by Tim Heath
The next door down the corridor was open. It was a dormitory, and while Gudu could only see two empty bunks from where he was standing in the hallway, he heard the clear sound of snoring coming from further inside the room and therefore carried on in the direction he was walking. It was dark––and quiet.
33
London, England
In London, they’d just taken a call from the Americans.
“They are starting the process of speaking with the Nigerian government,” Adam said to the room, once he’d ended the call.
“Already? What time is it?” The clock on the wall said half past three in the morning.
“It’ll take some time to get the relevant people in place to have the conversation. They’ve requested an urgent telephone conference. The Nigerians will no doubt take a little while to be available for that. The Americans are getting ready to fly.”
“So it’s happening? When you first suggested they take this course of action, it seemed quite unlikely.”
“Yes, indeed––let’s see what happens. I don’t see the Nigerians having any real issue with it. Might even help them win their civil war which they’ve been fighting these last five years.”
Northern Nigeria
Elizabeth hadn’t found any keys on the guard who was lying unconscious on the floor of her cell. Frustratingly, he’d been telling her the truth. It wouldn’t take them long to realise what she had done, maybe a change in the shift was about to happen, the keys suddenly turning in the door’s lock behind her, just a few seconds of warning if that, and then what? Would she have to shoot her way out, with only three bullets? Three.
She’d checked him for extra ammo, which he also didn’t have. Had she shot him, she’d most probably have been captured by now, if not by the first two guards to come running through her door, then certainly the ones after them.
But someone would have to pay for what they’d done to her, and if it took three bullets, she’d use them. She could wait for another man to come to her cell, maybe relieving the one she’d knocked out, taking him prisoner too. He might also have had a gun, giving her a little more firepower. But what if he called through first? Checked if everything was okay and got no answer? What then?
She hated how she felt trapped, with no escape. And the longer she was there, the higher the risk of them finding out what she’d done. Having a gun was little protection when she couldn’t get out of the room.
Someone had to pay for what they’d done to her. She would have to hold this guard responsible, get some closure on her ordeal. Get her own back, though she would dish out the punishment far more humanely. A bullet almost felt too kind––too easy. Especially with what they’d done to her. But it was all she had. She was in control, she had her fate in her own hands, and she wasn’t going to let them take that from her again.
She stood above the guard’s head, aimed the gun at him, and pulled the trigger. The sound echoed around her cell.
Gudu heard the sound of gunfire, distant but unmistakable. It came from within the compound, he could tell, the sound of an enclosed space surrounded by brick. Thirty seconds later there was another shot. Then silence.
A group of men were then heard moving towards him. Gudu took flight, hiding in a storeroom he’d passed moments before, crouching low under the bottom shelves––had they listened to the gunfire too, was that why they were approaching? He pulled a box that was sitting on the floor across to cover him up even more. It worked. Not that they checked the room, the rush of men coming and then going past until they could not be heard anymore. He’d heard them just talking, laughing even. Gudu relaxed––clearly they hadn’t heard the gunshot as he had, their presence there just routine.
He made his way out of his hiding place carefully, using another door that led off from the room. It led to an empty corridor, three doors off the same side, all locked. Silence fell upon the place once more––it was almost too quiet.
He moved slowly, no sound emanating from his carefully placed steps, taking in the building around him––mapping it out. Understanding his way around, the compound opening up into a maze-like existence of corridors and rooms. Most were empty, a minimal sign of activity at all on this side of the building. He’d been able to navigate quite easily through its layout.
Finally, he made it to an area where one man sat guarding the hallway, three doors, metal and sturdy, leading off the space, two of them standing ajar, the third closed with some keys in the lock. A tray lay on the floor outside the door, with a glass of water and a bowl of something sitting on it. He’d made it to the cells, he was sure of it.
A bottle of something sat on the ground underneath the guard, his chair in the corner. The bottle's content was alcoholic given the man’s deep snoring, something many in the camp would have killed the guard on the spot for possessing. He had propped himself up against the wall as he slept off his drunken state. Gudu crept over to him, ever watchful, always careful. It could be the moment they came running, the trap sprung, lights on, guns firing.
The guard was sleeping soundly; there was no doubting that as Gudu got close. He didn’t need to take any action against him, which was the better solution, less delay with fewer issues about what to do with the body. Gudu took a chance, turning the key in the door, the sound of the lock was noticeable but minimal.
Inside was a scene that shocked him. In the centre of the room, a guard lay dead in a pile of blood, a bullet wound clear in his forehead. Next to the door was Elizabeth. She had a blood-soaked chest, not first noticeable through the black burka she was wearing, but the bullet had left a hole in the centre. He bent down to her and was pleased to find a heartbeat, faint but still present. Her eyes were closed, and at his touch she fought, an impulse that rocked Gudu off his feet momentarily, though not enough for him to drop her head to the floor. He gently held Elizabeth, stroking her hair tenderly, tears beginning to form on the edges of his eyes at the sight of her condition.
She opened her bloodshot eyes, which seemed to blur for a moment before recognition came, his same Elizabeth appearing just briefly, locked away deep inside the ravaged body he was holding, her face bruised and contorted. He might not have recognised her from the way she looked lying on the ground, had he not known she was here.
“You came,” she said, in a whisper that used the very last of her energy. She was gone.
Gudu held her tight to him, tears running down his face, waves of emotion now flooding through him. It was his fault, and he knew it. He should never have left her. He noticed at this moment the gun still in her left hand, her fingers tight around the trigger. She’d done this to herself. She’d fired the weapon that had killed her. She’d given up hope of rescue.
Washington DC, USA & Nigeria
The Americans had briefed the Nigerians about their actions, the Presidents of both countries having the final few minutes with just the two of them on the secure line. The Nigerians had put up no objections to the US Airforce flying through their airspace, confirming they would let their air traffic control know, that all early flights would be grounded across the whole country until the all-clear was given. It was hoped the disruptions would be minimal, and to that end, the Americans promised to do their best.
It was therefore shortly after 5 am, local time, in the Gulf of Guinea fifty kilometres off the coast of Nigeria, that the Captain of the leading aircraft carrier confirmed that the mission was a go. Military authorisation codes were given, the standard procedure taking little time as the Joint Chiefs each did what they needed to do in the White House, wishing their pilots and all connected personnel the best of luck before ending the call.
On board the ships that had anchored the night before, the bells rang out, alerting the crews to action stations. The first jets were to take off in thirty minutes, with an hour’s flight time needed to reach the attack zone. It was not yet dawn.
Northern Nigeria
Gudu had stayed with the body of Elizabeth for several minutes, more
time than he had intended. He’d lost track of time, lost all sense of meaning to life at that moment. He had to get out of there; there was nothing for him now. He’d been too late, always too far behind them to be able to catch up.
And though he wanted to take revenge––to destroy everyone responsible for her death––he couldn't do that against such vast numbers.
Returning to the door, the same guard was still soundly asleep on the chair outside. Gudu closed the door, locking it again, taking the keys with him this time. He heard movement now coming along the corridor towards him and instinct took over. Gudu jumped into a dark corner of another cell, one that had been open, hoping they wouldn’t bother to look in there.
There were two men, maybe coming to fetch the prisoner, perhaps a change of guard. He heard a loud conversation, and the sleeping guard kicked hard to wake him, which apparently happened moments after. There was an argument, the sound of men banging on the door.
Then laughter––he got it. They thought the guard had locked himself in to have some fun with the prisoner. It was typical practice, and it sickened Gudu. Had that been why she’d shot him? They stayed around for a while, banging the door occasionally, saying stuff Gudu could not understand. He kept quiet, taking it in, knife at the ready, hoping for above all that they would move on soon so that he could get out of there. He had no other way of escape but the door he’d entered through, the three cells all linked by the one corridor.
After ten minutes, though it could have been a lot longer it was hard to tell, he distinctly heard the men leaving, maybe going for another set of keys. That left the one guard, and though awake, given the half-empty bottle of vodka he’d apparently been sleeping off, Gudu assumed the alcohol in his body would still affect him. Gudu emerged from the room as the guard was retaking his seat, bottle to his lips, head back but eyes wild as they caught sight of the movement to the left. Gudu leapt from the shadows and plunged the knife into the man’s heart, killing him instantly.
The bottle fell to the floor, smashing, Gudu running up the corridor. He retraced his steps until an alarm sounded. Lights came on, the sounds of men running back and forth. They’d apparently discovered the scene by the cells, the death of the guard alerting them to the fact they had a visitor. Gudu found somewhere to hide and concealed himself in the room. Still very much inside the compound, but so far, undetected. He hoped they would assume one of the fellow guards had killed him, motive unknown. As long as they didn’t spot the rope in the loading bay, he might still have a chance.
Nigerian Airspace
The two refuelling planes were airborne as the last of the F18s took off from the aircraft carriers. A route had been marked out for them, allowing them to miss all of the main cities in the south, as they made landfall around one hundred kilometres east of Lagos. Flying low, they created a noise, but they passed mainly farming areas, forests too. About half the jets would be refuelled before the attack started, while the first half of the F18s were making their initial bombing runs. That would give enough time for all the jets to be refuelled for the return journey.
The first light was just coming up as the jets bore down on the target area. Visual contact was established just after six, the first bombs due to land before the sound of the planes would be heard. The jets were lined up ten wide in an attack-formation, and the first forty missiles would light up the base, causing extensive damage. As the next wave of jets made their approach, the fires were already bright, though some movement was seen, as dozens more missiles then hit their target––vehicles, buildings and tents disappearing beneath pillars of smoke.
The initial attack lasted twenty minutes, the payloads of each jet all but emptied, a few F18s using their guns to sweep the ground, taking down the men who had started to flee. Unable to put up a fight against such firepower, their only hope was to run.
The call came for most jets to return to the ship, two groups of three aircraft deployed to sweep the area, checking for movement in the camp which they did with thermal imaging cameras, as well as looking for visual confirmation. The fires gave off so much heat that it didn’t help the cameras too much.
All that could be seen from the skies above were bodies. The tents had burnt themselves out, and militants were seen lying in pools of blood, each vehicle destroyed, the brick compound flattened, fires still burning in a few places.
No vehicles had got off the compound, the attack so instant.
“It’s a positive,” the lead pilot called through, confirming the target was down. “Let’s sweep the wider area to be sure, then return to the ship.”
“Sure thing!” came the reply.
Taking a loop around, one group of three going north then anti-clockwise, then others going north then clockwise, they covered a large ring around the base. Smoke was filling the air already, and there would be no hiding the fact of what had happened.
“We have a car moving fast through the scrubland at two o’clock,” one pilot called in. There was a moment’s delay as a reply was awaited from the ship.
“It’s a negative, satellite image confirmed, vehicle not present at base camp––just a friendly. Return to ship everyone, good job!”
Northern Nigeria
Gudu had been pinned down in the compound for hours. Dawn was fast approaching. The alarms had switched off, the movement of people was noticeably less. If they’d discovered the dead prisoner, it didn’t appear they were doing much about it. He knew his car awaited him beyond the hills; there might be an escape and an unknown future.
Maybe they were waiting for him by the rope, sitting in the darkness, in the shadows––which would be an ironic way for him to go.
He realised he had nothing to lose, and reappeared from his hiding place, not a soul in sight. Getting back to the loading bay, gun ready, he was relieved to find no one waiting for him, his rope still just hanging there, the sky growing noticeably lighter above. Darkness had been his cover for so long. He would now have to run hard to get away, run and not stop, hoping with everything that there were no early risers, no smokers just taking a walk or men needing a pee. If there were, they would see him for sure. So he would just run.
Climbing the rope, night goggles off as they weren’t needed anymore, Gudu pulled himself back out of the space where the window had been.
Jumping to the ground, he stuck to the shadows that remained, moving as quickly as he could, desperate to make his vehicle, to get away from there, to never touch that place again.
It was just ten minutes later that the first jets struck, tearing across the skies, the sound catching Gudu off-guard as explosions erupted in the near distance. Head down, and he kept running––running away from the explosions, away from all the madness. Running for his vehicle––running.
The Importance of a Review
Reviews should be automatic. Think of it as a tip left for the waiting staff after a meal out. Except, the book you’ve just devoured wasn’t prepared in just the last twenty minutes––the author has possibly spent months agonising over it.
Sadly, very few people leave a review.
Reviews greatly help an author. They do not need to be wordy (but they can be), you do not need to talk about all aspects of the book (but you can if you wish), they just need to be there. Visual. They help other readers to choose a book, thereby increasing the author’s readership. They also affirm, encourage and help the author to keep going. There are days when you just want to quit.
So now you know. I make it a matter of principle always to review a book I’ve read––how about you?
Acknowledgments
I need to thank my incredible editorial team as always––Elizabeth Knight, Steve Dunn and Chelsea Bielskus. As with each novel, your input and advice have been most helpful, and I have usually taken that onboard.
Any errors that remain are therefore entirely my own.
Thank you most of all for believing in me and encouraging me in my pursuit of this dream––this writing career. Thank
you for giving me the confidence that this is something I can do.
My cover design was once again the work of Taaniel Malleus, who got worked hard this time as I debated which cover to use. I think we got there in the end!
A shout-out needs to go to the members of my closed Facebook group Tea Time with Tim––you keep me encouraged! I hope you love this one.
The same is true for all my readers––enjoy!
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