Conflict Zone

“I do not fear him,” he replied.

“So it’s true, then,” Mandy said.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not just another ugly face. You’re stupid, too.”

That wiped his smile off, finally. James sprang at her, swinging an open hand, but Mandy ducked and back-pedaled to the farthest corner of her tiny hut.

“Where will you run?” he asked her. “I can chase you all night long.”

“I’m betting that’s the only thing you’d manage all night long.” She spat at him.

“I’ll teach you some respect!” James snarled, advancing toward her in a half crouch, primed to spring.

“Or I’ll teach you to sing soprano,” Mandy threatened.

“I enjoy a challenge.”

“Start with something simple, like that body odor,” she replied.

His smile had turned into a snarl, teeth bared and clenched. She could almost hear James growling like an animal as he crept forward.

“You will beg for death before I’m finished with you, American!”

“So, skip the foreplay,” she replied, “and shoot me. It’s the only way you’re getting what you want.”

“We’ll see.” He almost giggled with excitement.

James was so intently focused on his target that he had to have missed the sound of the hut door opening and closing. Mandy felt despair wash over her, until she saw a soldier standing on the threshold, watching her.

His voice was pure America as he told James, “Okay, let’s see it now.”

AZUKA BANKOLE WAS tired. It seemed that he was always tired these days. Patrols and skirmishes, the oilfield raids and guarding hostages—they all took time and energy. Though he had just turned thirty-one last month, Bankole felt as if he was already getting old.

The ganja helped, of course.

Prime smoke, imported from Edo State, Delta’s next-door neighbor to the north, where everyone agreed the best plants in Nigeria—perhaps in all of Africa—were grown. The government agencies tried to eradicate cannabis farming, but nothing thus far had succeeded.

Based on what he knew of history and human nature, Bankole believed nothing ever would.

And that was fine with him.

He had a fat joint rolled and ready, already between his lips—a match in hand—when he heard someone just outside the open door of his command post. First, it was a nervous shuffling of feet, then clearing of the throat. At last, the interloper worked up nerve enough to knock.

“What is it now?” Bankole asked.

A shadow fell across the threshold. Looking up, Bankole recognized Omo Kehinde. He took modest pride in knowing all his men by name, although in truth, there were a number of them he’d be happy to forget.

“Captain?” Kehinde made a question of it, as if trying to confirm Bankole’s identity.

“Yes, it’s me,” Bankole answered, feeling irritated now. “What do you want?”

“I am supposed to guard the prisoner,” Kehinde said.

“So?”

“My time to guard the prisoner is now.”

“Then go and do it. Why tell me?”

“Captain, Lieutenant Okereke ordered me to leave my post,” Kehinde said, standing with eyes downcast. “I had no choice but to—”

“Obey. I understand.”

Bankole understood too well, in fact. He’d given strict orders that no one was to touch the hostage without his express permission, which hadn’t been granted. Knowing that James Okereke had a certain way with women, Bankole had taken him aside, in private, to repeat the order personally. The lieutenant had smiled, nodded and said he understood.

Of course he understood, Bankole thought. But now, the first time that my back is turned…

“I’ll deal with this,” Bankole told his nervous soldier. “You have done your duty and should fear no punishment.”

“Yes, Captain. Thank you, Captain.”

With regret, Bankole dropped the ganja joint into a pocket of his sweat-stained shirt, stood and took a second to confirm that he hadn’t removed his gun belt. There was no need to inspect the holstered pistol on his hip, since it was always loaded, with a live round in the chamber.

It was time to teach his men an object lesson.

Okereke, never the best lieutenant in the world, would make a fine example for the rest.

And what would happen if he had damaged the hostage, against Bankole’s orders? What would Ekon Afolabi say—or do—when he found out? Punishing Okereke first might help Bankole’s case. If it didn’t, well, there was nothing he could do about it now.

Spurred by a sudden sense of urgency, he brushed past Kehinde and out of the CP not quite double-timing, but leaving no doubt that he was a man in a hurry, with places to go and people to see.

Or to kill.

No one tried to intercept or to pester him with questions as he crossed the compound, striding toward the hut that held his one and only prisoner. Bankole felt his anger building with each step he took, its heat evaporating the fatigue that plagued him.

He should thank James Okereke for the swift shot of adrenaline, before his own swift shot ended the skulking bastard’s worthless life.

BOLAN’S BERETTA COUGHED once through its sound suppressor, and dropped the rapist in his tracks. The dead man shivered and then lay still, blood drooling from the keyhole in his forehead.

Bolan recognized the stunned young woman from her photos, but he still went for the confirmation. “Mandy Ross?”

“Uh-huh. And you are?”

“Taking you away from here, if that’s all right.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”