by Tim Heath
He could have given it another hour, that way being sure of what the movement ahead was looking like, confirming his hunch that they were stopping in Jega. Sixty minutes would have shown him, if the tracker was still in the same location, that they hadn’t moved. If, on the other hand, they had moved during that time, he would have wasted an hour––time he couldn’t afford to lose. Movement was now his only logical way forward. He was not far behind, and he had to catch them up.
He moved on from there, and at the border, there was some traffic ahead of him, three lorries and about a dozen cars. Two security personnel were working their way very slowly through the queue. He had no choice but to sit and wait his turn. The delay was unfortunate.
Across the border in Nigeria, in Jega itself, the three-man team holding Elizabeth had gained access to a warehouse on the edge of the city, with the van driven straight inside through the large metal shutter. They’d paid cash for the day, claiming they just wanted to keep the vehicle out of sight, which was plausible. Either the owner bought that, or he knew better than to question anything. Either way, they had it until nine that night, which would be ample. They hoped they would be back across the border and out of Nigeria long before then.
The shutter was closed behind them, so there was some element of privacy. It was not a residential area, in fact, most if not all the buildings they’d passed were in a sorry state of repair and barely looked usable. Elizabeth was allowed out of the van, taken to a small office area along the back wall, the one window in the stone wall too high, and barred, for an escape to be an option.
The handcuffs were released, though one man would stand guard regularly. It was the first time she’d been able to walk around for several days, and her legs and back hurt for that reason. Any movement was slow at first. Two days solid on the road since landing was hard going for anyone, let alone someone heading towards an unknown fate. She did her best to remain calm, though the burka she’d been wearing since being captured in Morocco was starting to sag, covered in sweat and some blood. Being black, it also felt hot. She wasn’t used to being covered up so much, especially in the heat of a climate she still hadn’t adjusted to, despite being there for some time already.
The van was always hot. The air-conditioning, if it had still been in working order, was never used. They rarely opened the windows, maybe fearing she’d call out. It made the shade of the warehouse all the more refreshing, and still being morning, the heat of the day had yet to set in really.
“I need the toilet,” she said to the man at the door. He didn’t seem to respond. “Toilet? Do you understand?” and this time he turned and walked over to the other two, a murmured conversation taking place. Moments later he came back with a bucket and hovered in the doorway while she made use of it. She was in some discomfort, the effects of the journey and what had been done to her while she was unconscious making themselves known to her again, not to mention the after effects of all the drugs they’d used to sedate her for as long as they did. When she’d finished, she stood up carefully, which wasn’t comfortable with the pain in the tops of her legs, and inspected the bucket. Extremely yellow liquid with traces of blood. She was apparently very dehydrated. She left the bucket there and went back over to the door.
“Water?” she said, and for good measure cupped her hand and put it to her lips. He seemed to understand and went to fetch her an unopened bottle of water. She grabbed it, thought about thanking him but then realised the absurdity of that, and opened the bottle. She took a small sip to start, her parched lips and mouth receiving it like desert sands in a rainstorm. She then downed the bottle in one go. She would need something to eat but would let the water do its job first. She’d gone much longer without food before, but getting regular water was what she most needed now. She didn’t know what was ahead of her, though evidently expected a handover was happening today. The warehouse made no other sense. And being Nigeria, her suspicions were growing by the hour.
She heard a conversation happening again outside and stood close to the door. The three men were speaking rapidly with one another, and it wasn’t English so that she couldn’t understand them but she was a good reader of body language. They seemed to be in some confusion as to what had to happen next. After a minute of this, two of the men proceeded to exit the warehouse through another smaller door that she hadn’t noticed before, the third man returning to the door of her room, spotting her watching him as he approached.
He raised the gun he had hanging over his shoulder level with her face, showing her he was still in charge she imagined and motioned with it for her to get away from the door and move back into the room, which she did. He didn’t seem to want to harm her, and she wondered what her chances would be trying to overpower him; though the burka wasn’t great for mobility, hers seemed tighter than it needed to be given that she wasn’t an enormous woman. He also had a gun, which stopped her attempting anything. Besides, she was in unknown lands. The room smelled, not helped by the bucket she’d just used sitting in the middle of the floor. She moved it to one side and then rested against the other wall, the brickwork damp, but she was past caring.
On the east of the city, not more than a couple of kilometres away from the warehouse, ten men connected with Boko Haram had based themselves. Four men had flown in the night before from the east and had been joined by six others who’d then driven them to Jega arriving at midnight the previous day. They’d stayed at a farm in the area, a local sympathiser to their cause, who’d given them a barn to use. The six men had also brought down a wide range of weapons, AK47s not in short supply.
“Gather round,” the leader called to his men, the other nine all coming to the table they were using, a map opened across it, detailing the area, Jega itself in the centre. “We’ve just had confirmation that the Moroccans are here. A warehouse owner was contacted about an hour ago and was told they needed someplace to keep a van all day.” He pointed to the map. “The warehouse is here, in this run down and mainly empty part of town.” The six members of the team who were more local to the area knew what that part of town was like, one of them growing up in Jega when the economy had been stronger and therefore before the time most of the businesses in that part of town closed down. Now just the empty, and often derelict, shells remained.
“Musi, take four men and have a look at the area. See what you can find out, though don’t give yourselves away. The fact they’ve set up base this early, coming twelve hours before the arranged pickup, suggests they are covering the bases. We need to know before they do what they are planning.” Musi turned and took four of the hired helpers with him, weapons on their shoulder, and went to the car, though the weapons were hidden from view. It wouldn’t be wise to openly drive around town with machine guns hanging out of the window. They pulled away just moments after being instructed to do some reconnaissance.
It was two in the afternoon when Musi came back to the house with the four others. He walked straight over to the leader.
“There are three of them. Two have been trying to secure a place to hold the negotiations with us. The warehouse is just where they must be holding the captive, and any other supplies they might have. The van must be inside. All we have had confirmed is that it’s just three of them.”
“And they are trying to keep us at arm’s length while they make their deal? That just won’t do. Gear up everyone, we’ll head out in fifteen minutes.” No one needed a second command from their leader, each man gathering together what weapons they wanted, spare ammunition clips taken and put into pockets, though by the look of it, with far greater firepower, it wasn’t going to be much of a contest. In three vehicles, they moved out quickly.
It would only take them a couple of minutes to get to the warehouse area, though because of its barren nature, even driving along the main road towards the target would alert the Moroccans to their approach, maybe giving the others time to hide, and indeed losing their element of surprise. So they took it cautiously, one vehicle pull
ing away from the convoy and, instead, going another route, to approach on foot from behind the warehouse. It was the vehicle with the five men who’d scouted out the facility earlier, so they had some understanding of the area. The other two cars waited a moment, until the first group were in place, before moving slowly along the road.
As expected, the sound and then the sight of two Jeeps approaching brought out two of the three men based at the warehouse. One man put a pair of army binoculars to his eyes, not liking what he was seeing.
“I think they’ve found us, or at least we’ve made someone’s radar. Weapons ready!” One man took up a position hidden behind the broken down wreck of a lorry that was in front of the warehouse, the other two went back into the warehouse garage area, closing the shutter behind them but leaving the door open.
Elizabeth noticed the commotion and taking one look through the door, recognised the defensive positioning her current captors were taking, sensing trouble before she heard the sound of the vehicles approaching. She walked over to the back wall, a barred window high above her, knowing that if she’d been on the outside, she would have sent a group to the back.
Hearing loose stones being disturbed on the other side of the window, she understood that this was what they’d done too, and wondered about warning those nearest her, but backed away instead. Firing started outside, which startled her, as she had assumed that those approaching were on the same side as her captors and were just taking precautions.
The firing had come from the five men approaching the warehouse from behind. They had got into a good position, seen the two Jeeps approaching and the subsequent reaction of those in the building, and they’d moved closer. They had seen two men go back into the warehouse, now out of sight as they were along the side wall, but saw the third man take position behind an old tanker of sorts. He had a gun on him and had a good line of sight down the road, but had no idea that from their side, his position was exposed.
As the Jeeps approached, the man hiding had raised his weapon. It was then that the leader of the five opened fire, taking out the first Moroccan. The two Jeeps swung to a stop, doors open and the remaining men got out. One car stopped behind the tanker, using it to shield their position from the warehouse in front of them.
The two Moroccans left inside the warehouse didn’t know what to do. They’d seen the two cars coming, counting at least five men, and the shooting had come from somewhere else, meaning an unknown number of extra people too. Greatly outnumbered, and confined to a single location, their prospects were bleak.
“Get the girl!” the Moroccan leader ordered, his partner moving across the floor towards the back room only to be hit in the back by a burst of fire coming from outside, throwing the Moroccan to the floor. The leader turned, as three men came in through the door, their weapons raised. He let off a single shot, catching one of the Nigerians in the shoulder as the other two Nigerians opened fire, taking out the last Moroccan in seconds. The sounds bounced around the enclosed space for a moment, before things settled down. The warehouse filled with the remaining men, a medical kit opened for the one Nigerian that had taken a bullet in the shoulder.
Cautiously the van was checked, but it was empty; besides, the three Nigerians had heard the instruction from one Moroccan to the other to get the girl. That had resulted in him moving towards the rear, his back lethally exposed. An easy target.
Walking towards the same rear door now, the leader of the group of Nigerians opened it cautiously. Elizabeth was standing at the back, a lump of concrete in her hand, covered head to foot in a black burka, though her eyes gave her away.
“I would drop that if I were you.”
She did nothing for a moment, before opening her hand and letting the rock just drop to the ground. It was not a fight she would ever be able to win, so to have resisted would only have risked her more serious harm, which would then limit her options later, should a better opportunity for escape present itself. Another man came over and frisked her quickly, a little too roughly maybe, before giving his commander the all clear. She was led out of the room and outside towards the vehicles.
“Put her in my car,” the leader said.
“What should we do about this place?”
“Bring the dead man beside the tanker inside; we’ll have someone come and clear it out another time. The owner asked us not to burn the place, which would have been a preference. He did us a favour, so I think I’d like to return it now. It’s an unused part of town, and no one will come across it. Just make sure the doors are all shut and let’s get out of here.”
Two men lifted the man they had first shot and took him back through the door into the warehouse. The shutter was then closed and locked from the inside, the front door pulled shut, though it didn’t have a lock on it.
Getting back into the convoy, the leader got into the back of his Jeep, sitting next to Elizabeth. Placing his hand high up on her left thigh, and squeezing hard, he looked her in the face and said; “You belong to us now.”
West Africa
Gudu had made good progress since crossing the border, which had delayed him over an hour as each of the lorries were checked, and when finally it was his turn, they’d taken a long time before just letting him through. Maybe they were seeing if he’d offer to bribe them? Perhaps he should have?
It was therefore already gone midday before he pulled into the town of Jega. Worshippers were leaving the mosque after prayers, going back to their homes and occasionally places of work, though from what he could see, there weren’t many of the latter. He stopped at a local store, needing some water, but more than that, he needed an internet signal. The owner of the store was Algerian, a foreigner like him, and spoke excellent English.
“No wireless internet here, my brother,” he’d said in reply to Gudu’s question. “Come, you may use my connection at home. It’s rather good.”
Gudu didn’t want to impose, nor be slowed down, but then he didn’t see what other option he had. This man was just showing good hospitality, though if he could avoid the delay of eating food together, he would.
“Where are you travelling from?”
“I come from Asia,” is all Gudu would say on the subject.
“I’m from Algeria. I don’t often see many outsiders passing through my store.” He had a genuine smile on his face, a happy man. Gudu returned the handshake that was offered.
“Please, come this way. It’s just through here,” and he led him into a well-decorated courtyard, plants in pots all over the place, adding colour and fragrance. “My wife will have been preparing lunch, and you must join us for something small and simple to eat.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting on the floor around a bowl of food, his wife was still in the kitchen and the sound of a child, or two, could be heard somewhere out at the back. Gudu had indeed managed to get an internet signal in the house, a decent one at that. The tracker was active, confirming both its location and proximity. He’d made a mental note, was working through the ramifications, as the food was served.
The wife and children had now come through, and it was the youngest child that held the bowl of food before them all. Gudu, as the guest, was offered food first, then the father. Once they’d taken what they wanted and the father had indicated this to his son, it was passed to the mother, and after her, the two children took what was left. Gudu waited until his host started to eat, aware of the customs in the region and not wanting to come across as impolite, though his thoughts were already racing, his focus on moving on as quickly as he could.
After lunch, which was homely and rich in flavour, he examined a map that his host had opened up on the floor in front of them.
“Tell me about this area here,” Gudu indicated, giving a broad sweep of the area he’d been notified about from the device.
“This? Mostly empty buildings now. I used to know a few of the firms working up there, but nothing’s been like it was for ten years already. Don’t think there is anyone the
re now. Why do you ask?”
“No real reason, just curious. Thank you, once more. Your wife is a fabulous cook, and your hospitality has been most generous. I really must get moving again now, though. I have still some way to go.”
“Only madmen and camels travel during the hottest part of the day,” he laughed.
“I don’t see many camels around here,” Gudu replied.
“Plenty of the other sort, mind you, so watch out. This country isn’t what it used to be.”
“I’ll take your words to heart,” he said, after saying goodbye to them both.
Five minutes later, he’d made his first pass of the area where the industrial units stood, able to tell right away that most had been empty and unused for a long time. It made a perfect choice to use. Somewhere in there, Elizabeth was being held. The quicker he could find out where the quicker he could ascertain the level of risk involved in her rescue. Gudu didn’t have any guns on him, having managed to get rid of the one he was carrying while waiting at the border that morning, aware of the searches that were being carried out. Still, he was highly skilled in unarmed combat, and could easily fashion any number of things left lying around into some killing device. From the state of the area in front of him, there would be no shortage of options.
He parked up five minutes’ walk from the main entrance to the industrial area, not wanting to use the main road in, the only obvious road until he’d thoroughly scouted the area. He moved silently over the rough terrain, passing through crumbling buildings and over piles of bricks, carefully inspecting the various options available. All were empty, and all showed no sign of life or any recent activity. Had they left in the time between seeing the signal and him going from the house? He quickened his pace, coming across a bullet casing, which he picked up, and while cold, the smell of the gunpowder told him it was recent. He peered around the corner, seeing nothing.