After listening to Obey’s story, he told him to wait by the phone and called Major Abiola. In turn, Abiola listened and then called Obey. He made him repeat the story and then commended him.
“You will say nothing of this, but you have done well. It will not be forgotten. I want you to make sure that there are no police patrols in this area for the next two hours, and that any emergency calls from this district can be lost. You will do this.”
It was an order rather than a request, and despite the feeling that he had made himself known in important places, Obey still felt a tremor of fear when he put down the phone and implemented the major’s orders.
In his office, Abiola sat for a moment in consideration, then made the first of two calls.
“Sir,” he said when the phone was answered. “I have good news. Ehurie’s woman has been sighted. I have secured the area, and I will be sending men to pick her up. We will soon know what she has told the men who took her. We will know if the American had anything to do with this and if he has allies that we do not know about.”
He paused for a moment as he listened to the voice of his leader. In reply, he said, “Of course, sir. I believe you are correct in this assumption. The men who are holding her are undoubtedly allies of those who raided Ehurie’s house or perhaps some of the scum themselves. They will tell us soon enough.”
He listened for a few moments more as he was told where to have the captives delivered, then disconnected and made his second call. It was picked up on the first ring, and he was gratified to hear the fear in the voice that greeted him.
“Franklin, it is good to see you in your office so early,” he purred. “I have a mission for you.”
Oboko mopped at his sweating brow as he listened. As soon as his orders had been delivered, he put the phone down with a mixture of trepidation and relief. He knew in his heart that Abiola was waiting for him to screw up. Despite what the major might say, Oboko knew that his loyalty and competence were a matter of doubt. Perhaps now he could prove himself. He would head this one up himself, and make sure that the woman and the two men told all that they knew.
He picked up his phone and ordered four of his men to meet him with a 4x4 and then checked his own gun. He left his office and walked across the parade ground to where the vehicle was waiting. He gave the destination to the driver and told his men in a few words what their mission was.
As the vehicle weaved its way through the morning traffic, Oboko gulped back the bile of fear that was rising in his maw.
It was time to prove himself.
Chapter Thirteen
Bolan’s men loaded up the truck. It took some time to backtrack and gather all the corpses of the Brotherhood gunners, then strip them down. Their fatigues were cut and ripped in places, and some were soaked in blood. Close-up they would be a giveaway, but from a distance, it might just be possible to fool the enemy as they approached. Bolan and Ekwense sized up those of the military and the shadow party who would fit roughly into the fatigues, and these they then pulled on over their own clothes. The smell was unpleasant but bearable. Those who could not fit into any of the fatigues were to be the “captives,” and were glad to be so.
There was a radio in the cab of the truck, and a call went out for the Brotherhood party several times while they prepared the vehicle. The radios on the dead men were either disabled by combat, or were put out of action by the solider and his men as soon as possible.
But all the while, the radio in the cab was a reminder that, with every minute it took them, the suspicion back at base would grow.
“You will have to answer that,” Ekwense said to Bolan.
“Leave it until we’re ready,” Bolan replied. “Give them a broken transmission, let them know it was a hard fight but we’re on the way home.”
Ekwense grinned. “Make it broken and maybe distorted so they can’t hear voices clearly, right?” When Bolan nodded, he added, ‘They’re speaking Hausa. We need someone who is fluent to answer. If I or Samuel do it, they will hear a Yoruba voice, even though I can speak it.”
“Ask the men,” Bolan said. “There has to be one of us who can do it, surely?”
“Don’t bet on it,” Ekwense grimaced. “Bad to fall before the first jump.”
While Bolan finished readying the vehicle, Ekwense moved among the men. Eventually he returned with Obinna.
“My mother was Hausa,” the muscular solider said softly. “I can speak it like it was my first tongue, even though that is Yoruba.”
“I sure as hell hope so,” Bolan murmured, casting a look around. They were ready to depart so he directed the Nigerian to answer the calls, informing the Brotherhood base that they were on their way back with prisoners, and it had been a punishing battle.
He listened while the Nigerian made the call. His tone changed as he spoke in the Hausa tongue, softer and more sibilant than the loud, declamatory Yoruba. He had to trust what Obinna was saying, but could see from Ekwense’s expression that it was no more than had been asked of him. There was a long, expressive outburst that followed. Bolan had some Yoruba, but no Hausa, and watched the others. When the cheering finished, Ekwense turned to Bolan.
“They congratulated us on a good job,” he said with a shake of the head. “Too much praise, man. I don’t trust them at all.”
Bolan climbed into the cab of the truck. “Better keep it frosty and expect a hostile reception, then. Maybe this will work—”
“But I wouldn’t bet on it,” Ekwense finished. He looked around at the grim faces of the men in the back of the truck before mounting the cab himself. “I wouldn’t lay any money at all.”
Bolan would have agreed with him, but at that moment was distracted by his smartphone. Before setting off to engage with the enemy, he wanted to check and see if Kurtzman had turned up any information that would prepare him for the road ahead. What he saw was something altogether larger in consequence.
The trail had been traced, and the possible source of the leak had been identified. If it was correct, then he needed to clean up this end of the mission as soon as possible.
For he now knew that it didn’t stop in Yobe; it went all the way back to Lagos.
* * *
MILTON ABIOLA HAD a busy morning ahead of him. His duties as a major in the Nigerian army were put to one side, and he left his office to travel the city. While Abuja was the capital of Nigeria, Lagos was still a major center of administration and trade. Secure Lagos, then Abuja, and it would make matters easy for the Brotherhood of the Eagle warriors and loyal brothers in those cities, and other towns and villages, to cast aside the past and come out in their true colors.
So it was imperative that the uprising be timed perfectly. This day would be spent putting men in place, handing them their orders and telling them when to implement them on the following day.
The Brotherhood was a well-oiled machine. It worked on a pyramid system of command so that orders from the leader came down through a small number of lieutenants who then acted by informing cell leaders. In turn, these men would direct those who gave obedience to them. It was ironic that only a very few people knew who the leader was. There was much speculation, and indeed Abiola himself had been asked if he was the head of the organization. It made him laugh. The mind behind the Brotherhood was older, wiser than he was. But if it made those who answered to him more pliable, then such speculation served its purpose.
He visited those who were in civil government and those in the military who commanded regiments. They were instructed to send their men into the field, to be ready for assuming command and overwhelming those who were not of their stripe.
It took Abiola most of the day, but when he returned to his office in the early evening, he found Oboko waiting for him. The general looked disheveled, and was mopping his brow with an even heavier and grubbier handkerchief than he us
ually carried. When he saw Abiola, he brightened visibly.
“Milton, I have a surprise for you,” he said breathlessly.
* * *
SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER the 4x4 sped up as it turned off the main drag and headed into the run-down area where the bar was located. The streets were almost deserted, and there was a heavy police presence operating an unofficial cordon, waving the 4x4 through. Those few locals who dared to ask questions were met with a nightstick by way of response, and any who may have followed in their wake took note and kept their peace.
There was an atmosphere in the surrounding area of oppression as word spread by mouth, but not quickly enough to reach the bar, where Buchi was drinking brandy to quell the pain in his leg, while the bartender worked on reinforcing the area around the stove.
“Can’t trust that damn woman. Can’t trust you, either,” he grumbled.
“Man, it’s this leg. It distracted me. She wouldn’t be able to get past me a second time.”
“Yeah, sure...” the bartender muttered as he made his way out back to pick up a loose paving slab he intended to use in anchoring down the trapdoor. He was halfway out when he felt the hairs on the back of neck rise. It was too quiet, and there was nobody around. Even the goats and chickens in the yards had fallen silent. The silence made the screeching tires of the 4x4 as it rounded the corner even more pronounced.
“Quick, out,” he yelled, backing in to the bar’s back room.
Buchi was not at his best. The liquor and the painkillers had dulled his senses, and through the fog, it took a moment for what the bartender was saying to sink in. By the time he had managed to form a coherent thought, it was too late. The bartender grabbed him and hauled him to his feet, heading into the main area of the bar. Outside, they could hear the 4x4 pull up and the doors slam as the men inside the vehicle poured out. Oboko’s harsh voice called out instructions, and all the bartender could think of was dragging Buchi out the front and bundling him into his car before they were caught. Screw the woman. Let them have her if they could find her. She didn’t know names, but she did know faces and that would be enough. He should kill her, but there was no time to remove the defenses he had just erected.
Whoever they were—police, military, someone else—they would have to find her and that would take time. They would know him because of his bar, but they would have to find him. He could shelter with Buchi.
If he could get the doped fool out of the building in time. Buchi’s reactions were slow, and he stumbled as the bartender hauled him through the now-deserted bar area.
They had reached the main door when it was flung open and Oboko stood before them, flanked by two of his men. He was holding a Glock, more for effect than intent judging by the angle. That didn’t matter, as the men flanking him had their weapons at a business angle. The bartender cursed the fact that he had to support Buchi, as it stopped him reaching for the Smith & Wesson in his waistband.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Oboko growled, milking it for all he could. He had a lopsided grin and, after feeling on the run himself for so long, was determined to enjoy the moment.
The bartender tried to turn, reverse his direction, which was not easy when he had the almost deadweight of Buchi leaning on him. It was not worth the effort when he got halfway around and saw two armed men, looking exactly like those flanking Oboko, blocking his path. He cursed to himself and let Buchi fall, fumbling for his gun. He knew that he was a dead man. The only question was would it be quick and clean this way, or would it be slow and torturous as he was questioned here or at military headquarters?
In part, he regretted that, by doing this, he would be leaving Buchi to this fate, but the fool had let the woman free, raised the alarm by doing so and was responsible for the mess they were facing.
Screw Buchi. If the barkeep was going to die, he would take at least one of these cold-hearted bastards with him.
He had the Smith & Wesson out of his waistband and halfway level when the first volley of fire hit him. The two men standing at the rear of the bar both fired a shot, one catching him around the groin, the other in the upper chest. Each impact felt like liquid fire that turned to ice, and each pulled him in a different direction. He squeezed the trigger, but his gun went off in slow motion, the sound of the detonation long-drawn-out and echoing as his vision began to fade. In the distance, as his sight narrowed to a tunnel, he heard glass shattering and knew that he had fired wildly, hitting a bottle behind the bar. He heard the voice of Oboko, roaring like a slowed-down lion, and knew that he had failed to take life for life. The last thing he did before the lights went out was curse his appalling fortune.
“You idiots, you stupid—” Oboko was beyond words. He had wanted the man alive. Not just because he relished the thought of exercising power he rarely felt and making the man talk, but also because time was of the essence. Already he could see that, in this one-story building, the woman he sought was nowhere obvious. He didn’t want to waste time looking, partly because there was little available, but mostly because he was useless at things like searches and was in no mood to look like an idiot in front of his men.
He strode across the room, kicking the bartender’s corpse as he passed, and hit both his men on the side of the head.
“I wanted him alive. How else are we going to find this woman?” he yelled before turning to those men who were still guarding the front. He pointed at Buchi, who was struggling to pull himself to his feet. “This one,” he yelled. “I do not know what is wrong with him, but I want him talking. Now.”
They moved forward quickly and dragged the doped man to his feet. One of them reached behind the bar for the hose connected to the soda tanks and squirted him full in the face. The force choked Buchi, and he struggled in their grip.
“Seat him,” Oboko commanded, and they sat him on one of the chairs ranged around the bar. Oboko came up to him, bending so that their eyes met. “Who are you, little man? And where is Ehurie’s woman?”
Buchi summoned what reserves he had and spit in Oboko’s face. The general roared with anger and forgot himself, backhanding his prisoner so that he went sprawling across the floor, landing near the bartender’s corpse. That alone was enough to rouse him, and he tried once more to struggle to his feet.
“Take this place apart,” Oboko shouted, stepping over and kicking Buchi in the ribs as he tried to rise, knocking the breath from him and careering him sideways into the wood and tin sheeting of the bar.
While the four men began to swiftly and methodically take the front and back room apart, Oboko picked up Buchi with one hand, showing that his flab belied an immense strength. He dangled the man in front of him, slapping him repeatedly as he intoned, “Where is she?”
The soldiers had now finished with the bar and the back room, and had moved on to the kitchen area while Oboko continued his own line of questioning. He was getting nowhere, but rather than get frustrated, he was starting to enjoy the glazed look and the whimpers of pain that he was eliciting from his victim.
It was one of the men in the kitchen who noticed the odd way in which the floor had recently been torn and replaced, and after removing the reinforced sheeting that the barman had spent the earlier part of the morning putting down, he moved the stove and found the trapdoor.
“General, sir, here,” he called.
Oboko let Buchi drop to the floor, cuffing him so that he would not stand in a hurry, and gestured one of the men to watch the prisoner while Oboko pushed his way into the back. He got there just as one of his men levered open the trapdoor, and the woman emerged blinking into the light. She was more cautious this time as she emerged, still injured from being thrown back in, and for a moment she could not believe what she saw. Then, crying, she threw herself into Oboko’s arms.
“I never thought I’d be glad to see you,” she sobbed.
* * *
SHE WAS NOT saying that a few hours later as she sat strapped to a chair in a basement room at the military and civil service building where Oboko had his office. Across from her, Buchi was tied to a similar chair, with his feet in a bowl of water and electrodes attached to his testicles. Oboko was calmly asking him over and over the names of the men he had worked with in taking the woman and ransacking Ehurie’s house. Buchi refused to answer, and the current got stronger with each turn of the dial. It was primitive, but these ways still worked best. There was no time for sophistication, only for simple pain.
Occasionally Oboko would turn to her. “You will be next. All that you told them. I need to know.”
“I’ll tell you all that I knew. I swear I did not tell them, but I will tell you so that you know I am being truthful.”
Oboko smiled, though it was more of a leer. “I would not trust you. You are a woman, and you forget I have seen you at work.”
She snarled. “You’re just going to enjoy this, you bastard.”
Oboko chuckled. “Of course I will. But it will also ensure that I get the truth.” He returned to his work on Buchi. The electrics were not achieving the full result, so the general took his own personal thumbscrews from his pocket and applied them to the prisoner’s hand. Localized pain was less likely to make him pass out; maybe that was just something the general wanted to believe. It had been a long time since he had used these, and he had always enjoyed the reaction they provoked.
But Buchi was strong. His fingers were pulped and bleeding, but still he held out. Oboko found him an interesting opponent, but he was wearying of the task as time was moving on.
It was a knife applied in turn to the soles of the feet and the testicles that finally got the names Oboko wanted. Buchi could not be blamed. Perhaps the painkillers in his system had helped him hold out, but eventually the insane level of pain had made him crack. Ashamed and yet relieved as he babbled and the pain ebbed, he hung his head as he finished.
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