Insurrection
Enough pain, Bolan knew, had a way of chasing self-consciousness right out of the soul. Besides, he thought. Like her calluses, chugging the medicine straight from the bottle somehow emphasized her femininity rather than detracted from it. It made her seem more human.
When she had finished, Galab screwed the cap back on and returned the bottle to her desk drawer. She pulled a tissue from the same drawer and dabbed daintily at her lips before turning her attention back to Bolan. “Let us get to the topic at hand,” she said. “Are you able to tell me what you have planned?”
“Up to a point,” Bolan replied. “I’m primarily here to find Bishop Joshua Adewale and get him safely back to the US. But I also plan to do all I can to rid your country of men like those who killed the parents of the orphans you have here. I just haven’t decided exactly how I’m going to accomplish that.”
The statement was meant to be blunt, and Galab took it that way, shrinking back slightly at Bolan’s words. “Let us make sure I understand you correctly,” she said in a small voice. “Do you intend to arrest or simply kill these men?”
Bolan paused a moment, looking deeply into the woman’s eyes. “I have no power of arrest in Nigeria,” he said. “But Boko Haram has gone way past that point. Even if I could arrest them, with all due respect, the Nigerian government has become so corrupt they’d probably be set free again.” He stopped speaking for a moment to let his words sink in. “So I intend to do what I have to do.”
The woman got the message. But instead of recoiling further, as Bolan would have expected, she seemed to relax. “I would like to help you, Matt, but I am neither trained as a fighter nor do I have the temperament to be one.” She paused and took in a deep breath. “I can, however, take you to men who can and will help you.”
“Can these men be trusted?” Bolan asked. “Both to be on our side and keep their mouths shut?”
“I believe so,” Galab said. “They are good men, I think. But they do not have a good leader.” She paused a moment, then added, “At least they haven’t had a good leader so far.”
Bolan uncrossed his legs and leaned forward slightly. While Galab seemed to be a caring person, he didn’t particularly trust her judgment on who could be counted on and who couldn’t. Many “good” people tended to think others thought, and behaved, as they did. And that was often not the case.
The soldier’s only option was to meet these men and decide for himself.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll need a base of operations, too. Someplace I can store my gear and hide out when it becomes necessary.”
“Do you think it will become necessary?”
“At one point or another,” Bolan replied, “it always does.”
“Do you want to meet these men now?”
“There’s no time like the present,” he told her, standing. “Do you have a car?”
“I do.” Galab rose in turn. “Since I suspect I know what some of the things in your luggage are, I think we should take it with us.”
Bolan nodded. They left the building through a back door and found themselves in an alley. Two minutes later, they had loaded Bolan’s bags into the back of Galab’s Nissan Maxima.
The Isaac Center director was backing the vehicle out of her parking space behind the building when the first explosion of gunfire erupted.
A volley of rounds shattered the car window next to Bolan, missing both his and Galab’s heads by centimeters. Then more gunfire broke the side window next to the woman behind the wheel.
She screamed.
Another burst of bullets, this one coming from the front, turned the windshield into tiny fragments of glass. In his peripheral vision, Bolan saw a man wearing green fatigue pants appear to the side of the Maxima, pull the pin on a fragmentation grenade and roll the bomb under the vehicle.
“Hit it!” Bolan yelled. His left foot shot across the front seat and stomped down on Galab’s right, flooring the accelerator. She shrieked again, her voice blending in with the screech of the Maxima’s tires. They tore away from the grenade in reverse, peeling rubber like some teenage show-off leaving the local youth hangout.
Two seconds later, the grenade detonated, but they had cleared the kill zone and nothing but a few pieces of shrapnel hit the Maxima and skidded off.
Bolan had drawn the sound-suppressed Beretta, but not for the usual reason. He didn’t need to try to keep the 9 mm explosions from being heard by whoever was attacking them—in fact, the sound of return fire would actually have helped, telling their attackers that he didn’t plan to go down without a fight. But that aspect of the impromptu battle was overshadowed by the fact that Bolan didn’t want to burst his and Galab’s eardrums inside the Maxima. And if he counterfired with the massive Desert Eagle, there was every chance of that happening. Even with the windshield and side windows blown out, the .44 Magnum explosions inside the car would be deafening.
The Executioner dropped the front sight of the Beretta on the man who had thrown the grenade as the Maxima fishtailed farther away. Thumbing the selector switch to 3-round burst, he squeezed the trigger and sent two 9 mm rounds into the attacker’s chest. The third hollowpoint round rode high, grazing the top of the white turban on the man’s head.
Their attacker jerked with each shot, but kept running. And as he did, he pulled the pin on a second grenade. His final burst of energy ended abruptly. The grenade slipped from his fingers as he fell, dead before he hit the ground.
But the grenade was far from dead.
Galab had twisted the steering wheel, skidding the car in a half-circle. But then her mind seemed to stall and she froze in place. Bolan started to reach down and throw the transmission from Reverse into Drive, but before he could, the director seemed to come out of her trance and did it herself.
Bolan twisted in his seat, now seeing through the back window the man who had just fallen. His lifeless body lay on the concrete in the parking space they had just vacated. Next to him, the second fragmentation grenade still rolled and wobbled.
Then it came to a halt and prepared to explode.
Another man—by now the Executioner had seen enough to convince him that they were indeed Boko Haram terrorists—appeared dangerously close to the grenade. Bolan aimed the Beretta his way and sent another trio of rounds through the back window of the car to pound into his throat and head. This time the turban stayed on but turned red.
Bolan switched his attention back to the grenade in the parking space. It still lay where it had come to rest, and he was surprised that it had failed to explode. There had been more than ample time for it to detonate, since the pin had been pulled.
A dud. It happened. Particularly when weapons and munitions were purchased on the black market, the way terrorists usually obtained them.
But the Executioner had no more time or need to contemplate the stroke of luck. The workmen had all hit the concrete or found other cover. Bolan glanced toward the front of the Isaac Center and the dorms just beyond.
None of the bullets flying through the air, or the grenades, were heading that way.
“Get us out of here,” he ordered.
“But the children—” the center’s director started to say.
“Aren’t the target,” Bolan stated. “We are. Now move it!”
She floored the accelerator, moving forward this time. The Maxima began to fishtail again, but the woman behind the wheel kept control and straightened it. They sped to the end of the alley, turned right and emerged onto a street. Suddenly they were cruising away from the attack, and the only danger left was the possibility of severing an artery on all the broken glass inside the Nissan.
“Praise God, Christ and the Holy Spirit,” Galab said around choking gasps for oxygen. Then, as the Maxima blended in with the other traffic, she drove on, skillfully weaving in and out of the flow until they reached the edge of the last market area the cabbie had driven through when he’d brought Bolan to the Isaac Center. The soldier thought back on their escape from the alley. At first the woman next to him had panicked, but then, suddenly, she’d settled down and reacted almost like a professional stock car driver. It was as if she’d become a different person.
“I thought you told me you weren’t a fighter,” Bolan said.
Galab glanced his way, her expression curious. “I did. I am not.”
“Well,” Bolan said, “once you got over your initial fear, you operated that steering wheel and foot feed like a lifelong hillbilly moonshiner trying to lose the Feds.”
The metaphor was obviously out of Galab’s frame of reference. “I do not understand,” she said, frowning.
“It just meant that you’ve got the skills of a well-practiced race car driver,” Bolan said.
“Ah, yes,” Galab said as she patted the steering wheel with both hands. “I have driven in rescue missions many times to get the children. I suppose I have picked up some skills along the way.” She paused, took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “But driving is not fighting. I do not think I could ever pull the trigger of a gun and take a human life.”
“You wouldn’t have to,” Bolan said, chuckling softly. “You could always just run them over in the street.”
The woman’s only answer was a smile. A moment later she turned into a parking lot, then settled the Maxima in an empty space. “It is better if we go from here on foot,” she said.
The soldier glanced around at the shattered windshield, shards of broken glass and bullet holes now decorating the vehicle. “Yeah,” he said. “I suppose we might draw a little unwanted attention in this thing.”
“And we should take your bags,” Galab stated. “Where we are going will be as good a place as you will find to store them until they are needed.”
Bolan nodded, got out and pulled the straps of several bags over his head to hang from his shoulders. “Aren’t I going to draw a lot of attention with all this?” he asked.
“Certainly,” the woman said. “But the path down which I will lead you will be away from interested eyes. At least for the most part.”
A second later they left the parking lot and started down a deserted alley behind the busy market.
CHAPTER THREE
He had designed the room himself, all the while keeping his tongue pressed firmly into his cheek. It was a joke in many ways, a humorous glimpse into the life of an old-style caliph. A cross between modern reality and a cartoon view of what it was like to be a wealthy oil sheikh. But to Fazel Hayat it was fun and certainly exciting. Maybe not quite as exciting as blowing up a chapel full of Christian bishops, or watching on his laptop screen as his men shot at this mysterious American agent.
Hayat thought back to the bombing of the seminary chapel. They had killed many of the bishops. But the primary target—Bishop Joshua Adewale—had escaped, and that made the Boko leader angry. He had wanted to kill the man because he was a Christian bishop, but also because he was an American. In addition to disrupting the bishops’ conference and destroying the seminary, Hayat had been planning to humiliate the United States and show the world how the Satanic democracy had lost power, will and influence.
That part of the plan had failed, but he would correct the error.
The soft purr and splash of the artificial waterfall built into the wall and leading down into the indoor swimming pool had a relaxing effect on Hayat, and he stretched out on his side atop the large stuffed pillows. In front of him now was a beautiful shapely blonde wearing nothing but sheer capri pants. Behind him, he felt the large-breasted brunette he had just been kissing reach up with both hands to massage his neck.
The waterfall and pool were the room’s central features, but the scantily clad young women swimming and playing in the water also commanded the leader’s attention. Other members of what Hayat jokingly called his Boko Haram Harem lounged on huge silk pillows around the room.
The walls of the Haram Harem were of tile, and each one featured a saying from the Koran. At least that was what Hayat had been told. He had never bothered to actually read any of them. For that matter, he had read very little of the Koran.
When he wasn’t engaged in some sort of sexual act with the women, Hayat kept busy eating and drinking or planning the next attack on Nigerians who paid homage to the ways of the West. It mattered not if they were Christians or Muslims.
On the other side of the room, across the pool, were two violinists, a string bass player and a harpist. All four were beautiful females. Eerie sounds of music in a minor key came from their strings and guided the steps of three dancers in front of them. These women wore completely transparent pantaloons and blouses, and veils that covered their faces except for their alluring eyes.
Hayat listened to the music and stared at the dancers and musicians. But even in this atmosphere, which had been designed totally for pleasure and pleasure alone, his mind kept wandering. He was now aware that an American agent of some kind—a true specialist, a man whose skills went far beyond those of the usual commando or intelligence officer—had come to Nigeria. He had learned about the man from his contact at the airport, who had been paid by the Americans to guide the man through customs. Hayat did not yet know exactly what this American agent’s mission was, but until he received that information, and the man was eliminated, he could not completely rest.
He felt himself frowning. Some of his tracking agents had followed the man as he left the airport in a taxicab. They had tailed him to the Isaac Center, where they had attacked, but been unsuccessful in eliminating him. That was Hayat’s own fault, he had decided. He had not taken the threat as seriously as he should have, and had allowed his second team to attempt the assassination. He would not make that mistake again. As soon as they located the American again, he would put Dhul Agbede on the job. And Hayat had not forgotten the Nigerian-born American bishop, either. Joshua Adewale had somehow escaped both the explosion and the machetes of the Bokos sent to the chapel.
He was another enemy who needed to be located. And killed. But Dhul had enough on his plate. Hayat would send Sam to find and kill the bishop from New York.
The second problem on the mind of the Boko Haram leader was almost as troubling as the first. One of his own men—Enitan—had gone over to the enemy. He’d had a dream of meeting Jesus or some such nonsense, and was now calling himself “Paul” after some ancient Christian missionary.
This man, Hayat knew, could be just as dangerous as the American. He, too, needed to be found and killed before he infected other Muslims with his fairy tales and insanity.
That made three men who had to be found and killed: the mysterious American agent, the Nigerian-born New York bishop and Enitan, aka Paul.
In his peripheral vision, Hayat saw a beautiful redheaded woman. She was Canadian by birth, if Hayat remembered correctly. He turned to her as she squeezed in on the pillow between him and the blonde. Her lips were bright red and wet-looking with lipstick, and she smiled seductively into his eyes. She looked as if she wanted to speak, so Hayat said, “Yes, my dear?”
“I am special, am I not?” she purred.
He smiled back at her. “You are all special,” he said, as his eyes swept the room. “And what was your name?”
The red lips took on a pouty appearance. “You do not even remember my name?” she cried, in what Hayat knew to be exaggerated offense. “Why, just this morning you and I and Kamilah—”
“I remember what the three of us did,” Hayat said. “And it was most enjoyable. But I do not remember your name.” He leaned over and kissed the woman on the forehead.
“My name is Patsy.”
“From Toronto,” Hayat interjected.
Again, she looked slightly put out. “Montreal,” she corrected.
“I was close. There are nearly fifty women here,” he went on, sweeping a hand around the room. “And new ones arrive every day. I cannot be expected to remember all of your names.”
“I suppose not.”
“But,” Hayat said, “I never forget your specialties.”
The redhead smiled at him, but to Hayat, the expression looked a little false.
Before he could speak again a sultry brunette approached timidly. He did remember her name. Kamilah. The woman who had joined him and Patsy that very morning. Now, she looked nervous, and Hayat could not help wondering why.
He soon learned the answer, as Kamilah stopped in front of him and Patsy and whispered, “You have a visitor.”
Hayat paused. While he allowed other men to watch what went on in his harem through the windows, only two were ever allowed to enter. The most frequent visitor was Agbede. Less frequent, and never showing as much interest in the women as Dhul, was Boko Haram’s liaison to al Qaeda, a man who went simply by the name of Sam. So Hayat knew it had to be one of those two when he said, “Who is this visitor?”
“That...man,” she replied. “Dhul Agbede. The ugly, perverse one who makes my skin crawl. Please do not make me go with him. The last time—”
Hayat held a hand up and the woman knew to quit speaking. “We will see what he has to say and what he has done,” he said. “Go let him in.”
She was still shivering as she turned and walked away. Hayat lay back in a half sitting, half prone position on the pillow as he waited. A moment later, Kamilah returned, with Agbede a step ahead of her. Finally, the wretched man reached the pillow where Hayat reclined. Dhul stopped, and Kamilah paused behind him. Then she circled the man and dropped to her side on another pillow, as close to Hayat as she could get.
The terrorist leader chuckled softly to himself. Kamilah was obviously attempting to psychologically distance herself from Agbede and make it appear that she was Hayat’s exclusive property. Or else she was just doing her best to get him to forget about her for the time being.
Hayat leaned across the woman, reached over and playfully tapped Kamilah’s cheek. He wanted her to know that he had not forgotten her. Kamilah, like all the other women in his harem, came and went according to his pleasure. Most had come to him through the human trafficking division of Boko Haram. He doubted that most of them were overjoyed to be where they were. But they knew things could always get worse. Once one of his women was led out of the room with the swimming pool and big pillows, she was either executed or sold again.
“So,” Hayat said, looking up at his number-two man. “What do you have to report?”
Agbede dropped onto a pillow directly across from him and reached for a tray holding oysters. After sucking down a half-dozen with a loud, smacking sound, he looked up again. “The man our informant warned us was coming has arrived,” he said.
“I am already aware of that. I sent men to eliminate him. They failed. What can you add to this knowledge?”
“I should have been sent to do the job myself,” Agbede said.
Hayat stared back at the dirty, greasy man, now splattered with oyster juice. No one else in the organization would have dared speak to him that way. But Dhul’s talents brought him special privileges. On the other hand, the women were listening, and he refused to lose face or look weak in front of them. They had very little to distract them when they weren’t pleasuring him, and they gossiped like old hags.
“Yes,” Hayat said. “I am aware that I should have assigned that strike to you, as well. But for your own sake, my old and dear friend, be wise in how you speak to me. I am still in charge, and you would do well to keep that in mind.”
The veiled threat appeared to have little if any effect on the man. Hayat wasn’t sure if it was because he was too dense to pick up on the true meaning of the words, or the fact that due to the outrageous combination of personality disorders that made up Agbede’s thinking, he simply had no capacity for fear.
Hayat waved an arm, indicating the laptop that had slid between two pillows. “In any case,” he said, “the job now falls to you.”
“The man was lucky,” Agbede said as he raised another oyster shell to his lips and sucked the contents into his mouth and down his throat. “But I will get him.”
“Have we confirmed that he is, indeed, American?” Hayat asked.
Agbede grabbed a handful of red caviar and stuffed it into his mouth. Dozens of the tiny eggs smeared his cheeks instead of his tongue, but he seemed not to notice or care. “I spoke with Azizi, who walked him through customs. He was traveling under the guise of an American journalist.”
“Is he from the CIA?” Hayat asked.
“That I do not know. I will try to find out before I kill him if you like.”
“If you can, fine. But killing him must be the number-one priority.” Hayat shifted his weight on the pillow. “And what of the American bishop? Adewale?”
Agbede grunted, then burped loudly, the sound reverberating around the room. “We have received word that he disappeared somewhere in the slums a half mile or so from the explosion site,” he said. “I have men searching for him.”
Hayat peered deeply into Dhul’s sharklike eyes. Having satisfied his desire for food and drink, the man had begun to stare at the women surrounding him. They had noticed his interest, and all but Patsy had averted their eyes from his, looking at the floor or in some other direction, as if doing their best to make themselves invisible.
Patsy just smiled and snuggled closer to Hayat.
He was growing tired of Dhul’s presence. As good as the man might be at his job, there was a limit as to how much filth and grotesqueness Hayat could tolerate. “Go and clean yourself up,” he ordered.
Then, turning to Patsy, he said, “Go with him.” He felt a leering smile creep over his face. “He will need help. And you will do whatever he asks of you.”
Patsy’s smile turned to an instant mask of horror. “But...no...please...” she whispered in a trembling, throaty voice.
“You wanted to be special,” he said. “Don’t you remember? Well, I am making you special. And I am sure that Dhul will think of some very special things for you to do.”
Tears began to roll down Patsy’s cheeks as Agbede jumped to his feet and grabbed her elbow. Hayat’s grin broadened even further. He liked playing these little psychological games with his women.
As Agbede pulled her toward him, the redhead looked over her shoulder and pleaded one last time. “Please...” she whimpered in a tiny voice.
“Go!” Hayat shouted, looking her directly in the eye. “And please him. Or you will be sold to the first trader who passes by, and live the rest of your short life in far more unpleasant surroundings than this.”
Laughing loudly, Agbede slapped her buttocks, then turned and started out of the room.
“You will be going out in public,” Hayat called after him. “Allow her some clothing for appearances sake, at least.”
A tall, long-legged blonde had anticipated the Boko Haram leader’s words and now appeared in front of Agbede holding two garments. The man set Patsy back down on her feet and waited impatiently while she twisted a wrapper around her body and then shrugged into a traditional Yoruba top known as a buba.
“Do not take too long with her, my friend,” Hayat called after him. “You have an American and a Boko Haram traitor to kill. And other attacks for which we need to plan.”
Hayat had settled back on his pillow as Agbede retreated, and was eyeing the women around him again, when Kamilah appeared once more. Stopping directly in front of him, she looked down and smiled. “The other man is here,” she said. “Sam.”
“Bring him to me then.”
She pivoted and walked off, her hips wiggling provocatively. Hayat knew the reason for her sudden change in attitude. He would offer Sam one or more of the women before the man left. But experience had taught him that Sam would not only not hurt them as Agbede did, the liaison to al Qaeda would politely refuse.