Rogue Assault

by Don Pendleton

  Also in the flat, tucked well inside the box spring of his sagging bed, were half a dozen other plastic bags containing rolls of banknotes he had squirreled away over the years. Medina had no faith in banks, and while he had checking account at the Banque Régionale de Solidarité, his savings were secured at home. Unless, of course, they weren’t.

  Medina drove his own car, sidelined since he’d joined forces with Cooper, now sporting fresh license plates he had borrowed from a sedan outside the Hotel Malaka. A bulletin could have been issued for his car by now—likely had been, in fact—but how many aged Toyota Camry compact sedans were tooling around Bissau, wearing patchwork coats of rust and primer paint? Without the proper license tags, he was the next thing to invisible.

  Except to those who knew his face.

  Medina kept his Spectre SMG on the passenger’s seat, stock folded, covered by a two-day-old newspaper. His Glock 19, in its shoulder holster, was closer to hand than the submachine gun, more convenient to use if he was braced by a single opponent. Medina hoped that neither weapon would be necessary on his visit to the flat where he had spent the past four years in seedy solitude, but he would be prepared for anything.

  He drove past the apartment house to start with, checking other cars parked on the street, eyeing pedestrians and recognizing some of them as neighbors, though he didn’t know their names, had never spoken to them in his life. Some may have known that he was a policeman. As to whether that would make them more or less inclined to trust him made no difference today.

  Nilson Medina wasn’t hunting; he was hunted. With the passport and the money in his pockets, he might have a chance to get away. Without them...

  There are always options, he decided.

  But he couldn’t think of any at the moment.

  * * *

  ABDOUL LOUA WATCHED the Toyota Camry pass a second time and double-checked the license number. It didn’t match the plate assigned to Nilson Medina, but what did that prove? Medina was resourceful, an experienced policeman, and at least in size he matched the driver of the car now finishing its second pass by the fugitive’s last known address. Loua couldn’t have sworn that the man behind the Toyota’s wheel was Medina, but if he came by a third time there’d be grounds to find out.

  Instead of circling the block again, however, the Toyota pulled in to the curb a half block south of where Loua and Sergeant Walkid Rodrigues sat waiting, in a Citroën AX Loua had chosen from the motor pool for stakeout duty. It was gray, thirteen years old and far from memorable, though its engine had been kept in tune and running well. Hidden behind the front seats were their larger weapons, AKMS rifles with folding stocks, chambered in 7.62 mm.

  Loua hoped they wouldn’t need the rifles. In addition to their sidearms, he also carried a Taser X26 stun gun, capable of firing two darts from an air cartridge over a thirty-five-foot range, delivering a charge of fifty thousand volts to disrupt a target’s neuromotor impulses and render him temporarily helpless. While labeled “nonlethal,” Tasers had killed in the past by inducing ventricular fibrillation, but Loua wasn’t concerned about giving Medina a heart attack.

  If the man died, he died. Shit happens, as the Americans would say.

  “Get down,” Loua cautioned Rodrigues, but the sergeant was already slumped in his seat, reducing his silhouette by half. As Loua did likewise, the Toyota’s driver stepped out of his car, scanned the street in both directions, and apparently saw nothing to alarm him. Carrying a folded newspaper beneath one arm, he crossed the street with easy strides.

  “That’s him,” Rodrigues said.

  Loua easily confirmed it. “Yes, it’s him. Alert the others to stand ready, but remind them not to move without my order.”

  Rodrigues raised his walkie-talkie, keyed it and spoke rapidly to the remaining members of their stakeout team. Their clipped responses signaled understanding of the order.

  “Do we let him get inside?” Rodrigues asked.

  “It’s easier than springing at him now and chasing him around the neighborhood,” Loua replied.

  “He’s likely armed. Something beneath the windbreaker, or folded in that newspaper.”

  “We won’t let him surprise us,” Loua said.

  “And if we have to kill him?” The sergeant sounded hopeful.

  Loua shrugged. “We do what must be done,” he said.

  Down the street, Medina reached the sidewalk opposite and paused again, then crossed a square of blighted grass to reach the small apartment house, opened the front door without using a key and passed inside.

  “Not locked,” Rodrigues said.

  “That makes it easier for us,” Loua observed. “Two minutes, then we bring the others in.”

  They sat and waited, Loua counting seconds in his head, ignoring his watch while he kept his eyes fixed on Medina’s dwelling. The cop’s flat occupied one quarter of the second floor, the southwest corner, meaning that his windows didn’t face the street. He wouldn’t see the team approaching to pick him up.

  “Now,” Loua said. “Call them in. Let’s move.”

  * * *

  GENERAL DIALLO HEARD the strain in Eduoard Camara’s voice, the pitch all wrong, as if he’d lapsed into belated puberty. Normally restrained, at least when speaking to superiors, Camara sounded now as if he might be moving toward a nervous breakdown.

  Something to consider, when the man served as Diallo’s link to the cartels that made him fabulously wealthy, with his secret bank accounts growing fatter each week. If he couldn’t rely on Camara to control himself and deal with any problems that arose, Diallo knew that he would have to find a suitable replacement.

  Soon.

  “You’re saying that he simply called and told you that he had destroyed your plane?” Diallo asked. “And that he was the man who stole our cargo on Bubaque.”

  “Yes!” Camara said. “And I confirmed the aircraft was destroyed.”

  “That is...unfortunate,” Diallo said. “What do you plan to do about it?”

  There was momentary silence on the line, before Camara said, “I called to ask for your help, General. Without it, I...I don’t...I...”

  Thoroughly disgusted with the conversation, General Diallo fought the urge to curse Camara as a worthless coward and dismiss him out of hand. There would be time enough for that, he knew, after he’d chosen who should rise to lead the Family. Meanwhile, he had to placate the sniveling insect and keep him on board to repair the damage they’d suffered.

  “You’re in luck, then,” Diallo said, setting an example with his reasonable tone. “I have already made important strides toward solving your dilemma.”

  “Oh?” Camara sounded skeptical.

  “Indeed. I have discovered that your missing soldier from the first attack was sent to infiltrate your Family by the Judicial Police.”

  Diallo heard a gasp, and while that bitter news sank in, he said, “Now, as we speak, I have men searching for him, under orders that they may not rest until he is in custody. Soon, we will know who put him up to this insanity and punish them, as well. Order shall be restored.”

  “But if you cannot find him—”

  “That defeatist thinking only makes things double difficult, Edouard. You must be positive. Be confident. Predicting failure is an invitation to defeat.”

  Camara didn’t sound convinced, but he responded weakly, “As you say, sir.”

  “Now, concerning your arrangement with Colombian suppliers, how soon are you able to replace the lost product?”

  “Replace it? Sir, I’ve spent—”

  “The cost is immaterial, Edouard. To stay in business, we need merchandise. The loss is your responsibility. Two losses, now, within as many days. If you cannot replace it...”

  “Sir, I will! You have my word!”

  Diallo’s smile was vulpine. �
�Good. I knew that we could count on you. And always bear in mind, you must be positive!”

  With that, Diallo cut the link and let his smile retreat into a glower. He was positive of one thing on his own account. Edouard Camara’s days were numbered, and the countdown had begun.

  * * *

  NILSON MEDINA FOUND his passport and the money where he’d left them, with no evidence that anyone had been inside his flat since he had left it for his night shift at the cutting plant—how long ago? It seemed like weeks, when barely one full day had passed.

  What did it mean, finding his small apartment undisturbed? Was there a chance that Edouard Camara thought he had been killed during the first raid at the cutting plant? How, then, would he explain Medina’s disappearance, when the other dead were left discarded where they fell?

  At least he knew that Joseph Mansaré hadn’t betrayed him and wouldn’t. Whatever risks the captain undertook were his own, but Medina couldn’t escape a pang of guilt when he considered that his rogue behavior might have jeopardized Mansaré’s rank and pension—or his life.

  Medina stuffed his cargo pockets with the rolls of franc notes, tucked this passport into his windbreaker’s inside pocket and surveyed the flat one final time before leaving. He considered packing clothes, then shrugged off the thought. Departing with a suitcase might make an impression on his neighbors, if any were watching, and he didn’t want tongues wagging if—when—searchers got around to checking the apartment. There was still a chance, however slim, that he might manage to return once more, when he and Cooper were finished with their work in Bissau. And if not, he had enough money on hand to supplement his limited wardrobe.

  He only lingered on the other option, failure, for a moment, before pushing it away. Medina knew there was a decent chance that he would never need another suit of clothes, but why belabor it? Right now, he needed nerve and ammunition more than shirts and slacks. The quicker he got back to Cooper, the sooner they could be about their business. Finish it, one way or another.

  Medina was crossing his small living room, halfway to the exit, when the door crashed open and a swarm of men rushed in. They moved like soldiers but weren’t in uniform, all but the leader holding pistols ready, leveled at Medina. There was something pistol-shaped in his hand, too, but it looked odd somehow, off-kilter, not a normal gun. Instead of trying to identify it in the fraction of a second that remained to him, Medina gauged his own odds of survival.

  He had tucked the Spectre M4 underneath his arm once more, still swathed in newspaper, and knew he couldn’t bring it into play before the unexpected visitors shot him to bloody bits. As for his pistol, it was likewise out of reach. Trying to run would be a foolish waste of time and energy; the only other exit from his small flat was a bathroom window, and Medina knew he had no hope of reaching it.

  With nothing left to lose, he bluffed. “I think you have the wrong flat, brothers.”

  “We are not your brothers,” the leader of the pack said. “And there is no mistake, Medina.”

  “Were we introduced?” Medina asked. “I don’t recall it.”

  “You will have time to remember many things in custody,” the spokesman said.

  “So, you’re police? In that case, let us go, by all means.”

  As he spoke, Medina moved his arm enough to let the Spectre drop six inches, caught its pistol grip and was about to spin the weapon forward when the leader fired his strange handgun. Two darts hurtled across the gap between them, sank into Medina’s chest like viper’s fangs, and then he lost control of every nerve and muscle in his body, twitching as if he’d been stricken with a grand mal seizure, dropping senseless to the floor.

  * * *

  MEDINA WAS LATE, and that couldn’t be good. Bolan had run the mental checklist of things that could stall a driver in Bissau—traffic snarls, a fender-bender, the police—and had dismissed them all. Medina had a cell phone with Bolan’s number on speed dial, and he could have flashed a warning signal in any routine situation. Failure to keep their appointment, plus failure to call, meant he’d run into trouble without time to reach for his phone.

  Bolan gave it another five minutes, then wheeled his Peugeot out of the hotel parking lot they had agreed on as a rendezvous point. He had considered phoning Medina, then dropped the idea, unwilling to risk a trace on his cell if Medina’s phone had fallen into hostile hands. The flip side was a calculated risk of missing Medina in transit while en route to his apartment building, but the JP officer could call at any time if he was free and clear. The fact that he had not—and that the cell stayed silent during Bolan’s drive north across town to Cupelon de Baixo—told Bolan that Medina didn’t have the option of making contact.

  He found the street with no problem and slowed in passing, casting a quick glance downrange to survey the block where Medina’s digs stood. At a glance, he saw a police cruiser double-parked halfway down, around the point where Bolan thought Medina’s address should fall. There were no officers in sight, either afoot or in the car, but what did that prove?

  In a city with four hundred thousand residents, and hardly any cops to keep the peace, it struck him as peculiar that a squad car would be there, at just this moment, without some connection to Medina. Anything was possible, of course, but Bolan placed no faith in pure coincidence.

  Had the Judicial Police staked out his apartment? Medina’s last call to his captain hadn’t indicated any kind of manhunt underway, but if there was suspicion of a vigilante officer at large, might the investigation bypass his superior until the brass were confident of where the captain’s loyalties resided?

  Maybe.

  Bolan only knew one thing for sure: the worst thing he could do right now was to make a pass along Medina’s street and let another officer glimpse his white face, particularly if the police were working with Edouard Camara or the general behind him to nail Bolan and Medina for their moves against the syndicate.

  He had one option—not a great one, but it might be worth a try. Medina trusted his immediate superior, perhaps unwisely, but they’d spoken twice since Bolan and Medina had decided to collaborate. Medina had provided the Executioner with the captain’s name and phone number, a hedge against exactly what seemed to be going down this afternoon. There was a risk in calling him, but Bolan had to know whether Medina was alive, in need of help, or if he was already gone.

  But first, he wanted space between himself and what appeared to be a trap.

  He put the quiet street behind him, driving back toward hell.

  11

  Ministry of Justice, Estrada da Granja do Passube, Bissau

  Captain Joseph Mansaré had learned to dread phone calls. No one ever summoned the police to celebrate good times, invite them to a party or report that all was well. The calls that came were angry, tearful, terrified—and most times, there was little that Mansaré or his officers could do to help. Dispatch an ambulance, perhaps, if there was one available. Question eyewitnesses, if any dared to speak. File a report that would, most likely, fail to generate any results.

  Mansaré took the calls, regardless, recognizing it as one part of the duty he’d assumed when he joined the Judicial Police. If nothing else, he could shoulder a bit of the tragedy heaped upon his fellow countrymen each day. He could listen, try to empathize. And he could lie, suggesting that things might be better tomorrow.

  “Olá,” he told the latest caller. “Capitão Mansaré aqui.”

  “One of your men’s in trouble,” said the caller, male and speaking English.

  “Oh?” Mansaré switched languages and asked, “Which one?”

  “Nilson Medina. Have you heard from him within the past hour?”

  Mansaré felt the block of ice shift in his gut. “Who is this, please?”

  “A colleague of Medina’s. We’ve been working on some things together.”

 
“Ah.” Mansaré dropped into his chair. “You’re the American.”

  “I’m an American,” the caller said. “What’s happened to Medina?”

  “I am not at liberty to—”

  “What?” the caller cut him off. “Discuss the case? Save one of your own people while there may be time?”

  Mansaré hesitated, shot a glance in the direction of his open office door, checking for eavesdroppers, then said, “He’s missing. Until recently, I understand, he was with you.”

  “He went to get some things from his apartment,” the stranger said. “Wouldn’t let me talk him out of it. When he ran overtime, I took a look and found police outside of his apartment building.”

  “They were mine,” Mansaré granted. “We received a call from neighbors, some kind of disturbance. When the address came back as Medina’s, we were naturally interested. Unfortunately, by the time my men arrived, no one remained.”

  “So he was snatched, not executed on the spot?”

  “If I must guess, it has the earmarks of abduction. Nothing I could prove, at this stage, if it came to that.”

  “How do you plan to deal with it?”

  Mansaré felt his cheeks burn as he answered, “You must understand, without some kind of evidence—at least a physical description of the kidnappers, if they exist—my hands are tied.”

  “You know who took him, right?” the caller challenged. “It can only be Camara’s people or the army that supports them.”

  “Even hinting such a thing is dangerous,” Mansaré said.

  “Hinting around has never been my strong suit.”

  Frightened of the answer, still Mansaré had to ask. “What are your plans?”

  “I’ll spare you the specifics. Wouldn’t want your people getting in the way by accident. Let’s just say I’ll be lighting up some lives.”

  “You risk your life for one you barely know? After one short day’s acquaintance?”

  “How well do you know him?” the stranger asked. “You’ve been watching him build up to this for...what? How many years?”