Conflict Zone

by Don Pendleton

  Surprisingly, it felt like home.

  "Yes, this is better," Umaru said.

  "He's got a couple extra magazines." Bolan nodded toward the dead man's weighted pockets. "We can likely find more as we go along."

  Umaru switched the two mags from the corpse's pockets to his own, then double-checked the Daewoo. He confirmed a live round in the chamber, released the safety and set the fire-selector switch for burst mode, which would send three slugs downrange with every trigger pull.

  Somewhere inside him, the tension eased.

  He couldn't have explained why that should be the case, and didn't question it. A measure of relief would steady both his hand and eye when action was required. Umaru still might miss a shot — he hadn't fired a rifle since he left the army — but at least it wouldn't be because he trembled like a frightened child.

  "Ready?" Bolan asked.

  "Yes."

  "We're out of here."

  He waited for a beat while Cooper checked the corridor, then followed him out of the men's room that had been converted to a morgue. The sounds of voices that had lured them this far were louder now. Umaru had the sense that he would glimpse their owners in another moment, find them weighing, measuring, bagging, whatever happened in a drug-production plant.

  And when they met, he knew, the killing would begin in earnest.

  Some of those he faced would certainly be armed. As for the rest, employees paid a pittance by the hour to process and package poison for sale on the streets or abroad, he supposed most of them wouldn't be trusted with weapons. Some might even be women, or, God forbid, children.

  Guilty or innocent?

  How would he judge those deserving of death?

  Armed men first, he decided. And beyond that, he would try to follow Cooper's lead, while keeping both himself and the American alive.

  And suddenly the men with guns were there.

  * * *

  Valentin Sidorov was halfway to the exit, looking forward to his first drink of the night at his apartment, when he heard the first gunshots. They echoed through the sprawling plant, but he was reasonably sure they'd issued from the general direction of the loading dock and nearby room where khat was chopped and bagged for sale to the Area Boys.

  The Russian drew his pistol without thinking, didn't have to think about a safety switch, since it was built into the trigger where his index finger rested. He was moving toward the source of the sounds when he caught himself.

  What was he thinking?

  If the plant was under attack, it could only be by police or one of Agu Ajani's enemies, perhaps a flying squad sent by Ekon Afolabi. In either case, one pistol wouldn't help Sidorov's side, and he could only harm himself by lingering to join the fight.

  Discretion was the better part of valor, after all.

  And medals were for "heroes" who had thrown their lives away.

  Keeping the GSh-18 firmly in hand, Sidorov turned back toward the side door that would take him out into the night. His car was parked nearby, waiting- If anyone should try to intercept him, they wouldn't live to regret it.

  It distressed him to suppose that he might lose his secret income from the Warri drug trade, but on balance, he saw no reason why that should happen. Even if Ajani's plant was overrun and looted, the demand for drugs — and Sidorov's dependable suppliers — still remained. The traffic might be interrupted for a moment, but it wouldn't end.

  And neither would his stipend on the side.

  The night was hot and muggy, but it held no grim surprises for Sidorov as he jogged the last few yards to his vehicle. A moment later he was roaring off toward his home in Warri, with the warehouse dwindling in his rearview mirror.

  Thus, he saved himself and missed the best part of the show.

  * * *

  There was only one guard in the khat-packaging room, a twentysomething rifleman whose bored expression vanished at the sight of Bolan and Umaru barging in. The shooter tried to raise his weapon, but a silenced round from Bolan's pistol bounced him off the nearest wall.

  But even falling, he was trouble. A dead finger clenched the rifle's trigger, rattling off a burst that sent ricochets flying from concrete, evoking a chorus of panicky cries from the night-shift workers they had interrupted.

  "Tell them to clear out of here," Bolan said as he palmed an M-15 white-phosphorus grenade and yanked its pin.

  Umaru rattled off the order in a language Bolan didn't understand, and a dozen civilians bolted for the nearest exit. Bolan watched the last one disappear, then made an underhanded pitch into the nearest heap of khat, already backing out of there before it landed, with Umaru keeping pace.

  The pop and whoosh of detonation told him when the charge went off. White phosphorus burned at 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit — enough to vaporize the drug, while burning through concrete and cinder blocks — and water wouldn't quench it. Even if he didn't have a chance to use another charge, the drug plant was already going up in smoke.

  They double-timed toward the next nearest chamber, where wide-eyed workers had stopped bagging ganja to see what was happening. Two guards, this time, rushed toward the door as Bolan got there, with their automatic weapons at the ready.

  But they weren't ready enough.

  Bolan stitched them both with his Steyr AUG, discarding any bid for stealth. One of them fell at once; the other sagged against a table and was trying to return fire when Umaru hit him with a 3-round burst from his Daewoo K-2.

  They didn't have to warn the workers in the ganja chamber. All of them were off and running as their second watchdog hit the floor. Bolan considered saving a grenade, letting the first one burn through from next door, but then decided not to skimp.

  Pop! Whoosh!

  The next chamber, a dozen paces down the hallway, was devoted to cutting and bagging cocaine. Another pair of guards emerged, hunch-shouldered, with their rifles clutched against their chests, when Bolan and Umaru were halfway to the door.

  Umaru was the first to fire this time, shading Bolan by a fraction of a heartbeat. As it was, their rifles hammered both men down in something close to perfect synchronicity. A third white-phosphorus grenade went through the open doorway, and they moved on without looking back.

  At least three labs or packing chambers remained, and they were meeting more resistance. Bolan didn't try to count the hostile guns assembled at the far end of the corridor, leap-frogging closer while their comrades covered them, because he didn't play the numbers game. He'd never notched a gunstock, and he wasn't starting now.

  He chose a frag grenade this time and lobbed it down the hallway in a decent fastball pitch. His adversaries saw it coming, some of them recoiling while the others dropped or hunkered down to try to ride it out.

  And failed.

  No wind they'd ever faced before had come complete with shrapnel, ripping flesh and burying itself in bone, while smoky thunder sent bodies flying like bowling pins. Bolan and his companion rushed at the survivors, firing as they went, putting the wounded stragglers down and out.

  How many left?

  Bolan supposed they hadn't seen the rooftop lookouts, who would require some time to reach the warehouse floor and join their comrades on the skirmish line. And while he couldn't say for sure, there was at least a possibility of one or two slinking away to call for reinforcements while he finished blitzing out the plant.

  So let them.

  In the room reserved for cutting heroin, he added more white phosphorus to the white-powder drifts already piled atop stainless-steel tables. In the labs where meth was cooked, he sprayed the ether tanks with 5.56 mm rounds and ducked back out before they blew.

  His ears were ringing as they backtracked toward the loading dock, both men holding their breath as they passed through successive drifting clouds of smoke and cloying vapor. Exiting the plant, Bolan allowed himself his first deep breath since taking out the meth lab. Umaru, beside him, spent a moment coughing, then seemed fine.

  "We're still alive," the Niger
ian said, all smiles.

  "So far," Bolan replied, keeping a keen eye out for snipers as they crossed the open ground toward dark, concealing shadows.

  No one tried to stop them. He supposed the sentries were already well inside the blazing funeral pyre or else had managed to escape somehow. It didn't matter which.

  "Ajani must blame someone for his loss tonight," Umaru said.

  "You're right," Bolan agreed, nodding. "And I think I know a way to help him focus. Let's go find a pay phone, shall we? Somewhere nice and quiet, near downtown."

  Chapter Ten

  Agu Ajani valued self-control He recognized intemperance as weakness, and was proud that even when he flew into a violent rage, he always knew what he was doing. Every move, however savage, had been calculated for its maximum effect. He spoke through clenched teeth now, fighting an urge to scream.

  "Tell me again how this could happen."

  Standing at parade rest, with hands clasped behind his back, Daren Jumoke said, "Two men were seen. One white, one black. They got inside the plant somehow, past the lookouts."

  "Which was supposed to be impossible," Ajani said.

  "Yes, sir." Jumoke knew better than to adopt first-name familiarity under the present circumstances. "We had four men on the roof, as usual. Three now are dead. The fourth is missing."

  "And his name?"

  "Robert Ndibe. Not a new man. He's been on the payroll for three years."

  "Missing, you say."

  "Not with the other dead," Jumoke clarified.

  "Or burned up in the fire?"

  "It's always possible. Not likely, though."

  "Why not?"

  "The other three on roof-watch with him all came down and died together, at the west end of the plant. Ndibe's not among the men we found there. Also, none of those who fled remembers seeing him."

  "Ask them again," Ajani said. "More forcefully. I want this runaway. He may have seen something. If nothing else, he can explain his failure and apologize before he dies."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And Sidorov. I need.....

  A blare of music overrode Ajani's thought. He grimaced, cursing at the ring tone he'd programmed into his cell phone one night after drinking too much whiskey. The last thing he wanted to hear at the moment was "Eye of the Tiger."

  Ajani drew the phone out of his pocket, flipped it open and studied its display screen. Its LED readout said Number Unknown.

  Beyond irritation now, Ajani snapped, "Who is this?"

  "Honestly," a voice answered him, "what's in a name?"

  "I'm in no mood for games just now," Ajani warned.

  "And I'm not playing one — unless you want to call the fireworks exhibition at your plant a game."

  Ajani stiffened, felt as if his teeth would crumble into powder if he clenched them any tighter.

  "You have information on that subject?" he inquired.

  "I ought to," the caller said. "I was there."

  "With a black friend, perhaps?"

  "Discrimination is for amateurs."

  "And now, you call to gloat?"

  "Not even close."

  "What, then?" Ajani heard the anger mounting in his voice and struggled to contain it.

  "I'm a businessman," the caller said. "I never double-book or back out of a contract, but I'm not a one-trick pony, either."

  "I don't.....

  "Follow me? My bad. How's this — I know who hung the target on your back. For a consideration, I'll supply the name and full particulars."

  "Betraying your employers?"

  "They hired me to do a job. It's done. You're out of business at the old location. I held up my end"

  "And now you want a bonus from the other side." Ajani was surprised to find himself laughing.

  "Okay, forget it," the caller said. "If you're doing well enough to laugh it off, more power to you."

  "I already know who wants me out of business," Ajani said.

  "You might be surprised. But, hey, I'm on the next flight out of here. No skin off me."

  "Wait! What are you suggesting?"

  "Only that your friends may not be quite as friendly as they seem. You want more, there's a price tag."

  "So, I pay you for a name. And why should I believe you?"

  "I can't think of one good reason in the world," the caller said. "Except that I have everything on tape. Give it a listen, and you shouldn't need me to supply the names."

  "We'd have to meet," Ajani said.

  "It's doable, as long as you play straight and bring the cash."

  "How much?"

  "I'll make it easy on you, since you've hit a bad patch. Say a hundred grand, U.S."

  * * *

  "Further disturbances last night, I understand," Huang Li Chan said.

  Lao Choy Teoh nodded. "The destruction of an Ijaw drug-processing plant," he said. "Our man with the police believes that Ekon Afolabi is responsible."

  Huang closed his eyes and spent a moment breathing deeply through flared nostrils.

  "Why would he choose this moment, of all times, for such a thing?"

  Lao could have claimed responsibility, at least in part. He had been doing everything within his power to increase the animosity between Ijaw and Itsekiri during recent months, convinced that triumph of the larger, stronger tribe would ultimately aid Beijing's ambitions in Nigeria, but he wasn't prepared to offer a confession at the moment.

  Instead he answered, "It may be that Afolabi blames Ajani's people for the Ross fiasco. Add that to the history of tribal animosity.."

  "And what of Uroil?" Huang inquired.

  "Moscow's abandonment of socialism paved the way for chaos," Lao replied, citing the patty line. "Russia is on the verge of bankruptcy, controlled by gangsters of the lowest order. They despise China because our own example offers daily proof of their incompetence and avarice. The KGB has passed away in name only. Men like Sidorov will do anything to undermine those they perceive as enemies or competition."

  "As might we, perhaps?" Huang asked.

  Lao smelled a trap and stepped around it. "Certainly, if challenged, we defend ourselves accordingly," he said.

  Huang nodded, looking weary. "You believe the Russians are involved in this drug trafficking?"

  "Based on their past performance, sir, from Cuba to Afghanistan, it does seem logical."

  "I find the whole thing most distasteful."

  "Of course, sir."

  Lao had no intention of reminding Huang that Chinese opium, cultivated in Guangdong and Yunnan provinces, rivaled worldwide supplies from the so-called Golden Triangle of Laos, Vietnam, Thailand and Myanmar. There was reason, after all, why Asian heroin was known as "China white."

  "And yet.....

  Before Huang could complete his thought, a buzzing emanated from the black phone on his desk. It was his private line, the one accessible directly from CNP headquarters, and, if the rumors were true, from certain politicians occupying rarefied positions in Beijing.

  Huang frowned at the telephone, then picked up midway through its second ring. He answered first in Cantonese, then switched to English.

  "Who is this?"

  A pause for listening, and then, "I do not understand. What do you.....

  Another interruption, this one longer, which turned Huang's frown to a scowl.

  "You ask me to believe this, but.....

  The caller cut him off again. Lao resisted an impulse to wriggle forward in his chair to try to eavesdrop.

  "Anyone may make such claims," Huang said at last. "Without some proof.....

  Lao waited, restless, while the caller tried to plead his case. He marveled that Huang would spend so much time talking to a stranger — and a rude one, by the sound of it.

  "I will consider it," the CNP executive declared. "And if I need to get in touch with you.....

  Some final comment set Huang's frown in stone before the line apparently went dead. Huang cradled the receiver, stared at it for several seconds longer, then looke
d up to meet Lao's gaze.

  Lao bit his tongue to keep from asking any questions.

  "Someone wants us to believe the Ijaw and their Russian friends blame us for last night's raid," he said.

  "Someone?"

  Huang shrugged. "A man, perhaps American. Who knows? He claims to have more details, but demands payment."

  "A crank," Lao said dismissively.

  "Who knows my private number?"

  "We can try to trace the call, sir."

  "Yes, do that. And in the meantime, I must ask headquarters if we wish to play his game."

  "You mentioned payment, sir."

  Huang actually smiled at that. "Oh, yes. One hundred thousand U.S. dollars, for the names of those responsible."

  "And once we have the names?"

  "That, I suppose, is up to us," Huang said.

  * * *

  "It is divide and conquer, yes?" Umaru asked.

  "Something like that," Bolan replied.

  "You hope that they will fight each other?"

  "Not immediately," Bolan said. "At least, the Russians and Chinese should have a bit of self-control. But if we run with the assumption that they're backing rival sides in what's been happening, they both have vested interests in the outcome."

  "But you do think Afolabi will attack Ajani?"

  "Or vice versa," Bolan confirmed. "They were feuding when I got here. I'm just helping it along and taking out some of their major enterprises in the process."

  "There are many public figures in Nigeria who stand with one side or the other," Umaru said. "Far too many, and too well protected, for you — for us— to strike them all."

  "There's no such thing as a clean sweep," Bolan advised him. "If I knew a magic word that would make every crooked cop and politician in the world vanish today, you'd have a whole new crop of them in place tomorrow. Human nature hasn't changed in — what's the estimate, these days? — fifty or sixty thousand years. I don't expect that anything I do will change it in the next few hours."

  "But you still go on," Umaru said, sounding confused. "If you don't believe in victory.....

  "Who said that?" Bolan challenged. "Every soldier needs at least a hope of victory. Hell, I've had hundreds. But my point is, they don't last. Even if you confront a certain enemy and wipe him out to the last man, smart money says you'll have to fight again someday, guarding the same things that your old dead enemies were out to plunder or destroy."