Free Once A Warrior (Mustafa And Adem) by Anthony Neil Smith

where he most wanted to be, but he would never want the new crew to know where it was. But it clicked back into place that the only place they thought of as home for the big man was the one he'd taken from Prince Ibrahim. The gaudy, dark, waste-of-good-money joint.
    "Yeah, home's good."

EIGHT
    ––––––––
    B efore the sun had set, Adem had ditched the Yemeni clothing in favor of a soft gray suit and white shirt. He had shaved his head once more. Another internet café, a list of pleas from pirates begging for Mr. Mohammed's help. So many. Praying, it sounded like. There was one in particular that stood out to him. It appeared several times. It wasn't as hyperbolic as the others. It calmly repeated the contact number, the situation, the amount they would pay him. But the last one, just days ago, added: We know how to find her, too. What choice did he have? So he made the call.
    And now he stood in the wheelhouse of an Indonesian freighter that had been taken months ago by a band of Somalis. The crew was skinny, battered, itching themselves constantly due to lice and dried-out skin, while the pirates gathered around Adem, wide-eyed and respectful. They all wanted a photo with Mr. Mohammed. Their flashes lit the dark room. Then the hand-shaking. One asked about the story where Mr. Mohammed had struck down a leader of the Somali army of young warriors because that leader had betrayed the cause. The pirate said Mr. Mohammed had to kill him in order to show the others a way back to the righteous path. Adem didn't have the heart to tell the kid that the leader had been his best friend, and that he only chopped off Jibriil's gun-hand so he could escape with his life.
    Adem had to choke down the smell. He had forgotten how few of them bathed. It was hotter now than when he had been here before, the difference between January and August. But he had to live up to their expectations. They were young, but they were hard. God only knew how many they'd killed in their seventeen, eighteen years. Some might have been soldiers once, most certainly. All of them expected to become rich and maybe even become a captain. Some wanted to wear suits everyday just like Mr. Mohammed. Who was he to tell them they didn't have a shot at it?
    "My assistant," he told the captain, a quiet but powerful man the crew called Gunfighter. "I have not been able to find her. You know who I mean?"
    Gunfighter asked, "How can you be Mr. Mohammed if you don't know where to find the Lady? She's your Lady."
    Lady. It's what they called Sufia to Adem's face. Behind his back, he had heard them call her Shar , or evil. Like a witch. He had asked on the boat ride over, and was told that to look upon her is to curse all of your unborn children, because you'd never be able to keep it up long enough to impregnate a woman ever again.
    Adem said, "She's been taken from me. Ungodly men who want to use her for ungodly things. She's not like that. She is a warrior like me."
    Gunfighter shook his head. "Assholes."
    "Yeah."
    Gunfighter got out of the captain's chair. He wore a short-sleeved button-up that you could find at any department store, this one checkered with blues and greens, along with camouflage pants rolled up to mid-shin. He looked like he should be playing soccer in the streets, or going to the same college Adem had just graduated from. He motioned for Adem to follow, then told the boy pirates to let them have some time alone.
    They went outside onto the deck, the breeze instantly making Adem feel less sick. No need to worry about snipers with Gunfighter keeping the ship so far from anything. He had sent patrols out in inflatable engine-powered dinghies to keep smaller boats at bay. Gunfighter looked very pleased with himself. "It will be a shame to turn it back over. I could live like this."
    "You kind of do, don't you?"
    He brushed it off. "I mean without demands, without a crew of idiots, without hostages. You know. Just live off the sea."
    "I need people