"Last week," Brognola said. "Six days and counting, now."
"Do they have proof of life?"
"Seems so. The ransom note was flexible. MEND will accept a hundred million dollars for her safe return, or K-Tech's pull-out from Nigeria."
"That's optimistic," Bolan said.
"It's fantasy. And Daddy doesn't trust the local law to get her back. At least, not in one piece and breathing."
So that's where I come in, Bolan thought.
"I've got a CD file with all the players covered," Brognola informed him, "if you want to look it over on your own."
"Sounds good," Bolan replied. "When would I have to leave?"
He already knew the answer, nodding as Brognola frowned and said, "They should've had us on it from day one. Let's say ASAP."
* * *
Alone in the second-floor bedroom he used when at the Farm, Bolan read through Brognola's files on his laptop. He started with background on Jared and Mandy Ross, found nothing unique or remarkable on either, and moved on to meet his opposition.
MEND, as Brognola had noted, was the source of most guerrilla violence in Delta State, but pinning down its leadership was problematic. An anonymous online article from The Economist, published in September 2008, described MEND as a group that "portrays itself as political organisation that wants a greater share of Nigeria's oil revenues to go to the impoverished region that sits atop the oil. In fact, it is more of an umbrella organisation for several armed groups, which it sometimes pays in cash or guns to launch attacks." It's so-called war against pollution, Bolan saw, consisted in large part of dynamiting pipelines, each of which then fouled the area with another flood of oil. And more often than not hundreds of villagers perished while collecting the free oil, engulfed in flames from inevitable explosions.
According to the files Brognola had provided, two men seemed to dominate the hostile tribal factions that were presently at war in Delta State. Ekon Afolabi led the Itsekiri militants, a thirty-six-year-old man who'd been in trouble with the law since he was old enough to steal. Somewhere along the way, he had discovered ethnic pride and politics. Depending on the point of view, he'd either learned to fake the former, or was using it to make himself the Next Big Thing within his sphere of influence.
The candid shots of Afolabi showed a wiry man of average height, with close-cropped hair, a wild goatee and dark skin. In addition to tribal markings, his scrabble to the top, or thereabouts, had left him scarred in ways that would be useful for identifying his cadaver, but which didn't seem to slow him in any kind of violent confrontation.
Afolabi's second in command was Taiwo Babatunde, a hulk who nearly dwarfed his boss at six foot three and some three hundred pounds, but from his photos and the file Bolan surmised that Babatunde lacked the wits required to plot a palace coup, much less to pull it off and run the tribal army on his own. Call him the boss man's strong right arm, a blunt tool that would flatten Afolabi's opposition on demand.
And likely have a great time doing it.
The file named Afolabi's soldiers as prime suspects in a dozen oil field raids, at least that many pipeline bombings and the murder of a newscaster from Delta Rainbow Television Warri who had criticized MEND for its violence. Communiques demanding ransom for the safe return of Mandy Ross, while carefully anonymous, had been dissected by the FBI's profiling team at Quantico, who claimed that certain trademark phrases ID'd Afolabi as their author.
Bolan hoped the Feds were right.
The Ijaw tribal opposition's leader was Agu Ajani, turning twenty-nine next week, if he survived that long. He was another bad guy from the get-go, and while anyone could blame it on his childhood — orphaned at age four, warehoused by the state, then written off the first time he went AWOL, living hand-to-mouth among eight million strangers on the streets of Lagos — Bolan only cared about Ajani's actions in the here and now.
By all accounts, he was a ruthless killer with a clear sadistic streak, one of the sort who'd rather leave his enemies shorthanded, courtesy of a machete or meat cleaver, than to kill them outright.
Which was not to say he hadn't put his share of bodies in the ground. Official sources credited his Ijaw faction with a thousand kills and counting in the ethnic war that ravaged Delta State.
In photos, Ajani didn't look the part. He favored floral-patterned shirts, the tourist kind, with short sleeves showing off his slender arms. A missing pinky finger on his left hand told the story of a near-miss in a knife fight, but he'd won that scrap and every one thereafter.
Up to now.
If Ekon Afolabi's number two was a behemoth, Ajani's was a smaller version of himself, some thirty pounds lighter and three or four inches shorter, with a bland face that belied his rap sheet. Daren Jumoke was a suspect in half a dozen murders before he turned political and started killing in the name of his people. Jumoke's "civilian" victims had been women, who were also raped. Bolan guessed that his juvenile record, if such things existed where he was going, would reveal a violent bully with a hyperactive sex drive and a deaf ear when it came to females saying no.
Killing Jumoke, Bolan thought, would be a public service. As it was, his gang apparently had no connection to the Ross kidnapping — but that didn't mean he couldn't find a way to use them in a pinch, maybe as cannon fodder to distract his Itsekiri opposition.
Bolan was starting to read about his native contact in Warri, one Obinna Umaru, when a muffled rapping on his door distracted him. He answered it and smiled at finding Barbara Price on his threshold.
"Finished your homework yet?" she asked.
"Almost."
"I don't want to distract you."
"I could use a break," he said, and stood aside.
She brushed against him, passing, and it sent a tingle racing through his body, as if he had touched a bare low-voltage wire.
"So, Africa again," she said. "Your shots all up-to-date? Dengue fever? Yellow fever? Typhoid?"
"My rabies shot is out of date," he told her.
"Don't let anybody bite you, then."
"I'll make a note. Coffee?"
"It keeps me up all night," she said, and smiled. "You have a few cups, though."
"Will I be needing it?" he asked.
"Homework. You said it wasn't finished."
It was Bolan's turn to smile. "Now that I think of it, I've barely started."
"It's best to be thorough."
"I hear you." Still smiling, he said, "Maybe I ought to take a shower first. To freshen up and clear my head."
"Sounds good," she said, hands rising to the buttons of her blouse. "I have to tell you, I've been feeling dirty all day long."
Chapter Three
Delia State, Nigeria
Bolan smelled the Itsekiri camp before he saw it. Supper cooking and open latrines, gasoline and diesel fuel, gun oil and unwashed bodies.
The unmistakable odors of men at war.
He had to watch for lookouts, as well as snares and booby traps. MEND's rebels knew that they were hunted by the state, and by their tribal adversaries. They'd be foolish not to post guards on the camp's perimeter, but Bolan wouldn't know how thorough they had been until he tested the defenses for himself.
Beginning now.
There'd be no cameras or other electronic gear, of course. He would've heard a generator running by the time he closed the gap to half a mile, and there was nothing on the wind but human voices and the clanking, clattering that no large group of humans in the wild seemed able to avoid. So much the better for his own quiet approach, if he could spot the posted guards and take them down without a fuss.
He found the first one watering the ferns, his rifle propped against a nearby tree, well out of splatter range. The guy was actually humming to himself, eyes closed and head thrown back, enjoying one of nature's little pleasures.
It was easy, then, when Bolan stepped up close behind him, clapped a hand over his mouth and gave his head a twist, driving the black blade of his Ka-Bar fighting knife into the lookout's t
hroat. One thrust dealt with the vocal cords, the right carotid artery and jugular, ensuring silence even as it robbed the brain of vital oxygen and sent the guard's lifeblood spouting in a geyser that would only stop when there was no more left for atricles and ventricles to pump.
Which took about two minutes.
Bolan didn't wait around to watch. He left the dead-man-gasping where he lay, scooped up his battle-worn Kalashnikov, and moved on through the forest shadows, looking for his next target.
Not victim, since — in Bolan's mind at least — human predators invited mayhem with their daily actions, through their very lifestyle. He had no time for philosophical discussions with the folks who claimed that "every life has value" or that "everyone deserves a second chance."
Some lives, based on objective evidence, were worse than useless. They spread pain and misery every day that they continued. Most had scorned a thousand chances to reform and find a place within the millieu known as civilized society. They had not merely failed, but rather had defiantly refused to play the game by any rules except their own.
And when they couldn't be controlled, when the prisons couldn't hold them, when they set themselves above humanity and any common decency, they earned a visit from the Executioner.
He couldn't reach them all, of course — only the worst of those who came to his attention, who were physically accessible and whose predation took priority over the other millions of corrupt, sadistic scum who flourished all around the globe.
Right here, right now, he had a job to do.
The second guard wasn't exactly napping, but he had allowed his mind to wander, maybe thinking of his next trip into Warri, all the sex and liquor he'd enjoy when his commanders let him off his leash. A party to remember when they shipped him off to raid another oilfield, blow another pipeline, blitz another Ijaw village to the ground.
The pipe dream ended with a subtle sound behind him, not alarming, but enough to make the young man turn, one eyebrow raised, to check it out. Both eyebrows vaulted toward his hairline as a strong hand clutched his throat and slammed him back against the nearest tree before the Ka-Bar's blade ripped through his diaphragm to find his heart.
Two down. How many left?
Bolan moved on, seeking more targets — and the one life he had come to save.
* * *
There was a point where even fear became mundane, when human flesh and senses had to let go of panic or collapse. No conscious choice determined when the mind and soul had had enough. No individual could say with any certainty what his or her limit was, and resolve to fear no more.
But on her seventh morning of captivity, when Mandy Ross awoke from fitful sleep, she realized that somehow she was less afraid than she had been on waking yesterday. She had survived another night intact, and misty daylight lancing through the forest shadows didn't bring the sense of waking terror that had been her only real emotion for the past six days.
Of course, she was afraid, convinced the worst still lay ahead of her, but there was nothing she could do about it. It was all out of her hands.
For instance, Mandy's captors hadn't raped her yet, although she recognized the looks they gave her, and she didn't need a crash course in whatever dialect they spoke to understand what some of them were saying when they flashed grins in her direction.
It was coming, she supposed. And so was death.
The leader of her kidnappers had made that crystal-clear. If K-Tech Petroleum didn't meet their demands, she would be killed. Not merely shot or stabbed, mind you, but hacked up into pieces while alive, the odd bits mailed off to her father and to K-Tech's various directors as an object lesson in obedience.
The problem, simply stated, was that while her father was a wealthy man, he didn't have a hundred million dollars or the prospects for obtaining it by any means before the deadline imposed by her captors ran out. And even though he was in charge of K-Tech's operations in Nigeria, he obviously couldn't grant the kidnappers' alter-native demand, for a company pull-out. Even if he lost his mind and tried to order an evacuation of all K-Tech workers from the country, he'd be countermanded by his bosses in a heartbeat, either fired or placed on leave until he had regained his senses.
Nope.
The way it looked to Mandy Ross, she was as good as dead.
The thing, now, was to face her death as bravely as she could — or maybe hasten it along herself, before the goons who'd snatched her took it in their pointy little heads to stage an orgy with her as the guest of dishonor.
They hadn't left her much in terms of weapons, but she'd thought about the problem long and hard over the past few days, as it became more and more obvious that she would never leave the rebel camp alive.
She had no blades or cutting tools of any kind, no rope or any other kind of ligature with which to hang herself, no toxic substances that she could swallow in a pinch. Childhood experience had taught her that you couldn't suffocate yourself by force of will alone, holding your breath. At some point, you passed out and started breathing automatically, as nature reasserted its control.
But she had teeth, and with some effort she supposed that she could reach the same veins in her wrists that other suicides accessed with knives and razors. It would hurt like hell, but only for a little while. When her only other option was to wait around until she was gang-raped, then fileted alive, well, anyone who thought that was a choice needed to have his or her head examined.
The only question, now, was how long she should wait.
How much time did she have?
To hell with it, she thought. There's no time like the present. Get it done.
* * *
Night fell hard in a tropical country. There was no dusk to speak of, no romantic twilight. Having screened most of the sun from ground level, casting massive shadows all day long, the great trees played their final trick at sundown, producing the illusion of a switch thrown by a giant to put out the lights.
Bolan had witnessed the effect on four continents and knew what to expect. He'd almost reached the campground clearing when he lost daylight, and only needed moments for his night eyes to adjust.
Three guards lay dead behind him, in the forest, which cleared roughly one-quarter of the camp's perimeter. He hoped it would be all he needed, but he didn't have an exit strategy so far, and wouldn't until he had found out where the MEND terrorists were confining Mandy Ross. From there, once she was extricated from whichever hut or tent they kept her in, he could decide on how to flee.
A narrow unpaved road allowed the rebels access to the world beyond their forest hideout, passable for Jeeps, dirt bikes and — if it didn't rain too hard — the ancient army cargo truck that stood out in the compound's motor pool Bolan had no idea where following that track might lead him, and he filed it as a last resort, without trying to guess.
He had considered that he might find Mandy Ross already dead or hurt so badly that she couldn't travel. Even with real soldiers, passions sometimes flared out of control, resulting in atrocities. If that turned out to be the case, Bolan could switch from rescue to revenge mode in a heartbeat. And whatever he might see inside the camp, he'd keep to himself, most definitely never sharing with the victim's family.
How much could one endure and still go on?
It all depended on the person, both their outward strength and inner fortitude. Some persevered while others crumbled and surrendered, let themselves be swept away. He had no take on Mandy Ross, as yet — except that nothing in her affluent and privileged life would have prepared her for her present circumstance.
Scanning the camp with practiced eyes, he noted points of interest: the command post, the motor pool, a commo tent with a pole-mounted satellite dish for some kind of battery-powered commo setup. The men slept in puptents or out in the open, but one other hut caught his eye.
The only one with a sentry outside it.
If that wasn't the camp's one-room jail, then what was it?
Bolan was determined to find out.
The guard left, and the plate-bearer entered the hut. Before he closed the door, Bolan had time to glimpse the startled face of Mandy Ross.
* * *
"What do you want?" Mandy Ross asked.
"I've brought your supper," the grinning gunman said.
"I'm not hungry," she replied, and almost giggled, thinking, I'll just nibble on my wrists tonight, if you don't mind.
"You must keep up your strength," the intruder said, still smiling.
She recognized him as an officer, second or third in charge of things around the camp. His name was James Something-or-other, which would have surprised her if she hadn't spent the two weeks prior to her abduction meeting Africans with Anglo given names who were her father's business colleagues. As it was, she focused on her captor's face and words without distractions.
"Strength for what?" she asked him. "Are we marching somewhere?"
"Marching? No." He laughed at that. "But after being kept so long in this place, you must need some exercise."
She saw where he was headed, his dark eyes sliding up and down her body like a physical caress, and tried to head him off.
"I'm fine."
"Indeed, you are," James Something instantly agreed.
"Thanks for the food," she said. "If you don't mind, I'll eat my monkey meat alone."
"Tonight is lizard, I believe," he said. "Perhaps you need something to stimulate your appetite."
"No, thanks, all the same."
"But I insist."
Still keeping up the smile, James looked around her tiny cell, as if expecting that it would have sprouted decorations other than the folding cot that was its only furniture. She guessed that he was looking for someplace to set the plate. At last, he turned back toward the door and placed it on the hut's dirt floor.
Conflict Zone Page 3