Ulenga nodded, carrying his AKMS as he followed Bolan across the backyard to a door that opened into the small home’s kitchen. It was locked, but yielded in a moment to the picks Bolan carried in his pocket. When the lock was beaten, the big American spent several moments more checking the doorjamb for a trip wire, but found none. At last, they stood inside the house and Bolan turned on the lights.
It smelled of sweaty men, but as predicted, there was no one home. They cleared the rooms, checked closets and confirmed that they had missed the enemy. No guns remained, although Ulenga found a partial crate of AK-47 ammunition in the smaller of two bedrooms.
“So, how shall we do it?” the sergeant inquired.
“The stove is gas,” Bolan answered. “Get some of their clothes, and those newspapers from the living room, to start a fire there, in the hallway. I’ll put out the pilot light.”
When they departed moments later, gas was hissing from the stove’s four burners, on its way to filling up the kitchen. When it reached the threshold and the flames crackling beyond, it would become a bright and noisy night in Hochland Park.
“Too bad the place was empty,” Ulenga said, as he climbed into the Volkswagen.
“Consider it a rest stop,” Bolan replied. “We may not have another till we’re done.”
Ulenga frowned and nodded, wondering when that would be.
Or if he’d live to see the end of what he had begun.
* * *
IT HAD BEEN A LONG night for Fanuel Gurirab, with no end in sight. The city was erupting with a spate of violence unequaled in a decade, and he found himself confronted with the man who shared a heavy burden of responsibility for what was happening. A man, unfortunately, whom he could not touch thanks to protection from Gurirab’s own superiors.
But he was damned if he would treat his visitor with more than casual respect.
“How may I help you?” Gurirab inquired.
Seated across his desk and leaning forward like an eager salesman, Boavida said, “I take it that you are aware of what is happening?”
Gurirab frowned and said, “Perhaps you could be more specific.”
“The unwarranted attacks upon my party members!” Boavida snapped at him.
“When you say party members, you refer to the Mayombe Liberation Front?” Gurirab asked.
“You know I do!”
“I’m not aware that it has any status as a party in Namibia,” Gurirab said.
“I mean to say—”
“In fact,” the second in command of Nampol’s D Department said, “your ‘party members’ are the prime suspects in several ongoing felony investigations.”
“If that is true, why haven’t you arrested them?”
“I think we both know why,” Gurirab said. “Now, I repeat my question—what is it you hope that I can do for you?”
“Stop this! Stop all of it!” the MLF’s commander hissed at him through gritted teeth. “My men are being killed, my property destroyed. It’s your duty—”
“I understand my duty,” Gurirab informed him. “Normally, it would be fighting crime. As luck would have it, though, I sometimes am constrained from the performance of that function. You’re aware of that, perhaps?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Boavida said, blinking at him nervously.
“That must be my mistake,” Gurirab said. “In any case, let me assure you that all officers at my disposal have been mobilized during this time of crisis. They are on alert and actively investigating recent incidents of violence in Windhoek and environs. If and when the guilty parties are identified, they will be called to an accounting.”
“Ah. And what if some of your own men are found to be responsible? What then?” Boavida asked.
Gurirab leaned forward, elbows planted on his desk. “That is a grave defamatory accusation,” he replied. “Unless, of course, you are prepared to offer evidence?”
“I have none,” Boavida answered, “but it’s something to consider, yes? A foreigner arrives and knows exactly where to find my people. Does it not make sense to think that he has guidance from inside?”
“Inside Namibia, perhaps,” Gurirab said. “But why Nampol?”
“Who else pays such attention to the MLF’s activities?” Boavida asked.
Gurirab responded with a shrug. “I couldn’t say,” he answered. “It’s apparent that you must have enemies. UNITA in your homeland, for example, cannot be too fond of you.”
“If they’re responsible for this, it is an act of war against Namibia! Perhaps I should be speaking to the army, rather than to you?”
“I’m sure they would be thrilled to hear from you,” Gurirab said.
“But it is your job to protect my people!”
“On that subject, when you say your people and your property, may I assume that you’re referring to the individuals and structures damaged in the various attacks of late?”
“What else?” Boavida asked.
“So…we have a gang of pirates with illegal weapons, an apparent drug laboratory with more weapons and a house of prostitution. Are there any members of your ‘party’ who obey the law?”
It took a moment for the MLF commander to recover his composure. When he could control his voice, he said, “I must tell you that I resent—”
“Feel free to lodge a full complaint with my superiors,” Gurirab interrupted him. “If I am fortunate, perhaps they will demote me to a post where I can once again arrest the scum of Windhoek, rather than protecting them. Meanwhile, if you’ll excuse me, I am busy looking for the men who’ve inconvenienced you.”
Gurirab watched as Boavida stormed out of his office, wondering if he had doomed his own career. And he was rather startled to discover that he didn’t care.
* * *
AFTER STRIKING OUT in Hochland Park, Bolan wanted a better target for his next strike. Running down the list he had compiled with Ulenga, he picked another arms cache in the Windhoek suburb known as Rocky Crest. They took the Western Bypass south to Otjomuise Road, then traveled west again to Sando Road and followed it into the heart of Rocky Crest. No bird names there. Instead, the streets had geographic monikers: Iceland, Long Island, Falkland, Tenerife.
The place they wanted was on Gotland Road, disguised as a convenience store. While it sold groceries and smokes out front, the back room was supposed to be a storehouse for assorted arms and ammunition stockpiled by the MLF, either awaiting use inside Namibia or shipment out of the country. The arsenal was known to law enforcement, but the MLF’s allies in government had placed it out of bounds for raiding.
Sadly for the rebels, those elected stooges had no influence over the Executioner.
The shop, as indicated by the splash of neon reading Day & Nite, was open twenty-four hours a day. The clerk on duty as they entered was a beefy man with deep scars on a round face framed by dreadlocks. As they entered, he was reaching underneath the counter for a weapon or a panic button, neither part of Bolan’s plan.
“Stand easy,” Bolan warned him, covering the night man with his silencer-equipped Beretta.
“I don’t know the combination to the safe,” he told them, pointing to a sign that verified that fact, thumbtacked to the nearby wall.
“No problem,” Bolan said. “We’re here to see your special stock in back.”
The guy considered the request for two or three heartbeats, then made his move again, lunging beneath the register. Bolan’s Beretta coughed and opened up a keyhole on the man’s forehead, dark blood spouting from it as he went down.
The stout door to the gun room had a padlock on it, but the 92-F’s Parabellum shockers rapidly detached it from the doorjamb. Seconds later, Bolan and Ulenga were inside the arsenal, surrounded by wall racks of automatic weapons, crates of
ammunition and plastic explosives neatly stacked before them.
“If you see something you like,” Bolan said, “put it on your shopping list.”
“More ammunition would be useful,” his companion noted.
“Right. Some of this plastic might be handy, too, if they have detonators,” Bolan said.
They did.
Between them, Bolan and Ulenga moved their latest acquisitions to the store’s front room, then Bolan doubled back to prime a Semtex charge he judged was large enough to trash the rest beyond repair. Leaving, they turned the open sign around to show the store was closed, and locked the door behind them to prevent some innocent from wandering inside before it blew.
Back in the car, Ulenga said, “I should have gotten coffee.”
“Never mind,” Bolan replied. “We’ll find another place, my treat. We’ve got all night.”
Chapter 9
“Can you believe it!” Oscar Boavida raged. “I had to sit there in his office while he said that I—that all of us—are common criminals!”
Jamba saw no value in reminding Boavida that he had demanded an after-hours audience with Gurirab at Nampol headquarters, a risky move at best, under the present circumstances. Rather, he replied, “Not common criminals, perhaps.”
The MLF commander rounded on him, snapping, “What is that supposed to mean?”
Jamba allowed himself a shrug. “Consider it from his view. He is a police officer. We break laws. We are, in fact, committing crimes.”
“But for a higher good!”
“Of course, sir,” Jamba answered, soothingly. “But a policeman’s mind is narrow, eh? He sees the letter of the law, and little else. When his superiors demand that he ignore some illegitimate activity and he receives no proceeds from it, anger is predictable. And now, with all that has been happening—”
“That is another thing,” Boavida said. “He as much as blamed me for the fact our men are being murdered. The gall of it! We are the victims!”
“As you always say,” Jamba replied, “this is a war and we have chosen sides. A death in combat is not murder, and there are no innocents.”
“Stop quoting me, for God’s sake!”
“Yes, sir.” Jamba bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. “I apologize.”
“At least I left him thinking about my idea,” Boavida said.
“Which idea is that, sir?” Jamba asked.
“That a member of his own department is behind these raids, or at the very least directing others to their targets,” Boavida said.
“Was he receptive, sir?”
“He will consider it,” Boavida said, sneering. “He’s so gracious. Willing to consider the idea, while acting as if I’d insulted his department. Think of it! They pocket bribes from anyone with cash in hand, but still pretend they’re virtuous.”
“Even a thief needs self-respect,” Jamba said.
Boavida shot his top lieutenant a suspicious glance, as if the comment had been aimed at him specifically. And so it had, at least in part, though he could hardly take offense without making the point more obvious. Jamba was speaking of himself as well, conscious that he was guilty of repellent acts that stained his soul—if such a thing existed in reality.
Most days, he hoped that it did not.
“Tell me what you accomplished,” Boavida ordered.
“Sir, the two Nampol detectives that I’ve cultivated will be checking personnel lists when they can, looking for officers whose recent actions have been out of character. To start, they’ll look for missing men.”
“Why missing?” Boavida asked.
“Because all leaves and holidays are canceled in the present crisis,” Jamba said. “An officer who’s not on duty must present a medical certificate that he’s unfit to serve. Only a handful qualify. So, anyone without a doctor’s note—”
“Is absent without leave,” Boavida said, catching on. “He’s run off on some errand of his own.”
“Exactly, sir.”
“And may be working with our enemies.”
“At least a possibility,” Jamba agreed.
“Good thinking.” Boavida rarely offered compliments, and even then with visible reluctance, but he seemed to mean it this time.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t gloat! You haven’t caught him yet.”
“No, sir. But soon, perhaps.”
“You’ve heard about the Gotland Road attack, I take it?” Boavida asked.
“Yes, sir. I knew Raus Simon.”
“Who?”
“Our soldier who was killed,” Jamba explained, tight-lipped at Boavida’s ignorance and disrespect.
“Oh, yes. Of course. His sacrifice will not be overlooked.”
Liar, Jamba thought, but he swallowed it, unspoken.
“What else have you done, besides alerting the detectives?” Boavida asked.
“As you directed, sir, all of our men are on alert, combing the city. All informants have been or will soon be contacted. Arms dealers in particular are being pressed for lists of recent buyers.”
“Don’t forget the whores,” Boavida said.
“Sir?”
“With men this violent, this virile…well, you understand.”
“I’ll see to it,” Jamba said, marveling once more at Boavida’s thought processes.
“Then I won’t keep you,” Boavida said, dismissing him. “Keep me advised of any news.”
Leaving the office, Jamba wondered how much more of Boavida he could tolerate—and how much more the MLF could stand. Perhaps the time was coming for a change in leadership. Under the present circumstances, he imagined that a wise man could advance himself, while laying any blame on others.
It was something to consider.
And the prospect made him smile.
* * *
“THAT’S HIM,” ULENGA SAID. “In the red shirt.”
Bolan watched three men walking west along Fidel Castro Street, near Zoo Park in Windhoek Central. The guy in the middle wore red, flanked by a blue shirt on his left, green on his right. They’d left a shebeen—one of Windhoek’s many unlicensed saloons—and were proceeding toward another, either drinking on the job or trolling for a contact.
“And the other two?” Bolan asked.
“Soldiers. José Dembo is the one we need,” Ulenga said.
For inside information, that would be. After their string of hits around Windhoek, Bolan wanted a bigger target, something that would make the MLF’s resident brass begin to panic. Rattling cages only worked if the cost could be ramped up high enough to force the opposition’s hand.
“He’s high enough inside to give us what we need?” Bolan inquired.
“Fifth in command,” Ulenga said. “Or maybe fourth by now, with those we have eliminated.”
“That should do it,” Bolan said. “We’ll let them check out this saloon, then take them when they leave.”
All three were packing, naturally. He could see that from a distance, even with their baggy shirts and under the garish neon lights. There might be times when members of the MLF left home without their guns, but not this night. Not after all the hell Bolan had raised, all of their comrades he had slain. Each soldier had to know there was a target painted on his back, and all would have their orders to seek out the faceless enemy, to capture or destroy him.
So they’d be alert for trouble, but that didn’t mean they would be quick enough to save themselves. From what he knew about the MLF, its so-called soldiers in Namibia were more accustomed to offensive action than defense, their targets normally civilians, typically unarmed. But the boot was finally on the other foot, and it had been kicking them unmercifully since Bolan had turne
d up at Durissa Bay.
With any luck at all, these three would never know what hit them.
Bolan parked the Jetta in an alley half a block west of the bar that José Dembo and his men had entered. Waiting could become a problem, if they stayed inside the joint too long, but Bolan let Ulenga watch the sidewalk, calculating that he would raise fewer eyebrows than a white man loitering. Once he received Ulenga’s signal, Bolan could be at his side in seconds flat to greet the three commandos and extract the one he planned to keep alive.
At least, for the time being.
Ten minutes ran into fifteen, creeping toward twenty. Bolan was considering a backup plan when Ulenga flagged him from the alley’s mouth, then stepped back out of sight from anybody passing on the street. Bolan moved in, the silencer-equipped Beretta in his right hand, standing ready in the shadows when his targets showed themselves, muttering some complaint about the hour and their fruitless mission.
Bolan did not call them out, gave them no chance to draw first in the great Wild West tradition. Two quick coughs from the Beretta, and before he knew it, Dembo was alone, still talking to the flankers who were sprawled on either side of him, blood spilling from their shattered skulls. The man had barely noticed their condition when a strong hand gripped his collar, spinning him around, and Bolan pressed his silencer beneath the startled gunman’s chin.
“You want to live?” he asked.
His gun blocked Dembo’s nod.
“Okay,” the Executioner advised him, as Ulenga stepped in to disarm their prisoner. “Let’s take a little ride.”
* * *
DESPITE THE NATURAL REVULSION that he felt in Boavida’s presence, Gurirab could not ignore the possibility that he had raised concerning possible involvement of a Nampol officer—or more than one—in the attacks that forced him to remain at Nampol Headquarters when he would rather have been home in bed.
Most officers of the Namibian Police, Gurirab still believed, had joined the force in hopes of doing good and helping others. Those who sought adventure would have pictured chasing criminals and putting them in jail, perhaps with gunplay thrown in on occasion. Doubtless, there were some bad apples who had joined Nampol specifically to take advantage of the rampant graft found in Namibia, or otherwise advance themselves as criminals. That kind of officer was found in every nation of the world, without exception. But he thought—or hoped—that they comprised a small minority. Most officers were honest when they started on the job, but found themselves worn down over the years of making do with low pay while they watched too many criminals escape whatever passed for justice in the courts.
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