Conflict Zone

by Don Pendleton

  Even though he took precautions to avoid surveillance every day, Umaru realized that he could have betrayed himself a thousand times since he became a paid informant of the state. Aside from being seen with one or another of his handlers, there was a chance of leaks from any of the agencies he served. Worse yet, some of the groups were bitter rivals. If one learned that he was talking to the competition, even in a common cause, might he be sacrificed as punishment?

  It was conceivable, but in the absence of compelling evidence, Umaru chose to be a cautious optimist. And, in his cautious mode, he chose to triple-check the warning signs of possible surveillance.

  Was he seeing the same faces on his trail, day after day? Had there been any indication that his flat was penetrated, searched by experts? Had his car been tampered with, as far as he could tell?

  When he had answered all those questions in the negative, Umaru should have felt relieved. But he didn't. The nagging sense of someone staring at him, breathing down his neck, simply wouldn't evaporate.

  Another test, then.

  Picking up his pace, he chose a shop at random, turned in off the sidewalk, ducked inside and found a hiding place among the racks of hanging clothes. A salesclerk watched him but didn't seem terribly surprised, as if such actions were routine.

  If no one followed him within the next few moments, would it prove...

  A slender man with stubble on his sunken cheeks entered the shop, jaundiced eyes sweeping the place without appearing to notice the merchandise. Seeming angry, he turned to the clerk.

  "A man came in here," he declared. "Did you see.....

  The clerk's eyes had already betrayed Umaru. His pursuer was turning when Umaru struck, lunging out of the racks with his pistol drawn, slamming its butt hard against the man's nose. He went down with a grunt, crimson spurting, while Umaru broke toward the street.

  And realized his grave mistake just as he reached the sidewalk, with a sudden stirring in the crush of bodies to his left.

  He should have used the back door.

  Too late to make amends, he turned and ran.

  * * *

  Kelsey Danjuma knew something was wrong when the target came barreling out of the small shop where Sani Fulani had trailed him. He broke to the west, running hard through the crowd and — could that be a gun in his hand?

  "He's running!" Danjuma snapped into a tiny microphone clipped onto his lapel. A squawk of recognition issued from the single earpiece as he added, "May be armed. I'll check on Sani."

  That required only a moment as Danjuma rushed across the road and barged into the shop. Fulani was struggling to rise from the floor, flinging blood from his scalp with each shake of his head, while the salesclerk circled around him and yelled complaints.

  "What happened?" Danjuma asked his point man, as if the answer wasn't obvious.

  "He hid and jumped me," Fulani said with a bitter curse. "A lucky punch."

  Danjuma leaned in close and rasped, "Lucky for you that I don't kill you here and now."

  He turned and left the shop without waiting to see if Fulani would collect himself and follow. Danjuma's target was in flight, might be escaping even now, and there'd be hell to pay if that happened.

  The job had sounded simple when he got his orders. Take a team of men and follow a man called Obinna Umaru, suspected of working against MEND's best interests. See where he went and who he spoke to. Try to find out if he was connected to some public agency.

  And if proof positive was found — kill him.

  In fact, Danjuma had planned to liquidate Umaru, no matter what he learned about the man. If his superiors had doubts about this stranger, that was tantamount to a death sentence in Danjuma's mind. One more Nigerian wouldn't be missed, particularly not in Warri, where the price of human life had hit rock bottom years ago.

  Danjuma could no longer see Umaru as he left the shop, but voices in his ear told him the runner was continuing along a westward path across the marketplace. That meant he was running away from his car, and would have to turn back if he planned to collect the Volkswagen.

  "Aliko!"

  It required a moment for Aliko Ndebe to answer. His "Yes, I hear you" sounded breathless from running.

  "Get back to his car and stay there," Danjuma said, "in case we lose him."

  "But.....

  "No buts! Do it now!"

  "Yes. Okay."

  Danjuma didn't doubt that he would be obeyed, no matter how reluctantly. His word was law on missions where he called the shots, and anyone who challenged him was marked for sudden death. He'd only had to pull the trigger once, to make that lesson stick.

  The voices of his other soldiers, five in all, allowed Danjuma to follow the runner's progress without seeing him, tracking Umaru on a mental map of the large marketplace. Danjuma issued orders that should send his men to intercept the fleeing target. If they failed...

  Sani Fulani overtook him in the crush, holding one hand against his head to stanch the flow of blood. His other hand was underneath his floppy shirt, clutching the pistol tucked into his belt.

  "I want that bastard!" Fulani growled. "He's mine!"

  "No one cares what you want," Danjuma said. "Mind your manners and remember who's in charge here, or the shooting starts with you."

  Fulani shot a glare at him, then ducked his head and muttered, "As you say."

  "Now, follow me, before he gets away."

  Danjuma knew that his masters suspected Umaru of some betrayal, but beyond that, he knew no details. Surely the subject's behavior was clear evidence of his guilt — but what guilt? Did it even matter?

  Umaru, by his own actions, condemned himself. Danjuma knew that he wouldn't be criticized for acting swiftly and decisively to make the problem go away.

  But he would have to catch Umaru first.

  And even God couldn't protect him from the wrath of Ekon Afolabi if he let the runner get away.

  * * *

  Driving in Warri was a pain, but no more so than any other crowded African city Bolan had been called upon to navigate during his travels. In a foreign country, you adapted to the local customs, tried your best to fit in with the locals, and if that meant driving like a maniac whose doctor has proclaimed that he has fifteen minutes left to live, so be it.

  Bolan had no idea what laws applied to drivers and pedestrians in Warri, or Nigeria at large, but social Darwinism seemed to be the rule most commonly observed. Survival of the fittest — or the fastest — kept cars swerving while their horns blared, leaving those on foot to duck and dodge as if their lives depended on it.

  Which, it seemed, they actually did.

  Bolan was now in the spirit of the game, not quite enjoying it, but merging with the rush of northbound traffic that would take him to his destination. He was ahead of schedule, knowing that he'd have to find a parking lot with some kind of security in place, before he left the loaner to explore the marketplace on foot.

  Whatever happened after that would happen in its own good time.

  Working with locals had advantages and drawbacks. Bolan trusted Hal Brognola to vet his contacts, but he knew that there was only so much Stony Man could learn about a stranger living half a world away. They took referrals, checked out anything that could be checked, and left the rest to Bolan's instincts. So far, he'd been lucky — luckier, in fact, than some of those who'd signed on to assist him in his foreign wars — but that could change at any time.

  No startling revelation there.

  He'd judge Umaru as he judged anyone else — by his appearance and demeanor, by his words and conduct. If there came a time when Bolan thought Umaru had betrayed him or was planning to, he'd take the necessary steps to cancel out that threat.

  According to his map of Warri, Bolan had three-quarters of a mile to go before he reached the marketplace. His brain was registering landmarks, even as he watched the motorists, pedestrians, goats and stray dogs that made urban driving an adventure best pursued by those with nerves of steel. At Bolan's
present speed, he ought to reach his goal within the next five minutes max.

  Which meant that it was time to start looking for a parking lot.

  He wanted something fenced or otherwise contained, with watchmen on the premises, where he could leave the car and keep the keys. Assuming that his options would be limited, he started looking early, allowing time to walk the final distance, if it came to that.

  There was nothing on the south side of his destination, so Bolan kept driving, circling the huge marketplace. The crowd was dense, but Bolan knew that he was bound to generate a fair amount of curiosity once he had plunged into that crush on foot.

  He made a mental note to find some other way of meeting local contacts in the future, if and when he worked in regions where his race might be an issue. White faces were a common sight in Warri, granted, but the locals mainly saw them going in and out of downtown offices, hotels and government facilities. Outside that sphere of influence, they were as rare as the proverbial hen's teeth.

  A tall sign for a public parking lot caught Bolan's eye, and he was cruising toward it when a gunshot echoed through the marketplace. He had been driving with his windows shut, the A/C on, but now he cracked a window on the shotgun side and waited.

  There! More shots from somewhere to his right.

  And coming closer, by their sound.

  Instinctively his hand found the Beretta slung beneath his left armpit, prepared to fire in self-defense whether the danger was related to his current job or not, but something stopped him short of drawing it.

  A running man.

  More to the point, a running man he recognized from photos he had viewed at Stony Man.

  Obinna Umaru, running for his life.

  * * *

  Umahu wasn't sure where he was going, only that if he stood still too long and tried to catch his breath, he would stop breathing altogether. He'd lost count of how many armed strangers were chasing him now, but the first gunshot told him they had no great interest in taking him alive.

  After his confrontation with the unknown gunman in the shop, Umaru had concealed his pistol once again, trying his best to pass unnoticed through the market crowd. It did no good, however, and he quickly realized that several men were tracking him.

  But for how long?

  Umaru had been doubly careful about tails, going to meet the stranger he knew only as Matt Cooper. That, and white skin, were all Umaru had to help him recognize his contact, and it now appeared that someone was ahead of him.

  If he hadn't been followed to the market, it could only mean that someone with foreknowledge of his meeting had betrayed him. That thought frightened Umaru almost as much as the men with guns, who seemed intent on killing him right then and there.

  Because, if he eluded them, who could he trust?

  Which of the several agencies he served had sprung a deadly leak? If he was known as an informer, how long would it be until a bullet to the head obliterated consciousness forever? If he escaped the marketplace, could he go home?

  Not likely. But he had to face his problems one by one, in order of priority.

  The first shot, he supposed now, might have been a signal from one hunter to the others, but the next two clearly had been meant for him. Umaru thought they came from different directions, based on the spray of blood from two wounded bystanders, and the way their bodies fell to left and right.

  Umaru ducked his head and ran once more, drawing his pistol as he fled There was no hope of being inconspicuous under the present circumstances. He could run, and sell his life as dearly as he could if there was no way out.

  With one round in the QSZ-92's chamber, he could fire sixteen shots without reloading. Umaru knew it was important to keep track of such things in a combat situation, but his brain threatened to vapor-lock at any moment, leaving him bereft of common sense.

  He ducked and dodged around the market stalls, jostling strangers on all sides, receiving shoves and curses in return for his rudeness. But fewer blocked his path once they had seen Umaru's gun and heard the others firing at him from the crowd. At least it seemed that he would have a relatively clear path to his own death, when it came.

  Most likely, sometime in the next few moments.

  Out of nowhere, some part of his agitated mind wondered what would become of Cooper, the intruding stranger, once he had been slain. Would the white man arrange some other contact? Would he continue on alone?

  Or was he even still alive?

  Had the men who stalked Umaru now procured his name and whereabouts from Cooper? Perhaps under torture? Having netted and killed the big fish, were they cleaning up small-fry?

  Umaru couldn't rule it out, but in the last analysis it made no difference. Whoever meant to harm him, for whatever reason, it would all be academic if they killed him on the spot. Dead men had no worries, unless they believed in Hell.

  Umaru, for his part, didn't believe.

  He thought that daily life, for many of his fellow countrymen, was worse than anything a god or demon could devise as punishment for so-called sins.

  Umaru jettisoned all speculation from his mind as he discovered that he was about to lose his cover. Fleeing, he had cut across the southwest corner of the marketplace and would emerge from it entirely sometime in the next few seconds.

  Or should he turn back and chart another course, running in circles, using strangers whom he passed as human shields, until he had a clear shot at his enemies? Would that prolong his life? And was it worth the cost to others?

  While no great humanitarian in his own eyes, Umaru didn't fancy wallowing in someone else's blood to save himself.

  Unless, of course, it was the blood of enemies.

  He reached the border of the marketplace, ducking another gunshot, and was on the verge of stepping into traffic when a car stopped short in front of him, blocking his path.

  Its driver told him, "I'm Cooper. Could you use a lift?"

  "No, thank you," Umaru said "But I badly need a ride."

  * * *

  Kelsey Danjuma cursed, watching his target run around a silver-gray Toyota and get in on the passenger's side. The car sped off, bearing the man he was supposed to kill, leaving Danjuma no recourse beyond a hasty parting shot that missed its mark.

  He spun in a demented circle where he stood, shouting into his tiny microphone, making a spectacle for those who simply saw a stranger, gun in hand, enraged and talking to himself.

  "Cars! We need cars now! The bastard's off on wheels!"

  Amos Buhari's voice crackled inside one ear, saying, "I'm in the car. Where are you!"

  "West side of the market! Hurry!"

  "On my way."

  Sani Fulani arrived then, panting from his run, the right side of his face a scabrous mass of drying blood. He seemed to be on the verge of chastising Danjuma, then thought better of it and settled for cursing the strangers around him.

  Feeling his own anger reach and pass its boiling point, Danjuma snarled into his microphone, "Amos! Where are you?"

  "Here," the voice inside his ear said as a car screeched to a halt in front of him. Buhari had another soldier with him, in the backseat, leaving room for Danjuma up front and Fulani in back.

  "After them!" Danjuma barked.

  "Where are they?" his driver demanded.

  "Goddamn it! That way" He stabbed a finger toward the spot where Umaru had vanished in traffic. "A silver Toyota! Get after them."

  Buhari did as he was told, accelerating in pursuit of a vehicle he hadn't glimpsed and couldn't see now. As they shot forward, Danjuma was back on the air, directing his scattered soldiers to find their cars and fall in behind him as soon as they could.

  "Umaru drives an old Honda," Buhari said, keeping his eyes fixed on the road and dodging traffic like a pro. "It's sitting where he left it when he reached the market."

  "So we're after someone else," Danjuma answered. "Someone who was waiting for him."

  "Ah. The man he was supposed to meet?"

  "I d
idn't see the bloody shitter, did I?"

  "How should I know?"

  "I just told you. Now — Wait! That's it!"

  He pointed to a gray or silver car, running a block ahead of them. It seemed right, but...

  "You said Toyota," Buhari reminded him. "That's a Datsun."

  "Shit! They all look alike!"

  "So, do we give up now?"

  Danjuma turned on him. "And tell Ekon what? That we lost him?"

  "It's true," Buhari said.

  Fulani, behind them, was cursing a blue streak until Danjuma spun and snapped at him, "Shut up and clean your face! You look like death warmed up."

  "It won't be my death when.....

  "Won't it?" Danjuma raged, thrusting his pistol toward Fulani. "I say shut your mouth, and you're still talking. Why not kill you?"

  "Kelsey, I apologize," Fulani said. Not really meaning it, but frightened now, at last.

  As he should be, Danjuma thought. As we should all be, if we can't find Umaru and whoever took him away.

  "Silver Toyota," Amos Buhari said, as if answering a prayer. "Looks like a Yaris four-door."

  "I don't know the model," Danjuma said "Catch up to it, and we'll see if it's Umaru."

  More tense moments passed as they drew closer to the silver car, gaining despite the traffic all around them. Now Danjuma saw two silhouettes in the Toyota. Likely men, based on their size and shape, but still no faces visible.

  "Closer!"

  "I'm trying," Buhari said.

  "Don't try. Do it!"

  He ignored the driver's muttered curse to check in with his other soldiers. They were following in two cars now, but well behind Danjuma's vehicle and out of sight. He issued terse directions, craning forward in his seat as Buhari passed one intervening car and then another.

  Almost there.

  Chapter Seven

  "I get the lift thing," Bolan told his passenger. "An elevator, right?"