Conflict Zone

by Don Pendleton

  "You are correct," the winded runner said, turning to stare behind them, toward the marketplace.

  "And you, I hope, are Obinna Umaru."

  "If I'm not," Umaru said, forcing a smile, "then you have made a great mistake."

  "I didn't plan on starting out this way," Bolan said.

  "Nor did I. I may have lost my car back there," Umaru said.

  "Meaning they've burned you? In which case, you also can't go home."

  Instead of cursing, Umaru expelled a weary sigh and slumped into his seat — but half turned sideways, facing Bolan at the steering wheel, and glancing frequently back toward their rear. "I took precautions," he insisted. "Two full hours getting to the market, and I saw no one behind me, anywhere."

  "Which either means they're good at what they do, or else they knew where you were going."

  "That has worried me," Umaru said. "If I have been betrayed, my life is finished here. And yours, as well, before you've even gotten started."

  "Put a hold on the depression, will you?" Bolan said. "They haven't caught us yet. And if they do, they may be in for a surprise."

  Umaru looked back once again and stiffened. "They are coming, Mr. Cooper," he declared.

  "Try 'Matt' for size," Bolan replied as he confirmed the speeding chase car in his rearview mirror. "Are you packing?"

  Umaru blinked at him, confused, then answered, "Ah. You're asking if I have a weapon?"

  "Right."

  "Yes, I do."

  Umaru drew a semiauto pistol from beneath his baggy shirt, but kept it pointed at the floorboard, with his index finger well outside the trigger guard. It was a hopeful sign, suggesting competence.

  "Chinese," Bolan observed. "You see a lot of that, I guess, these days."

  "Chinese, Russian, American, Korean, British — take your pick," Umaru said. "We're blessed with many weapons in Nigeria."

  "I take it that you've handled some before."

  "When I was younger," Umaru said, "I spent two years in the army."

  "See much action?" Bolan asked.

  "More than I cared to. But I don't swoon at the sight of blood."

  "That's good to know, because you may be seeing some."

  "I hope it's not my own," Umaru said, forcing a nervous little laugh that came out sounding like a cough.

  Bolan gunned the Toyota, abandoning the final remnants of restraint in driving, but the chase car kept advancing. It had more under the hood than Bolan's ride, and the still-faceless strangers inside it were hell-bent on bagging Umaru.

  On bagging both of them, now.

  Bolan had made a snap decision at the market, based in equal parts on mercy and self-interest. If the odds had gone against him, he might now be saddled with a stranger, stalked by gunmen for some reason totally divorced from Bolan's mission. As it was, he'd found the right man unexpectedly, but now he'd likely have to fight to keep him.

  And to stay alive himself, assuming that he couldn't lose the tail they had acquired.

  "We've got two choices," Bolan told Umaru. "We can keep running like this and hope we shake them, or we need a place to stand and fight, without civilians in the way."

  "There are too many of them," Umaru said.

  "I count four, unless they've got some dwarfs in the backseat."

  "At the market, there were more. I'm sure of it."

  "Maybe the hasty exit left some of them stranded. Anyway, we play the hand we're dealt. So, if I can't ditch them, where are we going?"

  Even with his map of Warri and his brief sightseeing tour, Bolan didn't know the city as a local would. He couldn't guess which neighborhoods were relatively posh and which were urban combat zones. He didn't know which streets were mobbed by shoppers in the daytime, versus those that only came to life at night.

  And if he tried to pick a killing ground by guesswork — or was forced to fight on unfamiliar ground, before he was prepared — the death toll could extend to innocents.

  "Please lose them, if you can," Umaru said. "But failing that, I know a place."

  * * *

  "Where does the damned fool think he's going?" Kelsey Danjuma demanded.

  Amos Buhari, still speeding to catch the Toyota, replied, "I don't know."

  "What?"

  "I said.....

  "I heard you, Amos. How would you know where he's going?"

  "You asked.....

  "I was talking to myself, for God's sake!"

  "How am I to know that, Kelsey?"

  "Will you catch the car, for God's sake, and stop playing games with me?"

  Buhari didn't answer, which saved Danjuma from the risky task of pistol-whipping him as they sped through city traffic.

  Anyway, he couldn't blame Amos, since he had voiced the stupid rhetorical question. Obinna Umaru's escape had unhinged him, but Danjuma was determined to assert control and salvage what he could from the chaotic situation.

  Starting now.

  They were gaining on Umaru and his unknown rescuer, despite the other vehicles that shared the street, in spite of suicidal jaywalkers and cyclists. In a few more moments — if Buhari closed the gap a little more and they weren't distracted by police — Danjuma would be close enough to risk a pistol shot.

  It would be risky, in such traffic, but Danjuma cared nothing for innocent bystanders. They were simply obstacles to be dodged or eliminated, whichever method was the most convenient for himself. It wouldn't be the first time he had killed or wounded strangers while attempting to eliminate an enemy.

  Nor would it be the last.

  And they were almost close enough.

  Danjuma's weapon was a Walther P-5 pistol, like the ones issued to officers and noncoms in the Nigerian army. In fact, it had been stolen from a military shipment eighteen months ago, by MEND members from the Itsekiri tribe. Its magazine held only eight 9 mm rounds, but half a dozen spares resided in Danjuma's pockets.

  He could spare a few shots now to stop his enemies and finish them once and for all.

  Closer.

  When only one vehicle blocked his shot, Danjuma cranked down his window and felt the rush of hot air in his face. Clutching the Walther in his right hand, he was ready when Buhari made his move, swerving around the final obstacle and racing forward, giving him the shot.

  Danjuma took it, leaning from his open window as he quickly aimed and fired.

  * * *

  Umaru saw the muzzle-flash and flinched from it instinctively, embarrassing himself. Matt Cooper registered the shot but didn't seem to notice Umaru's reaction, busy as he was negotiating traffic and watching his rearview mirror.

  "Shall I try to shoot them?" Umaru asked.

  "Not yet," Bolan answered. "Point me toward that place you know, in case we have to stop and take them out."

  Not stop and fight, Umaru noticed, wondering if Cooper truly had such confidence in his ability to triumph when outnumbered four-to-one. That thought was barely formed when he corrected it, acknowledging his own role in whatever happened next, and scaling back the odds.

  They might survive a fight at two-to-one, but he was worried that the other unknown gunmen who had stalked him through the marketplace might join in the pursuit, catch up in time to weight the odds more heavily against Umaru and the grim American.

  A second gunshot echoed from the chase car, and this time the bullet found its mark. Umaru heard it strike the rear of the Toyota and cursed himself as he recoiled once more.

  "It's natural," Bolan advised him, still without a sidelong glance. "The day you give up ducking bullets, you're as good as dead."

  "They've marked your car," Umaru said unnecessarily.

  "Not mine," Bolan replied. "It's out on loan."

  "Still, if it's seen by the police.....

  "Let's think about survival first, before the body shop. Ready to tell me where we're going?"

  "Yes, of course. I'm sorry."

  "Wasting time," Bolan said.

  "Right."

  Umaru sketched their route as ca
lmly and succinctly as he could, while flinching at the sounds of gunfire from behind them. One shot ricocheted from the Toyota's window trim, while two more missed the car and frightened other drivers into swerving out of Bolan's way.

  "Left at the next light," Umaru said, smothering an urge to point that might betray them, if the shooter in the chase car saw his gesture.

  "Left it is," Bolan affirmed, but seemed to wait until the final instant before cranking on the steering wheel.

  Centrifugal force shoved Umaru against the passenger's door, bracing his free hand against the dashboard while tires squealed. He turned in time to see the chase car make the turn, falling a little farther back, but still not lost.

  "Three blocks, then turn right," he advised Bolan.

  "Got it. And what's our destination?"

  "In America, it would be called the red-light district. There are brothels, taverns, other things. Rarely patrolled by the police in daylight."

  "Not much action at the moment, then?" Bolan asked.

  "I expect that most of those who work there are asleep. The real action won't start until.....

  Another car came out of nowhere, charging from a side street to sideswipe Bolan's Toyota. He seemed to glimpse it just before the hit, adjusting to absorb the shock, but it still slowed them. They nearly missed their right-hand turn, and in that moment Obinna Umaru thought that he might die.

  He knew immediately that the hit wasn't an accident. Umaru saw the other driver's scowling face, and while he didn't recognize it, any fool could see the rage and malice that distorted it.

  The hostile reinforcements had arrived.

  "Hang on!" Bolan said as he took them through the turn, still banging fenders with the crash car, plainly hoping it would crash.

  Umaru did his part. Thrusting his pistol through his open window, he fired twice into the snarling face and saw it instantly awash with blood.

  * * *

  "He's shot Rashidi!"

  Even as he blurted the obvious, Amos Buhari fought to make the coming right-hand turn at speed. It meant swerving around the car Rashidi Ibru had been driving seconds earlier, when he collided with the fugitive Toyota, then apparently received a bullet for his trouble.

  As they made the squealing turn, Kelsey Danjuma saw his other soldiers in the stalled car grappling to expel Ibru from the driver's seat. Perhaps they could rejoin the chase and help Danjuma win it. If they failed, at least they'd have a chance to flee on foot before police arrived.

  "Don't stop!" he warned Buhari, just in case fleeting concern for clumsy comrades might have swayed him, but Danjuma's driver showed no signs of slowing. In fact, he was accelerating once again, regaining ground lost during the distraction.

  "Still not crippled," Buhari said as he sped after the silver-gray Toyota. "Try shooting the tires!"

  "Just catch them, will you? I know when and where to shoot."

  Except he wasn't doing very well, so far. He'd wasted half a dozen of his first eight rounds, with only two hits on the target vehicle, and neither one of them significant. And while he had fired at the tires, Danjuma knew the only one he might have hit would be a spare tire in the trunk.

  Disgusted with himself and those assigned to serve him on this bungled hunt, Danjuma fought an urge to scream and empty his weapon in rapid-fire, knowing the shots would be wasted.

  And after all that had happened, after he had seen Ibru killed or gravely wounded, Danjuma knew that he wasn't simply pursuing a target.

  Not anymore.

  He was locked in a struggle where death lay in wait for one side or the other — and maybe for both.

  That prospect made Danjuma agitated, but it didn't frighten him, per se. He was a fatalist, believing that all people lived on borrowed time, and while some timid souls strove constantly to hoard their dwindling days, Danjuma avidly pursued Life, clutched it by the throat and squeezed it dry.

  If it was time for Death to clutch his throat, in turn, so be it. He would charge and fight until the bitter end.

  "I think they're heading for Ughelli," Buhari said, naming the Warri suburb that Danjuma often visited at night.

  "They're early for the floor shows," he remarked, wondering exactly what his quarry had in mind.

  "But not the street show," Buhari said, grinning fiercely now. "The traffic will be light and we can.....

  "Drive, don't talk!" Danjuma snapped. "There's time enough to gloat when we are standing in his blood."

  He fired another shot at the Toyota, just for emphasis, and cursed his shaky aim as it went wild.

  * * *

  "We're almost there," Umaru said.

  Watching the chase car rush to close with him, Bolan replied, "And where is there, again?"

  "Ughelli, which I spoke of," Umaru said. "Only three or four more blocks."

  A bullet struck the car's rear window and shattered it. Backseat awash in pebbled safety glass, sitting with shoulders hunched, Bolan managed to squeeze a few more miles per hour out of the Toyota, but he couldn't shake the hunters now.

  They were too close, intoxicated by the scent of blood.

  Another block, and with the chase car nearly on his bumper, Bolan glimpsed the other back in action, racing to catch up. He'd seen Umaru shoot the driver, reckoned that the guy was either dead or comatose by now, but his companions had recovered from their shock and were back in the game.

  Call it seven-to-one, at a glance, and Bolan knew he couldn't let the chase cars box him in. Whatever move he made, it had to be on his terms.

  And he had to make it soon.

  "Hang on. Be ready," he advised Umaru, giving his companion all of two whole seconds to prepare himself, without explaining what he had in mind.

  Which was an old-fashioned bootlegger's turn, requiring split-second coordination of the brake and the accelerator, firm hands on the wheel and a machine that wouldn't roll too easily. The net result was a tire-torturing 180-degree reversal, leaving Bolan and Umaru facing back the way they'd come, with two cars full of gunmen hurtling to meet them.

  Umaru didn't ask what was required of him once the Toyota came to rest. Bolan palmed his Beretta left-handed, triggering 3-round bursts at the lead car, while Umaru fired right-handed toward the crash car from their recent close encounter.

  Bolan saw his rounds strike home, stitching a spiderweb pattern across the first vehicle's windshield before it imploded, filling the startled driver's lap with broken glass and blood gushing out of a throat wound. When the wheelman raised his hands, a vain attempt to stanch the flow, he gave up trying to control his car but kept his foot on the accelerator.

  Bolan winced at the near-miss, but fired another three rounds at the other vehicle in passing, taking out the driver's rear window. He saw someone slump behind it, but the car was there and gone too quickly for him to confirm a second kill.

  To his right, the other speeding car had veered off course, as well, but it was spitting bullets as it passed, stitching Umaru's side of the Toyota with a deadly rain. Umaru ducked, then spun toward Bolan.

  "Are we going now?" he asked.

  Bolan already had his door open and one foot on the pavement as he answered, "We aren't finished yet."

  * * *

  Kelsey Danjuma grappled with the corpse slumped in the driver's seat, seizing the wheel and stabbing at the brake pedal with his left foot in time to stop the car before it jumped the curb and slammed into the drab facade of a tavern that hadn't yet opened for business. In the process, Amos Buhari slumped into him, drenching Danjuma with warm, sticky blood.

  It was hardly a new sensation, fresh blood on his hands, but Danjuma recoiled nonetheless, half lurching from his seat to strike the dashboard with his side, before the car came finally to rest, its engine stalling out.

  Danjuma tumbled from the vehicle, saw Sani Fulani already out of the backseat and moving, firing his pistol Their fourth man, young Friday Achebe, was trying to exit the car, but his hands had lost most of their cunning. They fumbled at the doo
r latch, set below his shattered window, while Achebe tried to blink away the blood veil covering his face.

  A scalp wound, more than likely, but it could be something worse. In any case, Danjuma had no time to waste on first-aid treatment or consoling wounded soldiers. Any moment now could be his last, and he didn't intend to die or flee before he'd finished off his enemies.

  But where were they?

  A bullet sizzled past Danjuma's face, missing his ear by half an inch or less and sending him to ground. Hiding behind and half under the car, he searched for targets but his field of vision was restricted. Any sort of movement to his right was screened from view, unless an enemy drew close enough for Danjuma to glimpse his feet. On the left, he was still half exposed and aware some unseen shooter could probably take him.

  Danjuma was startled, therefore, when Achebe finally mastered his door latch and slumped from the car, down on one knee at first, breathing hard with a wet rasp behind it, then finally lurching upright. Achebe had to have drawn or found his gun at the same time, because he fired two shots across the street, toward some target Danjuma couldn't see.

  And that target returned fire. Three rapid shots, one of which struck the car with a clang, while at least one hit Friday Achebe. Danjuma saw his soldier's legs slip out from under him, dropping him first into a seated posture with his back against the car. From there, he toppled over to his left and lay unmoving on the pavement.

  More shots now, their echoes rattling back and forth across the street, keeping the local denizens indoors until the storm of trouble passed. Danjuma knew Ughelli's rowdy district fairly well, but he had never seen it dead like this before, at any time of day or night.

  And he would soon be dead, as well, unless he took some action to defend himself.

  His hunt had turned into a small pitched battle, and Danjuma feared that he was on the losing end. Two of his men were definitely down and out. As for the rest, he'd lost sight of Fulani and could only guess which of the barking guns were still in friendly hands.

  Get up and do something! a small voice in his head demanded.

  Cursing viciously, Kelsey Danjuma leaped upright and raised his pistol, scanning for a target, any target. All he prayed for was a chance to shoot.