I slip down the stairs into the empty food court and pick my way to the patio doors. My heart beating in my throat, I duck behind a table and look outside. The gate in the wall that surrounds Paradise Island is wide open, and the Boys are hustling the hostages through it. Another dead security guard lies faceup on the patio nearby. They’re leaving through the same gate I’d thought looked weak when I sat here with Sam weeks ago. If only I’d known then how right I was going to be.
Above, two helicopters hover like furious angels, slicing the air with wings like swords. I can hear noise from the direction of the parking lot, sirens and engines and people shouting on bullhorns, which must be the police and maybe even army troops. I wait until all the Boys and hostages are out and then follow them, ducking between overturned umbrellas and tables. At the gate I stop again. I can see the beach from here.
The tide is high, and the Boys’ boats are waiting in the shallow water just meters from the gate. I count six, all with oversized outboard motors. They’re already being loaded with the first groups of hostages. Far down the beach, lights flash on police trucks and ambulances. They’re all following the General’s orders to stay away. Sam and Muna trail toward the end of the hostage group, Muna leaning heavily on Sam.
I scan the ocean. There are fishing trawlers and dhows farther out, but nothing that looks like rescue. Was Dahir able to reach anyone on that number? Even if he does, will they believe him?
I shift in my crouch. This is it. I have to act now, or watch Sam and Muna get in that boat and disappear. Maybe forever. I suck in a deep breath like I’m getting ready to plunge underwater, then stand. I’m in full view of everyone.
“General Idris!”
My voice sounds tiny and weak. I feel like it barely rises above the noise of the helicopters, but the General looks back. The guard next to him mutters something, raises his gun in my direction.
“Who is that?” the General yells.
I put my hands up.
Sam’s mouth falls open. I see her lips move: No, Abdi. I keep my eyes locked on the General. I’m afraid that if I look at Sam or Muna directly, my knees will collapse.
For a second the General just squints, and then, as I hear shouts of recognition from the other Boys, a shark’s smile spreads over his face. “It can’t be! The traitor!”
The Boy next to him is ready to shoot, but the General waves him back. “Get the rest of the prisoners in the boat,” he says, never taking his eyes off me. “We thought you were dead, Da’ud! Are you a ghost, little traitor?” He comes closer, the shark circling his prey.
My legs wobble. I just hope he can’t see how badly my hands are shaking.
“No,” the Butcher says, “I don’t think you are. I think you are flesh. You’ve grown fat. The Americans must have paid you well.” His teeth are knives, glinting as he shakes his head. “Da’ud, Da’ud. You were going to be the match. Isn’t that what you promised the Doctor? Before you betrayed him? You were supposed to be the spark that set the whole world on fire.”
“My name isn’t Da’ud,” I say. “It’s Abdi. Let them all go.”
The General chuckles. “Such big talk for someone so outnumbered. Why shouldn’t I just shoot you where you stand?”
“You don’t want me dead.”
His grin strains. He’s growing impatient under everyone’s eyes—the Boys, the police, the hostages are all focused on us. “And what makes you think that?”
I swallow, choosing my words carefully. “Because you want to make an example of me. You want to take me back and parade me, bloody and broken, in front of your troops. I’m the traitor. I helped the Americans capture the Doctor. I should burn. Let them go,” I say, “and you can take me instead.”
“What’s to stop me from taking you anyway?”
My heart is beating to break my ribs. I look from the General to the guard who has his gun trained on me. The other Boys are too far away to hear my words. “Come closer,” I say. “You don’t want them to hear what I have to say.”
“I don’t have time for games.” The smile is finally gone. “Grab him,” he tells the Boy next to him.
“I know about the money,” I say quickly. I wait, every fiber expecting bullets to rip through me.
The General raises his hand again.
My blood pounds in my ears, and it feels like an eternity passes as he considers me. But the more seconds that pass, the more I can tell he’s wondering. I might be crazy, but then again, I might know things. Things he can’t afford to let the Boys hear. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. But he comes closer.
I wait until he’s right before me. Until I can see the gray grizzle of his beard and the lines around his yellowed eyes. I speak so only he can hear. “Let them go, and I’ll give the signal to the men up there in the choppers. They have bullhorns too. If I signal, they won’t repeat what I’ve told them about you.”
The Butcher shows me his teeth again. “Repeat what, you little shit?”
“About the money you’ve been siphoning off to your bank accounts in Saudi Arabia. Money that’s supposed to pay for guns and food to further the cause. About how whatever you’ve got in that bag won’t make it to those Boys. That most of it will go into your pockets. Everyone will hear.”
The General doesn’t move.
“They’ll announce all of that over their horns in about five minutes. Unless I signal.”
“You have no proof,” he says quietly, inching closer. “Why would anyone believe you?”
“Maybe they would, maybe they wouldn’t,” I say, and even though my brain is screaming at me not to, I move closer too. “Maybe I die right now on the sand. But once the Boys hear it, they’ll wonder. They’ll think about it. They’ll talk about it.” I pause. “Maybe they’ll even ask themselves if it’s possible you were the one who led the Americans to the Doctor.”
“Lies,” the General hisses. I can practically smell his fury.
“It doesn’t matter,” I go on. “You profited most from the Doctor’s capture. With him gone, you’re now free to rob the Boys blind. They’ll put it all together. They’re not stupid. Maybe they won’t say anything to your face, but in secret they’ll begin plotting your downfall. You’ll never know again if they’re with you or if they’re secretly chipping away at your foundation, bit by bit. Choosing a new leader, deciding how to frame your death. You’ll stay awake nights asking yourself which ones are the bootlickers, and which ones are planning to chop you up and feed you to the fish.”
Seconds tick by.
“General, sir, we must go!” one of the Boys shouts.
He doesn’t respond. From the corner of my eye I see Muna shudder with pain. Sam’s grip is all that’s keeping her from collapsing.
“I’m not giving up all my hostages,” the General finally growls.
I swallow. It’s working. He’s taking the bait. “Just this group, then,” I say, pointing at the boat with Muna and Sam. I’m careful not to look at either of them.
He narrows his eyes, calculating. “Fine.”
He’s going to do it! I struggle to keep breathing normally.
“But you’re coming with me,” he says. “That’s the exchange.”
I go dead still. I look back at the Boys and then I understand. The traitor for the hostages. This is how he explains giving up prisoners; he gets me instead. I’ll be taken back and made an example of after all. My eyes dart to Sam and Muna. Muna’s looking at me now, shaking her head almost imperceptibly, like she knows exactly what sort of bargain I’m making.
“Deal,” I say.
The General grabs my arms and twists them behind my back. “Signal,” he snarls into my ear.
“Free them first.”
He pushes me toward the boats, jamming his gun into my back. He shouts up at the guard, “Free these ones!”
“But, General, sir—”
“Now!”
The soldier does as he’s told, grabbing and shoving the confused prisoners out of the boat. They stumble through the shallow water, running once they reach the sand.
Go! I want to shout at Muna and Sam. They’re out of the boat but not moving, just standing in the knee-high water like they’re frozen.
In that moment of hesitation I see the General look at them. Look at me. Look back at them.
“Hold those two,” he says.
“No!” I shout, before I can stop myself.
“You know them, hey?” he purrs in my ear, holding me close. “Put them back in the boat!” he shouts.
“That’s not our deal!”
“Then go. Leave them with me.” His voice is soft and horrible. “We’ll take care of these women. I have men who are in need of wives.”
I look from Sam and Muna to the Boys, the ocean, the police and army far up the beach. I’m weaponless, helpless. “I won’t signal,” I say.
The General tightens his grip on my arm. To his guard he says, “I changed my mind. Shoot the girl.”
“No!” I cry. “Wait!”
The General holds up his hand to the guard. “Signal them,” he whispers, so only I can hear. “Now.”
I shake out of his grasp and look up at the helicopter. I wave my arms. I wave just one arm—the left. Then the right. The pilot and soldiers on board probably think I’m crazy. I can just hear them now: What on earth does that kid think he’s doing?
Because of course, no one up there knows who the hell I am.
The General smiles. “In the boat, traitor.”
“Abdi!” Sam moans as I’m shoved in after them. “What are you doing?”
“Are you okay?” I ask, reaching for Muna’s arm.
Muna looks up at me in obvious pain, but the fog I saw in her eyes earlier has lifted. “I’m so sorry, Abdi! I don’t know what happened to me. I got so confused, and your brother—”
“No, don’t,” I tell her. “You were in shock. I get it.”
She starts to say something else, but before she can, the General grabs me by the collar and pulls me to my feet. The boat rocks.
“We have captured the traitor Da’ud!” he crows, shaking me at the Boys. “We know him well, do we not? He is the boy who sold our Hakim Doctor to the Americans for a handful of gold! What happens to traitors, men?”
“They die like dogs, sir!” the Boys chorus again, the throaty promise of blood in their voices. The rest of the hostages cower at their feet in the other boats.
“Move out!” the General calls.
Boat engines roar, and I’m flung to the hull as we surge out over the chop.
These boats’ engines are strong, fast. We’ll soon be out of the shelter of the bay and into open water. I look for the big boat Dahir said we’d make for. It must not be far, but I can’t see it yet.
Muna gasps.
“The baby is coming?” I ask her, but she only moans. It’s answer enough. “I’m so sorry, Muna! Please, just hold on, okay?”
“She’s having contractions,” Sam says, holding Muna until it passes. Then she looks up at me. “You shouldn’t have come after us, Abdi! What were you thinking?”
The General is watching, but he’s distracted by something on his phone.
“I couldn’t just let them take you,” I say. I look around, desperate for any sign of rescue on the horizon. “How much longer until the baby is here?”
“I don’t know,” Sam says, her voice tight with the effort of trying to stay calm for Muna’s sake. “It could be minutes, it could be hours. I don’t know what to do. She needs a doctor!”
“Just hold my hand,” Muna groans to Sam. “My water hasn’t broken yet.”
I’m not sure what that means, but suddenly an insane idea comes to me. “Sam,” I whisper urgently, “whatever happens, you’ll help her, right?”
Sam’s eyes go bright with fear. “What—”
“No talking!” the boat driver growls, interrupting.
We fly over the water.
It takes us less than ten minutes to reach the boat, but Muna has another contraction on the way. As we reach the big fishing cruiser, hull scabby with rust, our boats slow.
The General’s brow wrinkles as he scans the deck. “Where are the sentries?”
We all look up. The boat seems empty, eerily silent.
“Something’s not right,” he says, glancing down at his phone again. “No one answered my call. Stop!” he shouts to the first boat, which is already tying up to the ladder. The Boy in it looks back. He’s pulled his scarf off his face. I recognize him now. It’s Yusuf, my old unit commander.
Yusuf turns to the General, and just as his mouth is forming a question, there is a dull crack and then Yusuf is flying out sideways, landing in the water with a limp splash. All he leaves behind is a spray of red on the boat’s hull.
We sit agog for a second, until two more cracks hit the air, then more, and I’m watching other Boys fall, either into the water or slumping into the screaming hostages.
“Get down!” I shout at Sam and Muna as a Boy in our boat is hit. He pirouettes neatly before going over the side. The General drops too, but reaches for Muna. She yelps as he pulls her in front of him. He has a pistol now, and he’s holding it to her temple, his eyes scanning the rendezvous boat for any clue of where the sniper shots are coming from.
I look too. Pilot’s house. That’s where I’d go. Up high, good cover, plenty of slots to shoot through. And down there, behind that container. There may even be three or four others, scattered over the deck.
Which means Dahir got through after all. Mr. Jones’s men are on the boat.
Seven Boys are down, only four left, including the General. The Boys on the cruiser must have been taken out quickly and quietly. Did Jones send in SEALs? Did they scuba in like they did when they got the Doctor?
The General swivels to me. “This is your doing, isn’t it?”
“You’re surrounded,” I say, trying for my toughest voice. “Let her go before they take you out too.”
He shoves the muzzle at Muna’s temple and spits, “She’s the only thing keeping me alive, fool.”
I look around. The other three Boys have grabbed hostages too, holding them like the General. So far none of the prisoners have been shot, though. Maybe the Boys are afraid that as soon as they do, they’ll be taken out as well. They look at the General for orders, but he isn’t paying attention. I see the first traces of fear in the set of his mouth. He knows his head is most likely in the crosshairs at this very instant.
“Put the gun down and maybe you’ll live,” I say.
“Shut up, boy,” the General says, and stands. He keeps a tight grip on Muna, holding her up in front of him. She gasps.
“No!” I shout.
Sam starts to stand too, but the boat driver rams his gun butt into her stomach.
The General shouts in English toward the boat, “This girl! She’s pregnant! You cannot kill me without killing her too!”
The big boat is quiet, save for the sounds of waves smashing against the hull, and the creak of metal and rigging.
Muna struggles. “Let me go, you bastard!”
“Please!” Sam begs, gasping for breath.
I tense, getting ready. No one is watching me.
“Give me one of these boats,” the General shouts at the cruiser, “and I won’t kill her!”
There’s only one thing I can do.
He waits. “Answer me! Or she dies in five . . . four . . .”
But he doesn’t get to three.
I have one last desperate weapon. I leap up, launch into both him and Muna. We fly in an arc over the water. The fall seems to last forever, long enough for me to see Muna’s mouth open in silent horror and the gun flung out of the General’s hand as he grabs at the air. I hear Sam screaming.
“Swim!” I shout at Muna as the water rushes at us.
We hit hard, suddenly a sinking, flailing mass of limbs and foam under the surface, cut off from noise and air. The General thrashes, his hostage forgotten. He grabs at me, at Muna. Not to catch us; he’s trying to climb to the surface. He’ll kill Muna in his frenzy to get there. What have I done?
He lashes out, kicking me hard in the head. For a second everything goes black, and when I get my vision back, I’m floating on the surface. I struggle back down, wedging myself between the General and Muna, forcing him to clutch at me instead of her, which he does, pulling at my shirt, grabbing my face. I fight off the panic he’s radiating and push Muna away, toward the surface.
The General barely seems to notice when she’s free. I’m face-to-face with him, and bubbles stream from his nose and mouth. He tips his head up to the surface, only a foot away, and reaches, clawing at it. He climbs me, pushing me deeper, and for a second his head clears the surface, and maybe he gets a breath of air, but it doesn’t matter. By then I’ve latched on to him. I’m too heavy for him to resist. I’ve chosen my stone wisely:
A gym bag full of loot.
The strap is now wrapped around my ankle, carrying us down.
I hug his shins. He can fight, but he won’t be able to get free. The surface is receding. The ocean around us is growing darker. It is so quiet. I look up to see Muna’s legs slash out above. She is making for the boat, kicking hard and strong. She’s a good swimmer.
And Sam will pull her in.
She’s safe.
My mind clears, and all at once I am very calm.
I look back at the General.
I am not the match, I say to him in my mind. I was never the match, never the fire.
I am the water.
The weapon you fear more than gun or knife.
You, General, cannot swim.
I haven’t practiced in a long time, but I’m not worried. My body settles into a drill it remembers well. I let myself sink, find a clock already ticking in my head. Only thirty-eight seconds have passed underwater. I will not need to breathe for a minute and twenty seconds more.
It’s just the General and me now. I swallow, clearing my ears as we continue to descend.
The General kicks but can’t loosen himself from my grip. His lips pull back in a grimace. He has no more air, I can tell. If he were thinking straight, he would try reaching down and pushing me off, but he’s drowning; he isn’t thinking. All he wants to do is claw for the surface.
By the time we hit the sandy bottom, his movements are jerky and slow. His arms float up to his sides. His eyes roll back. I start to let go, and they pop back open. He thrashes and flails, and I think he might even get away. I grab his leg, wrap the gym bag strap around it like an anchor. He kicks once, twice, and then stops, his mouth open and lungs full of water.
I have about fifteen more seconds. My head is starting to pound. But before I kick up, I take a good long look at him.
He is gone. Bubbles like tiny pearls cling to his face.
I let go and rise slowly to the surface.