Conflict Zone

by Don Pendleton

  "The first list is for Ekon Afolabi and his Itsekiris."

  "MEND, in other words," Bolan said.

  "Yes. The second has addresses for Agu Ajani and his Ijaws."

  "Where do you fit in?" Bolan asked, frankly curious.

  "I don't," Umaru said. "I'm Igbo — what the West mistakenly calls 'Ibo.' Distantly related to the Ijaw, but entirely separate."

  "The odd man out," Bolan observed.

  "Always, it seems. You need not worry that I'll suddenly switch sides."

  "It hadn't crossed my mind," Bolan replied with less than total honesty. "My problem is that, strictly speaking, you weren't meant to have a side in this. Translation, basic guide work, drawing up a list or two like those. That was supposed to be the end of it."

  Umaru shrugged. "Plans change," he said.

  "But you can still get out of it," Bolan told him. "There was no choice on the first round, since they came for you. That changes now. I'm carrying the fight to them, both sides. If you mix into that, you're marked."

  Another restless shrug. "Am I not marked already?" his companion asked. "The Itsekiri tried to kill me without knowing you existed. I assume they know my home address, may have been watching it for days. I can't just step out of this car and back into my life. It seems now that I have none."

  "Don't write it off just yet," Bolan replied. "You're in the middle of a shake-up, but that doesn't mean you won't come out the other side alive. A change of scenery might be advisable, but don't assume the worst. So far, we're one-for-one."

  "And they'll be hunting us."

  "I'm counting on it," Bolan said. "It keeps them occupied while /hunt them"

  "Where shall we start, then?" Umaru asked.

  "If you're in.....

  "My choice is made." Umaru cut him off.

  "Okay. MEND took the first hit," Bolan said. "I yanked a hostage out from under them before I met you. We don't know who pulled the ambush in the marketplace, so it won't count. Next up, a little something for the Ijaw team."

  "And hit them where it hurts?" Umaru asked.

  "As hard as possible."

  "In that case," his companion said, "I have a place in mind for us to start."

  * * *

  "The Russians seem to think they own Nigeria," Daren Jumoke said.

  "They may," Agu Ajani answered, "if we aren't cautious in our dealings with them."

  "But we need their money," Jumoke said sourly.

  "For now. It's only temporary, and it doesn't mean we are subservient to their wishes."

  "Does Sidorov know that?" Jumoke asked, frowning.

  "In time, he will," Ajani said. "For now, it serves our purpose for him to believe he's in charge. Calling the shots, as the Americans would say. He won't expect it, later, when the shots are aimed at him."

  "He will divide us, if we let him."

  "At the moment," Ajani said, "Sidorov and Uroil worry more about the Chinese and their ties to MEND. It's why they give us guns and money, to ensure that China National Petroleum does not secure the lion's share of oil."

  "Did you believe Sidorov?"

  "About what?" Ajani asked.

  "Denying that he freed the hostage held by Afolabi's men."

  Ajani gave a lazy shrug. "What difference does it make? He lies to us when it suits him. I care no more about the oilman's daughter than I do for any other cockroach scrabbling in the dirt. Her rescue wounds the Itsekiri, so it makes us stronger."

  "Afolabi needs to die. His pet gorilla, too," Jumoke said.

  "We've tried that."

  "Why not try again?"

  "I don't object, on principle," Ajani said. In fact, some said he had no principles, but that was slander from his enemies. "It would be helpful, though, if the suspicion fell on someone else."

  "Such as?"

  "Who hates him most, today?" Ajani asked his second in command.

  "The list is long, Agu."

  "But at its top, I would expect to find the man whose daughter was abducted, terrorized and violated by the Itsekiri."

  "Violated?"

  "It's a rumor," Ajani said. "I just started it myself."

  Jumoke laughed at that, a rasping sound, more like an aging smoker's cough.

  "Revenge," he said, nodding.

  "The oldest motive in the world."

  "It is the sort of thing Americans would do. Perhaps snatch Afolabi from the street, fly him to Egypt or some other country for interrogation to the death."

  "We don't have time for all of that," Ajani said.

  "A simple execution, then. I like it," Jumoke said.

  "Not so simple. As you pointed out, we've tried before."

  "Not hard enough."

  "His death will be a victory, of course," Ajani said "And better still if it is staged in such a way to further damage MEND and the Chinese."

  "You have a plan in mind?"

  "Not yet. Ideally, they should have a public falling out. Eliminate each other, for the greatest possible embarrassment to all concerned."

  "I don't know any Chinese killers," Jumoke said.

  "It was just a thought," Ajani said, smiling. "We can't have everything we want."

  "I'll see what I can do, Agu."

  "Nothing impetuous," Ajani cautioned. "To be done correctly, this must be well-planned, coordinated, carried out with surgical precision."

  "And if that's not possible?" Jumoke asked.

  "Well then, we simply smash him like a cockroach," Ajani replied. "I believe in being flexible."

  "Whiskey?" Jumoke asked.

  "Why not?"

  Chapter Nine

  The Ijaw drug lab was located in a warehouse on Warri's north side abutting railroad tracks and a stagnant canal According to Umaru, the plant processed khat and marijuana from the stalk to packaging, cut imported supplies of processed cocaine and heroin for street sale and cooked up variable quantities of ecstasy, LSD and methamphetamine.

  One-stop shopping for pushers.

  Most of the product was wholesaled to "Area Boys," street gangs who fought for turf in Nigeria's urban centers. Ranging from twelve to thirty-odd years old, the "boys" were everywhere. United Nations monitors had counted 35,000 in Lagos alone, while doubtless missing many more. Aside from trafficking in drugs, the gangs sold "protection," stole cars and ran errands for established syndicates, which might include murder for hire.

  Ironically the rise of the Area Boys since the late 1990s had sparked a vigilante countermovement, known as the Bakassi Boys. Originally limited to members of the Igbo tribe, Bakassi Boys had expanded to recruit members of other clans, advancing from use of ju-ju hexes on their enemies to execution via gunshot and machete.

  Taking out a single drug plant wouldn't stop any of that. If pressed, Bolan wasn't even sure that it would count as a step in the right direction. What it would do was jab a long thorn in the side of Delta State's Ijaw warlord, while granting Bolan an opportunity to divide and conquer.

  "You will blame Ekon Afolabi for the raid?" Umaru asked as Bolan parked their stolen car downrange from the warehouse.

  "Seems like the way to go," Bolan replied.

  "So that Agu Ajani will declare war on the Itsekiri."

  "They're already feuding," Bolan said. "I want to ramp it up a bit."

  "Creating a diversion?"

  "That's part of it. And if the contenders take each other out, less work for us."

  "It all sounds dangerous."

  "That's what I've been explaining," Bolan said. "Nobody signed you up for frontline duty on this thing. You want to pull a fade right now, it's fine with me. Take off, with no hard feelings."

  "I don't wish to leave," Umaru said. "I mean, I do, but there is nowhere safe to go."

  "One of your contacts could arrange something," Bolan suggested. "Not the locals. Try the Company."

  "I have," Umaru said "Voice mail."

  "You think they'd cut you loose?" Bolan inquired, prepared to answer that himself based on his personal experience.


  "Why not? I was a pair of eyes and ears. They must have hundreds — maybe thousands — in Nigeria. Why waste their precious time and money on a renegade who brings them nothing but embarrassment?"

  Bolan was on the verge of pointing out that he'd obtained Umaru's name from Langley, once removed through Hal Brognola and Stony Man, but kept it to himself. Umaru clearly recognized the CIA's penchant for dodging scandal, even if it meant the sacrifice of contract agents in the field.

  Another typical snafu.

  Langley had run the same back-stabbing, cutthroat game plan time and time again, for over sixty years. Why should it ever change?

  The alleyway where he had parked the Honda Civic was pitch-black and deep enough to hide the car from passersby unless they probed it with spotlights. Bolan had also checked the alley out from end to end for sleeping vagrants and found none.

  They were alone as he began to suit up for the raid, donning his web gear that supported ammo pouches, frag grenades, his Ka-Bar fighting knife, first-aid kit and various surprises that his enemies would only glimpse in the last fleeting seconds of their lives. His lead weapon was still the Steyr AUG assault rifle.

  Umaru looked distinctly underdressed, holding his Chinese pistol, with no other weapon visible. It was a decent weapon, but it held a maximum of sixteen rounds.

  "You have spare magazines for that?" Bolan asked.

  "One," Umaru said, flashing a nervous little smile.

  "Okay. With any luck, you should be able to pick up something that suits you when we get inside. They're bound to have plenty of guns."

  Which would be pointed straight at Bolan and Umaru once they showed themselves. But why belabor the negative? the Executioner thought.

  "Perhaps a rifle or a submachine gun," Umaru said.

  "Once again, I have to say.....

  Umaru cut him off, shaking his head.

  "Unless you order me to stay outside," he said, "I'm going with you."

  "Fair enough," Bolan said as he locked the car and started toward the alley's mouth. "Let's get it done."

  * * *

  "You have enough supplies for the moment?" Valentin Sidorov asked.

  The drug plant's manager, Olumbe Otah, nodded. "Everything came in on schedule this time," he replied.

  There had been problems, recently, with late deliveries to Afolabi's cutting plant in Warri. Sidorov had done his best to make things right, using his contacts in the SVR, the Medellin Cartel and one of Mexico's three largest heroin-producing rings to tighten up the slack.

  All things considered, it seemed only fair.

  Sidorov had to earn his five percent somehow.

  He wasn't sure what Eltsin and the Moscow bureaucrats would say about his little fling at private enterprise. Some of them had done worse during the Cold War and since communism's infamous collapse, but that wouldn't prevent the worst of them from sacrificing Sidorov to help themselves save face.

  But if he wasn't caught, there would be nothing to explain.

  And Sidorov was an expert at not getting caught.

  He had imported a Bulgarian to help Agu Ajani build the drug plant, dropping in to supervise construction as it went along, taking a decent kickback from Ajani's purchases of lab equipment. The result, if not spectacular, was both efficient and discreet.

  Within the old, abandoned-looking warehouse, each drug cut or processed had its own specific area. There was no cross-contamination, and the risk of an explosive accident in any of the cooking rooms was minimized by constant supervision and the use of relatively new equipment. Lookouts on the roof stood watch around the clock, regardless of the weather, while a team of well-armed men inside the plant stood ready to repel invaders.

  Short of uprooting the plant and flying it to Mother Russia, with a staff selected personally, Sidorov could think of no way to improve the operation.

  "You're always watching out for strangers, yes?" he asked.

  A small twitch at one corner of his mouth betrayed Otah's irritation. "Of course," he replied.

  "And you heard what happened to the Itsekiris?"

  "With their hostage, yes," Otah said. "We all mourn for them, of course."

  Sidorov recognized the joke, despite Otah's deadpan delivery. "The thing is," he continued, "that may not be the end of it."

  "More trouble for the Itsekiri?" Otah said. "You're trying to amuse me now."

  "It may not all be their trouble," Sidorov said. "I've warned Ajani that we may have unknown players in the game. Wise men use extra caution during troubled times."

  "You're a philosopher," Otah said, barely smiling now.

  Sidorov longed to slap him, wipe the sly smile from his face, but it would be bad for business. It might even prove to be his last mistake, if Otah's people turned on him. Sidorov knew he could take a few of them before he fell, but what a stupid waste it all would be.

  Instead of lashing out, he said, "I've dabbled in philosophy. But I'm an expert on survival."

  "In which case," Otah replied, "I thank you for your generous advice."

  Sidorov knew he should leave before his temper and contempt for all things African betrayed him. Putting on a smile that never reached his eyes, he bid good-night to Otah and retreated toward the nearest exit from the plant.

  * * *

  Bolan spotted a sentry on the warehouse roof and reckoned that there had to be more to cover all sides of the building. After pointing out the watchman to Umaru, Bolan sought a path through shadow toward the warehouse loading dock.

  Two cars were parked there, with a motorcycle and an old Dodge cargo van that had begun life in Detroit at least a decade earlier. No guards were visible, no cameras in evidence, no rooftop watchers currently in place to see them cross the twenty yards of open pavement from the darkness to their destination.

  "Follow me," he whispered, and broke cover, sprinting for the concrete steps located at the west end of the loading dock. Umaru got there just behind him, and they both flattened against the wall.

  Waiting.

  If they'd been seen in transit, Bolan reckoned that they'd be aware of it in nothing flat. There might be no alarm, but spotters on the roof were bound to tip off men inside the plant and bring them spilling out with weapons at the ready.

  Bolan braced himself to meet them, but they didn't show.

  So far, so good.

  They had a choice of doors. One was the normal kind, man-size; the other was a roll-back loading bay contraption that would wake the dead before they got it open while exposing them to fire from a dozen interior angles. The choice was elementary.

  The door, as expected, was locked.

  "Eyes peeled for any company," Bolan said as he knelt in front of the lock, palming a set of picks.

  "I have it," Umaru said, standing with his pistol braced in a two-handed target-shooter's grip.

  Bolan attacked the lock and beat it in a little under thirty seconds. It hadn't offered any great security to those inside, but he assumed the plant was never left unguarded or unoccupied, which cut down on the need for dead bolts that could withstand Judgment Day. Because there was no handy window in the door — a nod toward privacy — he wouldn't know if ambushers were waiting for them until they had stepped into the line of fire.

  "Ready?" he asked Umaru.

  "Yes." No hesitation in the other's voice.

  "Okay, then. Here we go."

  Bolan had slung his AUG and had the sound-suppressed Beretta in his hand before he turned the doorknob, felt it yield and eased the door open. When he wasn't gunned down at once, he felt a cautious surge of optimism, but they hadn't cleared that great first hurdle yet.

  Only when he was standing on the open threshold, with Umaru at his back and both of them still breathing, did the Executioner relax enough to breathe. A heartbeat later they were both inside, but only just. A blank wall separated Bolan and Umaru from the warehouse proper, passing them along a narrow corridor devoid of decoration, scented with an odd, off-putting mix of swe
at and other chemical aromas.

  There was only one direction they could travel Bolan paused to shut the unlocked door behind them, in a quick concession to appearances, then led the way along that corridor, toward voices and the busy sounds of people working, growing louder, step by cautious step.

  * * *

  Umaru trailed his American contact along the hallway, taking special care to breathe through his nose without gasping like a marathon runner. His heart pounded against his ribs, and he'd have been afraid to check his blood pressure just then, for fear that he might be on the verge of a stroke.

  But he wasn't afraid.

  Somehow, between his prior combat experience and Cooper's air of confidence, Umaru thought they had a chance. It might not be a great one, but they had beat the odds already once and might again.

  Dividing his attention between Cooper and the corridor behind them, where they'd passed two closed and silent doors, Umaru nearly missed their first encounter with the enemy.

  The man — a guard, presumably, with a slung rifle — emerged from yet another door on Cooper's left. Umaru had a split-second glimpse of urinals, and then Cooper was spinning toward the stranger, squeezing off a muffled round from his handgun.

  The bullet drilled his target through the forehead, textbook perfect, and the man collapsed backward without a sound. Before he hit the concrete floor, the big American had moved to catch him, his free hand clutching at the corpse's shirt, helping him settle gently to the deck.

  "In here," Bolan said as he dragged the body into the lavatory.

  Umaru followed, checking the two toilet stalls by reflex, finding them empty. When he turned back, the American was offering him the guard's rifle, saying, "This should help."

  Umaru stowed his pistol, accepting the weapon. He recognized the standard-issue Daewoo K-2 assault rifle used by many Nigerian soldiers, including himself, for a time. It was chambered for 5.56 mm NATO rounds, fed from 20- or 30-round magazines at a full-auto cyclic rate of 700 to 900 rounds per minute. The rifle weighed seven pounds, and with its folding stock collapsed, as now, it measured twenty-eight inches from muzzle to pistol grip.