. Even with the thick padding over his broken nose, purple under his eyes, and other bandages for the cuts Mustafa had inflicted, this guy walked like a badass. He disappeared past the sliding glass doors. Mustafa relaxed, but knew he would have to move. He would go in, ask the desk clerk a typical touristy question and would be instantly forgotten. Then he would camp out in the restaurant lot next door and wait.

So he went in, acted like he needed directions to Target Field, and then settled into the Buick at the rear of the family seafood joint while the smell of frying fish lulled him. How long? Maybe a couple of hours. If Dragoslav wasn't on the move by then, he would go back to Heem's house, which he had taken over, call Teeth and check on the new packages, find out who else Chablis and her people were delivering to. No room for competition in this business. Not if he wanted to do it right. Then he would come back. If the Challenger was here, he would wait, see where the man spent his nights. Mustafa would call his wife and apologize, and she would tell him not to worry. They were in this together.

The air smelled like old grease. Mustafa hated pissing into a two-liter pop bottle. His back was throbbing. The radio set him on edge but it kept him distracted enough from his own thoughts to keep him focused on the Challenger.

It was a soft brake squeal that made him turn, a car parking right next to him. A Honda Accord that had been made-over into some sort of rolling art exhibit. A "ricer". Big spoiler on back, wide rims, low-riding body kit, and a red-to-purple pearl paintjob. Beautiful. It reminded Mustafa of the car he'd owned before the Buick, a yellow one. Everyone knew it was him, always. That was a plus back then.

He looked at the driver and passengers. Should've looked at them
first
before admiring the ride because they're the ones who might shoot you, not the car. Hmong boys, all shapes and sizes. There was a big bruiser getting out of the back, wifebeater tee under a short-sleeved checkered shirt, tattooed from the left side of his neck all the way down to his fingers. He walked around to the other side of Mustafa's car, opened the passenger door, and stood waiting.

The front passenger, spiky hair up top but a mullet in the back, stared through oily sunglasses. Said, "Kong wants to talk to you."

Kong was in the backseat. Pullover polo, looked like a Hilfiger. Looked like anybody. Nothing distinctive. Regular guy haircut. Mall clothes, well-known brands. Three dots around his right eye—tattoo—but if you didn't look close enough you'd think those were moles. He didn't dress gangsta, didn't act gangsta, but he'd cut a lot of guys and held a lot of grudges. You did not want to be on the bad side of his piece of the Asian Crips. Called themselves River Leopards. RLTC.

Mustafa nodded. "Anytime."

Kong opened his door, got out. Slightly baggy jeans, old-school Nikes he probably bought an hour ago. He looked around, then made his way to the opened door. He said a few words to his man before he eased himself into the Buick. He pursed his lips. "Surprisingly comfortable."

"Thanks."

The big man shut the door softly and turned away, crossed his arms. Mustafa was sure the spiky-haired guy had him covered just in case. RLs ran prepared, always bet on that.

Kong rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. "Jesus, Bahdoon, what the fuck are you doing?"

"I didn't start it. All the boy had to do was—"

"Didn't start it, shit, like, you're the architect. I know all about you, you know."

Mustafa remembered Kong when he was a tween back in the day. Skinny and wore shorts a lot. His big brother pretended to be a Crip. Hung out with Crips and got high, but wasn't ever, like, full-fledged. Little brother, though, was whip-smart and told some of these slackers in his basement how to make some serious money if they had someone with brains to help them out, keep them out of trouble. Got himself a big but stupid street-wise guy as a front, but Mustafa knew better. It was always Kong, and Kong didn't put up with shit. Shit equaled anything that might get him exposed.

Kong kept going. "You were living the big dream. You survived. You didn't go down, didn't go out. Why are you back? And what's the war supposed to distract us from?"

Mustafa tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. The Challenger was still there. If Dragoslav hopped in while they were talking, then Kong was getting a ride. No doubt. Might be the death of Bahdoon, but it would have to happen. "You know what Heem's been into lately?"

"I keep out of that shit."

"But you know, right?"

"You even have to ask?" A huff. "Like I got all day for your story."

Pointed at the hotel. "Then you know who's in there."