21
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obody talked much after Hailey came back with the wrench. Gwen wasn’t sure what the other two were thinking. But the plan seemed more real to her now, and more frightening. She couldn’t get her head around the idea that they were going to try to kill their guard. The guy hadn’t done anything to them. They didn’t even know his name.
She didn’t argue, though. She knew what Owen would say. That she’d gone soft. That these men were not her friends. That even if she didn’t agree, they’d voted and they had to stick to their decision. Worse than the words would be the look, the eyes-narrowed-chin-tilted look that meant
If you were smarter, we wouldn’t be talking about this, you’d get it.
Before they were taken, Gwen would have said that Owen loved her, or at least that he had the world’s worst crush on her. He lit up when he saw her, like a dog when the treat drawer came open. No more. Since the night that the Joker had hooded them to punish her for talking, Owen had dealt with her like a problem he had to manage.
She wondered whether Owen’s love for her had ever been real. Like so many guys she’d known, maybe he wanted the
idea
of her instead of actually wanting her. Maybe he wanted the ego boost that came from walking into a room with a beautiful woman, the feeling that everyone wondered how he’d won her. Was he rich, famous, a great storyteller, a demon lover? One point in Scott’s favor, maybe the biggest, maybe the only reason Gwen had put up with him: Scott didn’t need that boost. Scott genuinely believed that Gwen was lucky to have him, not the other way around. His feelings for her couldn’t have been simpler. He thought she was hot and a good lay. Which was pretty much what she thought of him. He’d been surprisingly good in bed, too. He had plenty of experience and zero performance anxiety.
Thinking about sex with Scott made her almost miss him.
She wondered what he would have made of their half-assed plan. Probably he’d have sneered at it.
Chill
, he would have said.
Nobody’s gonna hurt us. We’re worth more alive than dead. Way more than all these Somalis combined.
But what had Scott known about Kenya or Somalia? What had he known about this continent? What did any of them know? Gwen felt more grown up than she ever had before, and more childish too. There was a word for that, but she couldn’t remember it. She’d come here thinking these Africans were simple and stupid. That they couldn’t even feed themselves. She knew better now. They might be poor, but they weren’t stupid and they sure weren’t simple. The worst part was she hadn’t even realized she was looking down on them. At least she was starting to see how little she saw.
She remembered. The word was
paradox
.
—
The camp quieted as the soldiers settled in for the night. Soldiers. Bandits. Gwen didn’t know what to call these armed boy-men. She listened for trouble, shots or screams, heard nothing. She drifted for a while, half asleep. A dirt bike took off and disappeared. Gwen expected more to follow, but none did. The faint voices from the other huts melded into a sort of song, all the world’s languages together. The minutes were as long as hours and as short as days, and she could float on the sea forever—
Owen nudged her awake. “It’s time.” He edged around the hut until he stood two steps from the door. He held the wrench flat against his leg. Even in the dark, Gwen saw how his body coiled. He’d played tennis in high school.
“Gwen.” He wagged two fingers toward her in a come-hither motion. Again she thought of Scott, who’d given her the same peremptory wave more than once. She wanted to tell Owen to drop the wrench, sit down. But Hailey put a hand on her arm and squeezed. She couldn’t delay any longer. She walked to the doorway, looked outside. The clouds were low and heavy. A steady rain soaked the earth. The wet season had come at last. Only their guard was outside. He wore an AK across his chest and squatted on an inflatable gray plastic ball that belonged in a yoga class. Gwen hadn’t seen it before and couldn’t imagine how it had arrived here. But she’d seen this in Dadaab, too, objects that didn’t seem to belong anywhere in Africa.
Enough. If she waited any longer, she’d lose her nerve. She stepped out, squatted beside their sentry. He looked at her and then away and finally he settled for staring at her feet. “What’s your name?” She pointed at herself. “Gwen.
Mi nombre es Gwennie.
You?”
“Samatar.”
“Samatar. Come in where it’s dry, have some miraa.”
“Miraa.”
“Miraa. Exactly.”
He reached into his pocket. The bundle of leaves had shrunk. She could see he didn’t want to share. He held it slightly away from her, like a frat boy with a flask that had only two good pulls left:
Sure you want this?
“Keep it, then. No problemo. But come on in. No need for you to get wet.” She stood, pointed at the doorway.
We’re all friends here.
He looked around. Gwen guessed that he’d been warned not to come inside the hut. But they both knew that he’d already broken that rule tonight and nothing bad had happened. He stood—then shook his head and squatted down. Gwen felt mostly relief. She’d tried, Owen and Hailey would have to admit she’d tried. She turned away.
And the rain picked up. Samatar raised his hand to the sky, stood. “Miraa.”
“I know, miraa—”
He stepped toward the hut. She couldn’t stop him, not without out-and-out betraying her friends. She walked inside. He followed. As he entered, Owen lunged, whipping his arm like he was hitting a topspin forehand, bringing the wrench into the side of Samatar’s head with a terrible crunch. Samatar choked out a gasp and his head lashed forward and his body turned to string. He fell sideways without even lifting a hand. A bone broke as he hit, the arm or the shoulder, Gwen wasn’t sure. He moaned just enough to prove he was alive.
Owen stooped, unbuckled Samatar’s AK, tugged at it. The rifle’s strap was caught between Samatar’s body and the ground. “Help.” Owen put his hands under Samatar and lifted. After a moment’s hesitation, Hailey pulled out the rifle.
A thin foam bubbled from Samatar’s mouth. His left arm twitched and his eyes rolled back until they were as white as hospital sheets. Gwen leaned toward Samatar and Owen grabbed her arm, pulled her back roughly. He looked at her like she was speaking a language he’d never heard. “He was holding us prisoner.” He took the AK from Hailey, buckled it across his chest. “Come on.” And he was gone. Hailey stepped toward the door, turned, looked at Gwen. “Give me a sec.”
“Don’t stay here, Gwennie.” Then Hailey was gone, too.
Gwen knelt beside Samatar, kissed her fingers, touched them to his cheek. She wanted to do something more, but she couldn’t think of anything. So she ran.
—
The rain was falling. The camp was quiet. Owen and Hailey were out of sight, running behind the huts, the path they’d decided would give them the best chance of reaching the bikes unseen. Gwen followed. She slipped on a patch of mud, caught herself. She reached the hut with the dirt bikes, ducked through the doorway.
Inside, the bikes stood side by side. Between them, tools and parts jumbled on a burlap sack. The mechanic lay in the corner, eyes closed. Even by the standards of these underfed soldiers, he was tiny. He slept with his legs splayed like he was trying to occupy as much space as he could. A motorcycle poster was pinned above him, a gleaming red sport bike that must have stood for something like paradise to him.
“We’ll get out of here, you’ll feel better,” Owen whisper-hissed. “It’s called Stockholm syndrome.”
“It’s called go fuck yourself,” Gwen hissed right back.
“I’ll ride with Hailey. Make sure we’re ready before you hit the starter. The whole camp’s going to hear when we start up.”
“I get it.”
“Once we’re out, just follow us west.”
Gwen wanted to punch him. Instead she nodded. The kid grumbled in his sleep. Hailey handed Gwen a key. She mounted the bike nearer the door, slipped the key into the ignition. It fit. Owen hopped onto the second bike. Hailey slid on behind him and wrapped her arms around him as he gave Gwen a thumbs-up. Gwen squeezed the clutch, made sure the bike was in neutral, jabbed the starter. The engine rumbled to life. She kicked the bike into gear, let out the clutch. The bike jumped forward—
And the engine coughed and all its power was gone. Gwen felt it going limp underneath her. She laid off the throttle and put the bike in neutral to try to save the stall, but she couldn’t. She hadn’t even had time to get her feet on the pegs.
“Gwen! You said—”
“I do. Hold on.” She’d told the truth. She knew how to ride. She hadn’t done anything wrong, she was sure. The engine had dropped. She hit the starter again and the bike rumbled to life. She offered it gas, careful this time to keep the clutch tucked tight, making sure the engine wouldn’t stall—
But it did. As soon as she gave it more than a hint of gas. She knew that on cold days, some motorcycles, especially old ones that had carbs instead of fuel injectors, needed a tight choke and a few minutes at high-rev idle to get warmed up enough to move. But this bike was new, and anyway, it was plenty warm. She was no expert, but she figured the fuel line or the injectors were clogged.
She tried again, knowing this was her last shot. The engine gave up even faster this time, not even fully starting before it slid into a clicking half-stall like the battery was giving out. She laid off the starter. In the silence she heard a man yelling. She dropped the kickstand, stepped off the bike, peeked out the doorway—
Behind them the mechanic shouted. Owen raised the AK and fired a burst at the top of the motorcycle poster, shredding it, kicking a ragged line of holes into the wall. The mechanic dropped to his knees and raised his hands. Owen stepped toward him. As he did, he unslung the AK and shifted his hands to hold the rifle’s barrel like a bat—
“Owen—”
“No—”
Owen gave no sign he’d heard them. He chopped the butt of the rifle across the mechanic’s temple. The Somali’s skin tore like paper and blood gushed. He put one hand to his forehead to stanch the flow and scrambled back against the wall.
“You stay there,” Owen said. Like he was talking to a dog. Gwen didn’t know what had happened to him, where this violence was coming from, but she wanted it to stop now.
Outside, the voices increased. Gwen peeked out of the hut. A soldier walked toward them, holding an AK. “They’re coming,” she said.
“How many? Are they armed?”
“How many? Are you joking?”
“It’s over,” Hailey said.
Owen grabbed Gwen’s shoulder, squeezed hard enough to hurt. “You go out there. With your hands up. Big smile. Tell them you want your boyfriend.”
“Then what, Owen? Then what?”
Owen grinned like he was about to let her in on the best joke ever told, the secret of the universe. “What else? Tell Wizard we have a hostage.”
—
She wanted to scream at him for his foolishness and sudden cruelty and this disaster he’d brought. But the soldiers were close, and she was scared he might start shooting, get them killed. She walked into the rain with her arms held high. More men had come out. They moved in groups of two and three, slumped and half asleep and spreading out vaguely around the hut. In the dark they looked like zombies, zombies with guns.
Two men pointed their rifles at her. She went to her knees in the muddy ground. The men walked toward her, clucking at each other in Somali. Inside the hut, Owen sang Katy Perry,
You change your mind like a girl changes clothes . . .
Gwen wondered if she was hallucinating. Maybe Scott had spiked her orange juice back at Dadaab. Maybe she’d been tripping since last week and never stopped. Merrily merrily merrily merrily life is but a dream. But no, the rain was cool and dear on her arms. Behind her Owen kept right on singing . . .
You’re hot and you’re cold . . .
the pitch just right.
The men stopped a foot stride from her.
“I need to see Wizard. Please, Wizard.”
A yell from the middle of the camp, one word coming through clearly, Samatar. The clamor grew. Gwen didn’t have to ask. She knew he’d died. The man nearest her stepped forward and raised an open hand. As he swung his arm down, she didn’t flinch. She raised her chin and let his five fingers catch her across the cheek. No one had hit her like that before, no one had ever hit her at all. The slap knocked her head sideways and tears sprang to her eyes, but she didn’t raise a hand to stop him—
Thank you, sir, may I have another—
As they pulled her up and dragged her away.
—
She sat on the ground inside Wizard’s hut, legs crossed in a parody of a yoga pose, the skin of her cheek red and bruised, a separate mark for each finger. They were alone. A plug of miraa big as Gwen’s fist filled Wizard’s mouth, but his eyes were half closed in exhaustion. “What happened?”
She told him. Outside, the rain drummed on the hut’s straw roof.
“You did this? Why didn’t you listen to me?”
“You could have let us go last night, Wizard. You want me to think we’re friends?” She was furious, these men playing in the dirt like boys in a sandbox, but the guns and bullets real. At least Wizard had an excuse.
“Your friend, what does he want?” His voice was barely louder than a whisper.
“Let us go.”
“Where.”
“I don’t know. Back to Dadaab.”
“After he killed my man.”
“Well, you killed Scott.”
“The mzungu.”
“He had a name. Scott.”
“He killed one and I killed one,” Wizard said.
“He’ll kill the one in the hut, too. The mechanic?”
“Yusuf? Then he’ll have no hostage.”
“He’ll have me and Hailey. He’ll shoot us and then himself. Leave you with nothing.” Gwen wasn’t sure that Wizard believed Owen would hurt her. She wasn’t sure she believed it either. But she was out of cards to play.
“You think your friend will kill you.”
“Why not? He’s desperate.”
Wizard closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he seemed calm. “How old are you, Gwen?”
The question was so unexpected that she needed a few seconds to remember. “I just turned twenty-three. Couple weeks ago.”