Insurrection

Paul let out a sudden laugh that sounded like gravel banging the insides of a washing machine. “At first they did not know. So I continued to pretend to be a part of them, but leaked information to the Christians.” He jerked his chin to one side, indicating that Nigerian Christians were hiding in the building, somewhere behind him. “But then my duplicity was discovered and a price was put on my head. Since that time, I have hidden here. I go out only at night, and even then I must wear a disguise.” He lifted his left arm and tapped the sleeve of his tunic. “But I will help you in any way I can. And like the original Paul, I will give my life for Christ if it comes to that.”

“It very well might,” Bolan told him.

Paul nodded again. “Then let me take you to meet some of the other Christians hiding out here,” he said. “A few are warriors and ready to assist us in our struggle. But most—as in any group of people—do not have the temperament for violence, even when it is warranted.”

“Not everyone does,” Bolan said.

Paul squinted slightly, looking as if he was taking the soldier’s measure. “But you do,” he said. “You have the capacity for violence. Wouldn’t you say you were a violent man?”

“No,” the Executioner replied. “I wouldn’t. I’m just good at it when it’s necessary.”

“I understand.” Paul looked down at the lime-green luggage Bolan and Galab had set on the floor. “Perhaps we can find some less eye-catching bags for you.”

The Executioner let out a small chuckle. “I was going to ask you to do that,” he said. “These bags have been an albatross around my neck ever since I left the airport.”

Paul turned to lead them down the hall. Overhead was more exposed wiring, plastic pipe, and long strips of insulation stapled to the ceiling. The unexplained buzzing had increased in volume threefold.

Now, the soldier recognized the sound as some sort of electric saw. It was just more of whatever construction was happening on the roof. In addition to the saw, he could still hear the sounds of electric guns spitting out nails, and other hand tools such as hammers, wrenches and pliers twisting metal.

The ancient structure’s outside belied its interior, and made a good hiding place for people who had been forced into going underground. The restoration wasn’t finished, but the place seemed livable. They passed two rooms that contained stored furniture, canned goods and other “survival” items. An armed man was stationed in each room. In the first, a dark-skinned Nigerian had a Smith & Wesson revolver stuck in his belt. The white-skinned guy in the other storage room held an Uzi in both hands.

Paul and Galab led Bolan through a confusing labyrinth of twists and turns.

“Many of these hallways lead to dead ends,” Paul told him. “We have designed it this way in order to confuse any attackers unfamiliar with the layout. Layla and I, and the people hiding here, know the place by heart.” He paused a moment and coughed several times. It was a low, grumbling, garbling sound that bespoke some serious upper respiratory problem rather than just a sore throat or allergies. When he had finished, he said, “I doubt that you will be here long enough to need to know the floor plan.”

“No, maybe not,” Bolan replied. “But it never hurts to know things like that. I’ve been memorizing these corners and turns as we’ve walked.”

The soldier found more of the same when he followed Paul and Layla around a bend to yet another doorway. The room it led to was larger, and appeared to have been chosen primarily as housing. Men and women sat scattered around the space. Bare mattresses covered much of the floor, and the furnishings consisted of a few mismatched chairs and tables, plus one well-worn sofa. Most people in the room sat on the mattresses or the tile floor. At the rear an open door exposed a white sink and toilet. Although he didn’t count them, it looked to Bolan as if there were roughly a dozen individuals present, and the single bathroom appeared to service them all.

Paul stopped just outside the doorway and turned to Bolan. A moment passed during which the Christian convert took in a deep breath prior to speaking. At the same time, the people in the room suddenly noticed their presence, and all eyes in the room swept to Bolan and Galab as conversation ceased.

In the quiet seconds that followed, the soldier heard faint crunching and swishing sounds somewhere in the distance. He could hardly be certain, but it sounded like someone digging. And it was not all that different from the sounds that issued from Paul’s congested chest.

Bolan looked through the door at the uprooted Christians gathered. There were slightly more men than women, and a good number of them suffered from one kind of physical disability or another. Wheelchairs and crutches were prevalent, and one man wore an oxygen nose piece that was attached to a tank by clear plastic tubing.

“I don’t see any children,” Bolan said.

Paul’s chest rumbled when he spoke. “We have shipped the children out of Nigeria to Christian families in neighboring countries,” he said. “Much like the British sent children to the United States during World War II. These are people who have been attacked by the Bokos and escaped. Or a few who we know were targeted, but got away in time with their families. Boko Haram has a death list, and most of these people are on it.”

Sweat had broken out on his forehead and he used his forearm to wipe it away. “I call this the congregation room. Like the congregation in a church,” he went on. “We have several such hiding places around Ibadan, and all are overcrowded like this one.” He stopped to draw in another raspy breath. “And we never know from one second to the next when one may have been compromised. We anxiously await attacks that are sure to come sooner or later.”

Bolan looked at the faces around the room that had fixed on him. They were dirty and weary and scared. His mind drifted to the happy, playing children he had seen back at the Isaac Center. They had been too young to understand what had happened to their families, but these people were adults, and they understood the danger they were in. Their expressions showed the strain of being forced into a constant survival state of mind. When he looked into their faces, however, Bolan got at least a thin smile from each and every one of them.

They were human, so they were worried. And they were scared. But in spite of all that there was a positive spirit that seemed to emanate from them.

Bolan set his bags on the floor and looked back up again. This time he took note of three men standing against the walls. One leaned back against the far wall of the room, an American-made M16A2 hanging from a sling looped over his shoulder. Two more men—one with a Belgian FAL and the other bearing an AK-47—did the same against the side walls. The man with the M16 was fiddling with the safety. The one holding the FAL was trying to figure out how to adjust the collapsible stock, and the Nigerian who bore the AK-47 was simply staring down at his weapon as if he’d just seen it for the first time.