Conflict Zone

by Don Pendleton

  "Either way, we win," Afolabi said.

  "As you say."

  "This time tomorrow, Jared Ross will either wish that he had paid his daughter's ransom, or he will have no wishes at all."

  "A lesson," Babatunde said.

  "It's always best to be the teacher, rather than the student," Afolabi said.

  "I always hated school"

  "The six years you were in it?" Afolabi teased him.

  "Six long years, it seemed to me."

  "But all behind you now. And see how far you've come."

  "I should go back and find my teachers," Babatunde said.

  "To boast of your success?"

  "To cut their throats."

  "Perhaps another time. We're busy at the moment, yes?"

  "Of course."

  "But when we've taught our lesson to the white men who run K-Tech, well, perhaps you will have cause to celebrate."

  "I shall look forward to it," Babatunde said, beaming.

  "The simple pleasures," Afolabi told his old friend, "are the best."

  * * *

  The capttve's name was Simon Aguba. Beyond that, he wasn't inclined to disclose anything, but Umaru was light-years beyond taking no for an answer. After they'd secured Aguba to a straight-backed wooden chair, Umaru asked for time alone with him, to help Aguba recognize the error of his ways.

  Torture revolted Bolan at a primal level, but he'd used pain in the past to squeeze a vital bit of information out of this or that maimed predator, when time was of the essence. Drawing a moral line between himself and those he hunted was a fine idea, in theory, but his own experience in war had taught him that the line was hard to see when you were peering through a veil of battle smoke.

  He left Umaru to it, went into the fenced backyard and waited for what seemed like ages, but was only twenty minutes on the clock. Instead of agonizing over what was happening inside the house, he pushed his thoughts downrange, to the remaining targets on his list.

  Assuming he could pull it off, how many would he have to blitz before one of his adversaries cracked? And would the men who'd promised money to a nameless stranger in return for information keep the rendezvous they'd scheduled? If Bolan bothered showing up, would he be greeted by a bagman or a squad of shooters sent to take him out?

  A faint sound from the house made Bolan pause, half turning, but he shrugged it off Umaru had been through a lot since they found each other in the marketplace, and he was grieving the loss of a friend, a lover, whatever. Simon Aguba might not be responsible for that himself, but by his own account he knew who was. And Bolan had a strong hunch he would talk before he died.

  He heard the back door open, turned to find Umaru standing on the tiny concrete stoop, two steps above the weedy yard. His face revealed no lessening of anger or anxiety.

  "You find out where Yetunde went?" Bolan asked.

  "No. This one was Itsekiri, part of MEND. He told me who killed Sophie. I will find them someday, if it takes a lifetime. But we have to hurry now."

  "Why's that?" Bolan inquired.

  "To stop a kidnapping."

  Umaru saved the rest of it until they had the Honda rolling back toward downtown Warri. He had left Simon Aguba's body in the house with the doors unlocked.

  "I'm finished with it, anyway," Umaru said.

  Bolan assumed he meant the house. He asked, "So, who's the target this time?"

  "Jared Ross," Umaru said. "It seems that Afolabi has been brooding over Ross's daughter and the ransom that he lost. He reckons that K-Tech Petroleum will pay a good price for its man in Warri, and for peace. Of course, no matter what they pay, there'll be no peace with MEND."

  "There'll be no kidnapping if I can help it," Bolan said.

  "We may already be too late. I'm sorry for the wasted time," Umaru offered.

  "Look at it the other way around," Bolan replied. "Without our side trip and your grilling, we'd have no idea that Ross was on the spot."

  "Still, if I had been more capable.....

  "And how would that work?" Bolan asked him. "You got unexpected answers when you didn't even know the questions. Cut yourself some slack."

  "All right. But if we are too late.....

  "Then we revise Plan A. Focus on rattling cages until someone tells us where they're holding Ross, or else agrees to give him up. I've played this game before."

  He didn't mention that in several cases, where a friend's life was at stake, the answers he required had come too late. But if that happened here, Bolan's response would be the same.

  Scorched earth.

  * * *

  "I still say this is too damned risky."

  Jared Ross had heard it all before from his chief officer in charge of plant and personal security.

  "There's risk in everything we do here, Clint," he said. "The only way we can avoid it is to barricade ourselves inside the compound, or pack up and leave the country."

  "Sir, I understand the normal risks," Clint Hamer said. "I've got those covered. But it hasn't been a day yet since your daughter got away from kidnappers who planned to kill her. Now you put yourself at risk. For what? A dinner party with the Russians and Chinese? They hate each other, and they both hate us. Why bother?"

  Ross smiled and answered, "You're a soldier, not a businessman. Part of my job is making nice with folks who hate me — while I try my best to stab them in the back."

  "I'm with you on the last part," Hamer said.

  "The whole thing should be over in two hours tops," Ross said. "So, if you're ready?"

  "Yes, sir. Everything's in place."

  Hamer walked him to the white stretch limo, one of three that K-Tech kept on-site, and Ross found five men waiting. He knew all of them were armed, although he couldn't see the weapons underneath their tailored jackets. Then again, maybe their heavy weapons were concealed inside the limousine.

  When they were buttoned up inside and moving, Ross took one more stab at getting Hamer to relax.

  "It doesn't make much sense, when you consider it," he said.

  "What's that, sir?" Hamer asked.

  "That anyone would make a move on me so soon, after they lost Mandy and had their asses handed to them on a platter."

  "Mr. Ross, we're not exactly dealing with a stable crowd. Mix greed, fanaticism and whatever dope they're smoking this week, you can pretty well expect the unexpected."

  "Which is your department, Clint. You have my every confidence."

  "I blew it with your daughter, sir."

  "Nonsense. She slipped out of the compound on her own, and damn near paid the price. Thank God she didn't suffer any worse than being dragged around the countryside by lunatics."

  "Yes, sir. But.....

  "No buts. That's an order. Let's get through this silly smile-fest and.....

  Inside the armored limousine, the first shots sounded like a string of distant firecrackers exploding, then Ross heard the bullets striking bodywork and three-inch laminated glass.

  Despite the fact that they were shielded from incoming fire, Hamer dragged Ross to the limo's floor and crouched beside him, gun in hand. The other guards were busy drawing compact submachine guns, turning toward the long car's nearest gun ports.

  "We have one car in pursuit," a guard said from the driver's side.

  "Two cars," another answered from the other side.

  "Assume that we're outnumbered," Hamer told them. "Leave the gun ports shut unless you have a dead-bang target, and remember that the cops here take a dim view of civilian casualties."

  The plainclothes soldiers grunted in response, focused on their pursuers. Hamer didn't have to tell the driver he should step on it and shake the chase cars, if he could. Not that a stretch limo in Warri downtown traffic had much chance of ditching two midsize sedans.

  "You get a chance to sideswipe either of these bastards," Hamer called out to their wheelman, "take it!"

  "Be my pleasure, boss," the driver said.

  Damned if he wasn't smiling.


  "Clint?" Ross spoke up from the floor.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "If it comes down to it, I want a gun."

  Hamer removed his backup pistol from its ankle holster, handing it to Ross.

  "Just keep your finger off the trigger now," he warned. "Glock hides the safety there. I'll tell you when it's time to go for broke."

  * * *

  The late Simon Aguba hadn't known how many soldiers would be going after Jared Ross, but he'd revealed that MEND would make its move with Ross in transit to or from some kind of party at the Delta Petroleum Institute, located half a mile from K-Tech's downtown headquarters. The Honda's dashboard clock told Bolan that Ross had to be on the road, unless he wanted to be fashionably late.

  Instead of driving past the K-Tech compound and pursuing Ross from there, Bolan picked up his likely route of travel two blocks east of headquarters and started weaving through the traffic toward the oilman's destination. Since he didn't know if Afolabi's men had planned on jumping Ross before or after his appearance at the institute, he might be forced to park somewhere and wait the party out.

  Or, as Umaru feared, they might already be too late.

  "Up there!" Umaru said, pointing, a heartbeat after Bolan saw the running fight in progress.

  "Got it," Bolan answered.

  It was hard to miss the white stretch limo barreling through traffic, with a pair of chase cars flanking it, bright muzzle-flashes winking from their open windows. Bolan took it as a given that Ross had bodyguards on board, but they weren't returning fire so far. A wise decision, overall, since one stray bullet striking a bystander could provoke an incident as lethal for the company as any threat to Jared Ross himself.

  Bolan accelerated, racing to catch up, and heard the traffic sounds grow louder as Umaru powered down his window.

  "If you get a shot," Bolan advised, "take it."

  "There is a risk to bystanders," Umaru said.

  "Same thing if they keep firing wild," Bolan replied.

  He'd closed the gap to thirty yards, no problem staying with the K-Tech limo, but the chase cars veering back and forth prevented him from pulling even with them. Bolan drew his 93-R from its shoulder rig and held it cradled in his lap, driving right-handed, hearing bleats from angry horns mixed with the sharp staccato rap of automatic weapons.

  "Almost there," Umaru told him as he eased the muzzle of his Daewoo out the open window. "Just a little to the left."

  Bolan tried to accommodate him, checking out his side and rearview mirrors as he changed lanes, drifting. He was ready for the racket when Umaru fired his first short burst, bullets gnawing their way across the right-hand chase car's trunk.

  Not bad.

  The target swerved, a startled face framed in the wide rear window, then Umaru's second burst frosted the glass and blew some of it back into the car.

  Not bad at all.

  Bolan was busy on his own side, then, aiming with his Beretta toward the chase car on the K-Tech limo's left-hand side. He sent a 3-round burst downrange, saw two slugs scar the right rear fender, while the third punched through a window on the passenger's side.

  That made the driver swerve to his left, but he recovered swiftly, veering back to bring the limo under fire. One of the backseat shooters tried for Bolan, firing at an awkward angle with a stubby SMG, but he was off by six feet, easily. A van behind the Honda took those bullets through the windshield, while the driver locked his brakes and lost it in a noisy, tumbling roll.

  So much for traffic coming up behind them in the next block, anyway. Someone inside the limo, or along the route of battle, would have phoned for the police by now, but Bolan couldn't let it go. He couldn't let the hunters have an unobstructed shot at Jared Ross.

  And he suspected that their snatch plans had gone out the window now.

  From that point onward, they'd be going for a kill.

  * * *

  "Get off this street, for Christ's sake!" Jared Ross commanded, feeling stupid even as he said it, from his prone position on the floor.

  "They'll have guards at the institute," Clint Hamer said. "We need to.....

  "No!" Ross interrupted him. "You think I went to roll up to the gates like this and start a firefight on the street outside the goddamned institute? Get on the radio for backup now, and find someplace where we can either sit it out until they come or deal with this ourselves!"

  Reluctantly, Hamer addressed the limo's driver. "Well, you heard the man! What are you waiting for?"

  "An opening in traffic," the driver said, then he swerved abruptly to the left, gunning the stretch through an intersection Jared Ross couldn't see.

  He heard the horns blaring in protest, however, and braced himself for a collision that seemed imminent- Somehow they made it through, and then were running south, the two pursuit vehicles keeping pace.

  "Three cars now, damn it!" one of Harrier's guards announced. "Hey, wait. The new guy's shooting at the others! What the.....

  "Are you sure?" Hamer demanded, leaving Ross's side to press his face against one of the tinted windows on the driver's side.

  "Hell, yes! Look! There! He's firing, but it's not at us."

  "Who could it be?" Ross queried no one in particular. "Did you already call for help?"

  "Not me, boss," the driver said. "I'm on top of that, right now."

  "Then who.....

  More bullets raked the limo, making no impression beyond ruining its paint and putting scuff marks on the three-ply windows. It would take more than assault rifles to crack the vehicle that sheltered him.

  And Ross was worried that his would-be killers might be packing more, just waiting for an opportunity to use it. He supposed they couldn't fire a rocket launcher from a speeding car without endangering themselves, but...

  Christ! What was he thinking?

  "Hold that backup call," he ordered. "Turn back to the K-Tech compound, while you get the cops moving. If these shits want to fight, we'll do it at our own house."

  "Roger that, sir!" said the driver.

  Ross stayed where he was, clutching the borrowed Glock, and prayed that he would have a chance to use it soon against the bastards who had dared to touch his little girl.

  * * *

  "Whats this?" Umaru asked. "Where are they going now?"

  "Evasive driving," Bolan said as he squeezed off another 3-round burst from his Beretta. "Maybe waiting for police to intercept them. Maybe heading home."

  "To K-Tech?"

  "Why not? They must have reinforcements there. It makes more sense than leading this bunch to a dinner party with the competition."

  "Saving face, you mean?"

  "Or saving lives," Bolan replied. "Maybe Ross wants to spring a trap."

  "Can he succeed?"

  "I don't tell fortunes," Bolan said. "It's possible, I guess. But we don't want to be there when it happens."

  "Why not?" Umaru asked.

  "Cops and K-Tech's shooters swarming all over the place? If we can't take these guys out first, we need to disengage."

  "So let us take them," Umaru said with a crooked grin.

  Bolan floored the accelerator, closing up behind the nearer of the two chase cars. One of the men inside was leaning from his window, lining up a shot at Bolan's Honda, when Umaru hit him with a short burst to the head and face that sent his weapon flying while his corpse slumped back inside the sedan.

  Instead of backing off, Umaru kept on firing, stitching holes along the driver's side of the pursuit vehicle, his bullets knocking shiny divots the size of silver dollars in its faded paint. Bolan was watching when the driver took a hit and toppled over to his right into the shotgun rider's lap. That startled shooter grabbed the wheel, but there was no way he could reach the brake or the accelerator with a body sprawled across his thighs.

  Umaru fired a parting burst after the chase car as it leaped the curb and plowed into the plate-glass frontage of a restaurant. Some of the diners might be hurt or worse, but Bolan couldn't stop to help them.r />
  It was his job to wreak havoc, not repair it.

  They were riding on the second chase car's bumper now, faces shouting curses at them through the shattered rear window. Bolan triggered another burst from his selective-fire pistol and saw one of those faces rupture, dropping out of sight. The others quickly ducked below his line of fire, while someone raised a gun and started rapid-firing blindly toward the Honda.

  Bolan swerved to miss the worst of it, giving Umaru the angle he needed to rake the car's trunk and rear driver's side. One of his bullets found a tire, somehow, and it collapsed into a wallowing rumble, throwing the driver off stride.

  Bolan reversed direction in an instant, coming up along the passenger's side of his target, Beretta extended through his open window. He started firing before the cars were lined up side by side, blasting 3-round bursts at the driver and his huddled passengers.

  And somewhere in the midst of it, he scored.

  The chase car swerved away, into oncoming traffic, and collided head-on with a bus. Bolan had floored his brake pedal before the echoes of the crash had time to fade, reversing until he was level with the crumpled ruin of the chase car.

  There was no point letting any of the shooters get away to fight another day. Killing them now would save him time — and just might save the rest of Warri's residents a world of future hurt.

  Umaru ran around the car to join him, just as Bolan leaned inside and saw two of their enemies still moving. Bolan shot one through the head, then stepped back as Umaru drilled the other with a Daewoo double-tap.

  And they had turned back to the Honda when he saw the white stretch limo idling in the middle of the street, a short block farther on. A second later its backup lights winked at him, the behemoth rolling in reverse toward where he stood with gun in hand, while terrified pedestrians sought cover anywhere they could along the street.

  The limo stopped a dozen paces from the Honda. Two armed men the size of football linemen stepped out of the car, their automatic rifles looking almost toylike in their hands. Next came the boss, wearing a dazed expression on his face.

  "It's you again," Jared Ross said.

  "I don't really have the time to socialize," Bolan replied.