Conflict Zone

by Don Pendleton

  They were going in. Case closed.

  Bolan assumed that few, if any, of Yetunde's keyboard lackeys would be shooters. If they started coming up with guns, he'd drop them where they stood, but it would work to his advantage if they fled, bearing the story of a mixed-race hit team striking at the city's foremost godfather, after the raids on MEND and the Ajani drug lab.

  Anything that helped confuse his adversaries was a bonus for the Executioner.

  He counted on the back door being locked, so that was no surprise. He picked the outer locks, Umaru standing by to watch his back, but when that job was done, the door still wouldn't open.

  Bolted on the inside.

  They'd reached a point where it was time to raise or fold, and Bolan didn't plan on turning back before he had a look inside the Warri Data Center.

  "Step back while I blow the bolt," he cautioned, waiting while Umaru moved around behind him.

  Bolan thought it was a toss-up whether they'd installed a bolt above the doorknob or topside, inserted in the upper frame. To play it safe, he fired short bursts at both spots, then stepped forward, kicked the door and slammed it open with sufficient force to strike the wall behind it.

  Startled voices spoke excitedly from inside as Bolan crossed the threshold, but the ones that he could make out didn't sound like soldiers. He was half a dozen paces in before a door flew open on his left, disgorging a young man armed with a pistol.

  Bolan shot him in the face before he had a chance to use it, didn't need to wait to see if 5.56 mm tumblers fired at point-blank range had done their job. The guy was down and out, but from the sound of running feet, he hadn't been alone.

  Bolan sidestepped into the open doorway, found his cover there and waited for his enemies to show themselves.

  * * *

  Ibowu Yetunde had his pants around his ankles when he heard the first gunshots. Preoccupied with the woman kneeling at his feet, it was tempting for Yetunde to dismiss them as a car backfiring in the street.

  But he knew better.

  He had heard enough gunshots and backfires to realize that exhaust pipes didn't stutter in short bursts like automatic weapons. No, someone had to be shooting, but that didn't mean...

  "A moment please," he said regretfully.

  Hobbled and muttering profanity, Yetunde waddled like a penguin to the nearest tinted windows facing the street three floors below. No one outside could see him, but his view was unobstructed.

  Nothing.

  And it hadn't really sounded as though the shots were coming from the street outside the Warri Data Center. Possibly in back? The alley was...

  More shots, slightly less muffled than before. They were inside the building now, ground floor. Yetunde stooped to grab his slacks.

  "Get dressed!" he snapped at his companion. "We're in danger!"

  Not that he was overly concerned about Abebi, as lovely and compliant as she was. Yetunde understood that no one would invade his property to kill a prostitute.

  He was the target. There could be no doubt of that.

  Yetunde didn't know if he was being robbed, or if he was a target for assassination, and it made no difference at the moment. Either way, he could be killed within the next few moments if his guards downstairs failed to contain the enemy.

  Yetunde crossed the spacious bedroom, gripped a painted landscape by its frame and swung it outward on a hinge fastened along the left-hand side. A safe was thus revealed, with numbered buttons in place of the traditional dial. Even in this extremity, Yetunde shifted his position to prevent Abebi from glimpsing the combination.

  Inside the safe, there sat thick wads of cash, banded in blocks equivalent to ten thousand U.S. dollars. In fact, most of the currency with which Yetunde stuffed his pockets now was dollars, siphoned from the black-market economy of Delta State to form Yetunde's nest egg.

  His escape fund.

  Beside the cash rested a Skorpion vz.61 machine pistol, loaded with twenty 7.65 mm rounds in a curved magazine, its wire stock folded topside to reduce its length. Two extra magazines went underneath Yetunde's belt, in back, before he palmed the weapon, closed his safe and locked it, then replaced the landscape that concealed it.

  Grimacing as the reports of gunfire echoed through his bedroom floor, Yetunde crossed the room to reach his walk-in closet. There, he first slipped on a Kevlar vest, then donned the jacket he had recently removed, which matched his pants.

  Ready.

  Yetunde left the woman as she dressed, passing from the bedroom to his so-called study, where his private elevator was concealed within another closet.

  It would take him down to the garage, below street level, where his cars sat waiting. All of them were bulletproof, at least in theory, and his pocket jangled with the keys for all of them. A few more minutes and he would be safe — at least, for now.

  Then he would take the necessary steps to find out who dared threaten him at home.

  And once he knew their names, God help them all.

  * * *

  The guards were well-armed, mean-looking — and out of practice. If he had been forced to guess, Bolan would have surmised that none of them had fired a shot in anger for at least a year, perhaps a good deal longer. Their reaction time was on the sluggish side, their movements rusty.

  So they died.

  They weren't exactly sitting ducks, of course. A lazy soldier could be dangerous, and even untrained amateurs could make a lucky shot. It took only one bullet, rightly placed, and Bolan would be twitching in his death throes on the floor.

  He took no chances with the hired help, knocking down the guards as soon as they appeared in front of him. Umaru had his left flank covered, cutting down a couple of Yetunde's shooters when they popped out of a smoky lounge on that side, television blaring in the background.

  Umaru put a bullet through the big set's picture tube and silenced the frenetic game show that was playing. Turning back to Bolan with a little shrug, he said, "I can't stand all that noise."

  The noise of gunfire rattled on, coupled with the panicked sounds of Idowu Yetunde's keyboard operators scrambling for the nearest exit. Bolan watched them long enough to know that none seemed threatening, then focused on the dwindling group of men who meant to kill him.

  There'd been something like a dozen when he started, less than half that many standing by the time the last of the computer con artists had vanished from the killing floor. They rallied toward the end, after retreating to the conference room where they were cornered, but a frag grenade killed two of them and left the three survivors wounded, stunned, no challenge for their executioners.

  "Penthouse," Bolan said, hoping they might find Yetunde waiting for them in his pad. They took the service stairs two at a time, passed no one on the way and didn't hear the building's central elevator running in its shaft beside the stairwell as they climbed.

  But they were still too late.

  A startled-looking, half-dressed woman was waiting for the elevator when Bolan and Umaru reached the fourth floor. After noting that the woman was lovely and unarmed, Bolan brushed past her to invade Yetunde's quarters through a door that had been left ajar.

  And found it hastily vacated by its tenant.

  "We have missed him," Umaru said.

  "Not by much, the way it looks," Bolan replied.

  But gone was gone.

  A far-off siren wailed, still faint with distance. Bolan couldn't tell if it was headed his way, but he knew that they were out of time. They took the stairs again and reached the ground floor just in time to see the shaky woman exit the building.

  All clear now.

  Bolan unhooked the next-to-last of his white-phosphorus grenades and left it smoking in the middle of Yetunde's boiler room. By the time they hit the alley, double-timing toward their waiting ride, white smoke was pouring from the exit, trailing after them.

  A moment later they were rolling. Bolan merged with traffic, watched his rearview mirror, while he ran Umaru's list of targets in hi
s head. The shotgun rider's voice distracted him.

  "I may be able to locate Yetunde," Umaru said.

  "Oh?"

  "I have informants of my own. As in the food chain, you might say."

  "Contacting them means that you'd have to surface," Bolan said.

  "It could be useful."

  "Could be dangerous."

  "I'll risk it," Umaru said.

  "All right, then," Bolan replied "Where are we going?"

  * * *

  Umaru had a system for his extra eyes and ears in Warri. As his handlers gave him cash for information, so he paid the men and women who provided much of what he sold to the NDLEA, the NPF, the NIA and the Americans. On a hot tip he might clear two, three hundred U.S. dollars after covering his people on the street.

  But not this day.

  Umaru understood that he was playing for his life this time. He had been targeted for execution, and he didn't know if it was linked to his collaboration with Matt Cooper, on the CIA's behalf, or whether someone had been stalking him for days, seeking to punish him for helping send a relative or friend to prison.

  Either way, he soon learned that the word was out.

  Umaru made five calls, each to a different informant. Three were shunted off to voice mail and ignored. A fourth hung up without a word the second that he recognized Umaru's voice. The fifth was brave enough to speak, though not for long.

  "You're poison, you," the petty thief and drug dealer declared. "If you know what's good for you, go somewhere else. Don't call anymore."

  Bolan had waited through the round of calls, silent, until he sensed Umaru giving up. "Doors closing on you now?" he asked.

  "So it would seem."

  "Bad luck. But we can get along without them."

  "There's one more I can try," Umaru said.

  "Go ahead, then."

  "Not on the telephone. I need to see her."

  "Her?"

  "My best informant, if she'll help me now."

  Sophie Adagoke had been more than an informant of Umaru's — still was, on occasion, if the truth be told — but after living in his flat for six months, two years back, both had agreed they needed "space." Umaru wasn't sure exactly what that meant in Sophie's case, but for his own part, he was happy to resume the bachelor life that might strike some as lonely, but that somehow gave him peace of mind.

  Sophie continued to supply him with good information, gleaned from tipsy patrons at the Dragon's Den, a nightclub where she doubled as a singer and hostess. Many of the customers were criminals of one sort or another, but the prices kept out petty thieves and other trash. When they spent the odd nostalgic night together, normally at her place, it was almost like old times.

  Almost.

  Umaru gave directions to the Dragon's Den and Bolan followed them, after explaining why he thought the drop-in was a bad idea.

  "Somebody's on to you," he said. "They could be onto her. We could be walking into trouble that's avoidable."

  "Not we," Umaru said. "No whites go to the Dragon's Den."

  "I'm in a time-warp now," Bolan replied. "Is this Nigeria or Mississippi in the sixties?"

  "You would be allowed inside," Umaru said. "But then, no one will speak to me. Perhaps forever."

  "There goes the neighborhood. I get it," Bolan said. "I wouldn't want to cramp your style."

  They parked a block from the club, behind a service station that had shut down for the night. Umaru made the walk alone, thankful for the QSZ-92's solid weight at the small of his back. Along the way, Umaru felt as if a dozen pairs of eyes were tracking him, perhaps watching him over gunsights, waiting for the signal that would let them cut him down.

  Then he was at the club, paying his cover charge, passing from muggy air that smelled of car exhaust into a world of lights and noise, fogged by tobacco and at least a touch of ganja.

  Sophie Adagoke wasn't near the door or up onstage. Umaru drifted toward the bar, guessing that she was on a break or maybe changing outfits between sets. He could afford to wait, at least a little while.

  The sense of being watched had followed him inside the Dragon's Den, but this time it was no illusion. He could see heads turning, tracking him across the smoky room. Facial expressions ranged from mild surprise and curiosity to something very much like rage.

  Umaru had almost decided he should leave, for Sophie's sake, when a deep voice behind him said, "She's gone."

  Wiping his face clean of emotion as he turned, Umaru said, "Who's gone?"

  "Your bitch," the stranger told him, sneering underneath a sad excuse for a mustache. "Don't worry, though. You'll join her soon."

  The man was reaching for his pocket when Umaru drew his pistol, jammed it hard into the stranger's gut and snarled, "You have a choice to make. Will you die here, or come outside with me?"

  "You won't shoot," the other man said. "I'm not alone."

  "If that's the case," Umaru challenged him, "what have I got to lose?"

  The stranger saw death in his eyes and nodded, then.

  "Outside," he said, and let Umaru guide him toward the door.

  * * *

  Bolan had thought Umaru would return alone. A long-shot second option had him turn up with the woman he had come to meet. The very last thing Bolan had expected was Umaru hurrying along the sidewalk with another man, gripping his sidekick's arm with one hand, while the other very obviously held a gun against the stranger's ribs.

  "Who's this?" Bolan asked as Umaru shoved his grim companion into the backseat, climbed in beside him and began to rifle through his pockets.

  "He's a liar," Umaru said.

  "Ah. Just what we need."

  A sharp metallic snap behind him drew Bolan's eyes to the rearview, where he saw Umaru brandishing a wicked switchblade.

  "And stupid, too," Umaru said. "He brings a knife to a gunfight."

  Bolan already had the car in motion when he asked, "What was the lie, again?"

  "I'm not alone,' he said" Umaru mimicking a voice that Bolan hadn't heard as yet. "Where are your friends, then?" he demanded, jabbing with the knife.

  "You'll meet them soon enough," the man said.

  "And were you lying about Sophie?" Umaru asked.

  "That's your own fault," the prisoner said. "Seducing her to be your spy. Your little cockroach."

  Bolan heard Umaru strike him, followed by a squeal that brought his eyes back to the rearview. There, Umaru had the switchblade's tip buried a quarter-inch or so into the captive's cheek.

  "Watch out for bloodstains on your clothes," Bolan advised, then focused his attention on the flow of traffic.

  "You are right," Umaru said after a long, tense moment. "We must take him someplace where the blood won't matter."

  "I'm not going anywhere with you," the stranger said, half whining.

  "We're halfway there," Umaru said. "Your only choice is whether you survive the night or not."

  "So," Bolan asked from the driver's seat, "we're halfway where, again?"

  Umaru gave directions to a west-side neighborhood, if you could call it that, where vacant lots stood between dilapidated houses like gaps in a mouth filled with half-rotten teeth. One of the houses had a small carport on its north side. Bolan nosed into it, as he had been directed, switching off the Honda's lights and engine.

  "You might say this is my home away from home," Umaru told him as he dragged their unexpected guest out of the car. "We shall have privacy, I think."

  "For what?" Bolan inquired, as if he didn't know.

  "To ask my friend some questions," Umaru said. "I assure you that he will cooperate."

  Chapter Twelve

  "Now, is everyone entirely clear about the plan? Questions from anyone? On anything at all?"

  A dozen pairs of somber eyes regarded Ekon Afolabi as if he were God Almighty, issuing commandments from on high. It was an attitude that he appreciated — and demanded — from his soldiers, but he sometimes worried that the awe they felt for him prevented them from asking
questions if they were confused. And that could get them killed.

  Or, more important, keep Afolabi from achieving his intended goal.

  He glanced at Taiwo Babatunde, standing to his left, and raised one eyebrow. They had known each other for so long that the man could read Afolabi's face better than he could read a printed page.

  "The man asks if there's any questions!" Taiwo snapped at the assembled gunmen. "If you got them, ask them now. No time for wondering when you're up in the middle of it, eh?"

  Still nothing from the troops.

  "All right, then," Afolabi said, forcing a smile that radiated confidence. "Remember that the man you seek must not be harmed. If he resists, after his guards are dead, you have the stun guns, yes?"

  Four of the soldiers answered, "Yes, sir!"

  "And they're fully charged?" Afolabi asked.

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Show me."

  Four hands dived into pockets, brandished objects that resembled cheap electric razors. Four thumbs pressed the triggers. Tiny bolts of lightning crackled between blunt electrodes, treating Afolabi to the scent of ozone.

  "Good," he said. "I will accept no other injury to Jared Ross. Whoever harms him may expect to share his pain tenfold."

  Twelve voices, this time, barking, "Yes, sir!"

  "You are dismissed," he told them. "Go and make our people proud."

  When the twelve soldiers had departed, Babatunde said, "Perhaps I should go with them, after all"

  "Do you not trust the one you put in charge?"

  "I do, of course."

  "We have no problem, then."

  "Something could go wrong, Ekon. There's always something."

  "In which case, you would be jeopardized, old friend."

  Babatunde blinked back at him, as if confused by Afolabi's words.

  "It is my job.....

  "To choose the best men for the team, as I requested. Have you done so?"

  "Yes. But if they kill him.....

  Afolabi fanned the air with one hand, a dismissive gesture. "We would lose the ransom," he replied. "But our point would still be made. Others will not defy us with the grim example set before them."

  "Ah. I understand now."