On the road in Iowa, maybe Kansas
The dream again. Now, after so long.
In this version, he is trapped. He is unarmed. He cannot move his arms. The American sniper smiles, fiddles, takes his time, locks himself into the weapon skillfully, slowly. He peeks up from the scope just for the pleasure of seeing it all laid out before him.
The flash.
Juba awoke. Where was he? It was dark, someone was near to him, he felt the closeness, the movement in and out of the other’s lungs, their limbs tangled, the sourness, the vibration, the motion, they couldn’t move, they were oppressed under some kind of lid. The coffin’s?
“You are awake?” asked the boy.
“I am. We are still in the truck?”
“It’s been so long, I hardly remember. I’m numb. I’m also very hungry.”
“I’ll tell them to stop for more French frieds,” said Juba.
“French fries,” the boy corrected.
At that point, at last, the lid above them raised.
Three men peered down at them, the silhouettes of their cowboy hats showing against the highway illumination.
“All right, my friends,” said one in Arabic, “it’s time to come out.”
Slowly, hands helped Juba unwrap himself from the boy, supported him as he searched for power in his legs and arms, hoisted him clear so that he could almost stand, though his legs were soft and weak, and one momentarily gave out.
“Where are we?” he said.
The vehicle sped through the night. Outside, an occasional light slid by, nothing prominent, merely a sign of human habitation. He looked forward, saw nothing but the cone of headlights illuminating a road with a pair of lines down the middle of it. The lines flashed by like tracers. The beat of the engine came through to him, concealed under every surface he touched.
“We’re going west,” said the Arabic voice. It seemed one of the Mexicans was along as translator, for he had Arabic skills, and even in the dark, squinting, confused, Juba could tell that his face had significantly different features. He was some kind of transplanted Syrian, judging from the accent.
Next, they pulled the boy out.
“About time,” said the kid. “I am so thirsty. Got anything to drink?”
“Who is this?” said the Syrian. “We were told only one.”
“He is with me,” said Juba. “He is fine.”
Jared jumped in with, “I’m his go-between. I’m the guy who introduced him to America. I happened to be with him when the shit hit the fan, that’s why I’m here.”
“He is jihadi,” said Juba, in English.
It was the best thing anyone had ever said about Jared.
They stopped, and a man ran in an outlet for food. Burger King, not McDonald’s. Better hamburger, French frieds not so good.
They drove again, through the night.
The Syrian caught them up.
“We got you guys out just in time. How’d they know? Is there a leak?”
“This is what they do,” said Juba. “It is their job. No leak, just them reading the signs.”
“Maybe so,” said the Syrian. “Anyway, we were stuck at a roadblock for a while, they were doing a search of vehicles headed out of Greenville onto the interstate. We thought we might have to use this.”
He patted something on the floor covered with a tarpaulin, pulled the canvas back, exposing a Russian PK on a bipod, its long belt of 7.62 RPD gathered in a heap under the receiver.
“Bad news, but then a few car lengths before we got there, they tore it up and pulled out. I don’t know why.”
“The hand of Allah?” said the boy.
“Possibly they didn’t want a gun battle on the highway,” said Juba.
“Ever since, we’ve been driving without incident. The radio says something about murders in Detroit, three dealers.”
“It was necessary,” said Juba.
“It’s of no importance. All the same, I wouldn’t return to Detroit anytime soon.”
“Who are you guys?” asked Jared.
“Cartel,” Juba said. “They have the capacity to support my enterprise. They have been paid a great deal for their interest.”
“You will meet Señor Menendez shortly,” said the Syrian. “He is a great and powerful man. A visionary. With his might behind you, you cannot fail. We will also abandon this rattletrap van and continue our journey in comfort.”
“Where are we going?” asked Jared.
“Little boy,” said Juba, “you do not ask men like these such questions. They are professionals. You show them respect by allowing them to do their jobs.”
“Anyway,” said the Syrian, “you should know that all items you requested have been acquired and are where they need to be. Your rifle came in from Mexico with a recent large shipment and awaits for your hands to assemble it. You will not be bothered at the shooting range we have for you. All things will happen as they have been planned.”
Juba sat back. He settled into the seat. He seemed, for the first time, without tension. The van rolled through the dark.
Dawn cracked the eastern horizon behind them. Gray light spilled from the sky. They shared the road with semi-trailers, a few SUVS, all of which flew by them in the left lane. Lights came and went, and the only sound was of men breathing. Jared was full of questions, but he asked none. Cartel? That bothered him. They were ruthless, had no ideology except greed, and became allies only via payment. But Juba clearly trusted them, and without them, he’d be sitting in a Greenville cell, waiting for his father’s lawyer to arrive, wondering if he had the guts to take the fall for the woman or sell out Juba for less jail time. He hoped he never had to discover the answer.
They slowed, the blinker was activated, and the van left the highway, taking an exit, somewhere in the vastness of rural America. He wanted to ask, “Are we there?” but thought it a bad idea.
The van pulled into a farm, drove around the back of the house to the barnyard, where a large black SUV awaited. The van came to a halt.
The Syrian said, “Sir, that package still in the compartment, that is a weapon, no?”
“It is,” said Juba.
“You must leave it there. You must not be armed in the presence of Señor Menendez.”
“I understand. I have no other weapons.”
“And you?” he asked Jared.
“No, of course not.”
“All right, out. Enjoy the fresh air.”
They climbed from the van, and indeed the fresh air seemed like a reward. Jared inhaled, almost becoming dizzy from the pleasure of it. He was still ticking, despite it all.
A man got out of the SUV and opened the back door. Another man got out, thin, handsome, Hispanic, of grandee heritage, in a well-tailored blue suit and black loafers. His Rolex was gold as were his tie clip and his cuff links. His teeth were white and perfect, his hair thick and well cut, his manner smoothly aristocratic.
“Sir,” he said, “I welcome you. I am Menendez.”
The Syrian translated from the English to the Arabic.
“It is an honor, señor,” replied Juba.
“As you have been told, all is in waiting. From here on, things will go smoothly. Your visit is much anticipated.”
“Excellent,” said Juba.
“And this young man?”
“He is my assistant. Young but eager. Has proven himself in action twice during the past few days. Jihadi to the core.”
“I am Menendez,” said the grandee. “Welcome, and congratulations on your accomplishments. If you have impressed the great Juba, you have impressed me.”
“Thank you,” said Jared.
“You are a very brave young man,” said Menendez. “And you are safe now.”
He clapped him on the shoulder to point him on the path to deliverance, but the hand had a gun in it, and he shot the boy in the back of the head.