Don Pendleton - Conflict Zone

“I need to speak with Bankole,” Afolabi said.

“He’s one of those who died, Ekon.”

“Lucky for him. Who is still alive, then?”

“From the camp?”

“I don’t mean from the Lagos red-light district. Think, Taiwo!”

“Sorry.” The huge man looked as if he meant it. “There were thirty-five or forty men in camp. Subtract fifteen, you have—”

“For God’s sake, don’t start doing math,” Afolabi snapped. “Question all of them. They must remember something more about this shambles than a ‘big white man.’ Did he say anything? If so, was there an accent to his voice? Did he leave anything behind, aside from bodies? Can we find out who he was and where he came from?”

“I will ask them, Ekon.”

“No. Send Pius to do it. I can’t spare you here, with this shit going on.”

The lie was intended to soothe his lieutenant’s feelings, in case he worked out for himself that Pius was smarter, more adept at drawing the truth out of people without using brute force as a first resort. Pius would obtain the information Afolabi wanted and report it without stumbling over any bits, forgetting what was most important in the lot.

And once he had that information, then Afolabi could unleash Babatunde to do what he did best.

“It could have been the girl’s father,” Babatunde said, as if talking to himself.

“Too soft,” Afolabi replied. “The only way he could kill fifteen men is by stealing their savings online and letting them starve.”

“I mean, he could have hired someone,” Babatunde explained.

Afolabi paused in the midst of his pacing and beard-tugging, just long enough to close his eyes and offer up a silent prayer for strength. He had no special god in mind, nor any hope of a response, but it relaxed him all the same.

“You may be onto something, Taiwo,” Afolabi granted, having reached the same conclusion within seconds of discovering that Mandy Ross had been rescued. “We must look into that.”

“It will be done,” his chief lieutenant promised.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” the MEND warlord replied dismissively.

As Babatunde lumbered from his office, Afolabi turned his mind to what had to follow in his campaign against K-Tech Petroleum. There was no question of receiving any ransom, now that Mandy Ross was free. He took for granted that there would be no chance to recapture her. The men in charge of K-Tech’s corporate security would see to that, most likely flying her back to the States as soon as she was cleared for travel by a battery of high-priced doctors.

Afolabi had no fear of being charged with her abduction. First, State Security would have to catch him. Then they’d have to prove he was responsible for the kidnapping, which should be impossible. He’d never met the hostage, hadn’t spoken to a soul from K-Tech Petroleum about the ransom and hadn’t touched any of the letters sent demanding payment. Some of those whom Mandy Ross had seen were dead now, and the rest would soon be scattered to MEND’s outposts in the hinterlands of Delta State.

But being free and clear of charges didn’t satisfy him. Failing payment of the ransom he’d demanded, Afolabi craved revenge for the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of the anonymous “big white man.”

Jared Ross might be beyond his reach, at least for now, but Afolabi wasn’t giving up. He would find someone he could punish.

And his vengeance would be terrible.

Warri, Delta State

A LIMOUSINE WAS waiting when the Bell LongRanger settled gently down onto its helipad inside the K-Tech Petroleum compound. Bolan had thought of dropping Mandy Ross at Warri’s airport, but he’d opted for her dad’s home base in deference to its superior security.

“You’ve never met my father?” Mandy asked.

“We move in different circles,” Bolan said.

“Well, sure, I guess so. But I thought, since you were hired to come and get me—”

“Wrong word,” he interrupted. “I was asked to help you, if I could. There’s no payday.”

She fairly gaped at him. “You’re kidding, right? You did all this for nothing?”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Bolan said, and left it at that.

“Thanks, I think. But—”

“No buts,” Bolan cut in. “We’re square. Hit the deck.”

Reluctantly she turned away from him, released her safety harness and climbed down onto the tarmac. By the time she’d turned to face the limo, men were piling out of it. The first half dozen were security, ex-soldiers by the look of them, with weapons bulging underneath their jackets. Mandy’s father was the last out of the car, appearing older in the flesh than in the photographs Bolan had seen, but that was understandable.

Having your only child abducted by a gang of murderers could do that, adding gray hairs overnight—and worse, in some cases. All things considered, Jared Ross seemed to be bearing up all right. His face lit up at the sight of Mandy, and relief was leaving wet tracks on his cheeks as she ran into his embrace.

“You want to do the handshake bit?” Grimaldi asked him from the pilot’s seat.

“I’ll skip it,” Bolan said. “The deal was that we get to use the helipad as needed, with no questions asked. They’ve also got a spare room waiting, when you’re ready. Carte blanche at the cafeteria.”

“Be still my heart,” Grimaldi said, half smirking. “I’d say Daddy got himself a bargain.”

“Someone else has got his markers,” Bolan said. “We’re just the go-to guys.”

“As usual,” Grimaldi answered. “Wouldn’t it be nice to get an oil well for a Christmas present? Maybe just a little one?”

“And change tax brackets?” Bolan said. “No thanks.”

In fact, he hadn’t filed a tax return since he had died officially, back in Manhattan, several years ago. He also had no income, in the normal sense, but managed to collect enough in passing for his simple needs.

It was remarkable how generous a loan shark or a drug dealer could be when you negotiated in their native language: pure brute force.

Bolan watched Mandy Ross vanish into the limousine and wished her well. Her father lingered on the pavement for another moment, meeting Bolan’s gaze through the LongRanger’s tinted Plexiglas, and raised one hand in some kind of peculiar half salute before he turned away. Bolan sat still until the stretch had pulled away before un-buckling his safety rig.

“What now?” Grimaldi asked.

“You hit that cafeteria, or catch some shut-eye,” Bolan said. “I need to see a man downtown.”

“I don’t mind riding shotgun,” Grimaldi remarked.

“I wouldn’t want to spook him,” Bolan answered. “He’s expecting one white face, not two.”

“I kind of hoped that we were finished.”

“We are,” Bolan said. “I’ve got some solo work to do. Putting some frosting on the cake.”

“Why do I get the feeling someone will be choking on it?” Grimaldi asked.

“Well, you’ve seen me cook before.”

“Okay. But if the kitchen gets too hot…”

“You’ll be among the first to know,” Bolan replied.

Besides the borrowed wheels, he had a chance of clothes waiting, to trade-off with his sweaty, battle-stained fatigues. There should be time enough for him to shower, change and stow his hardware in the drab sedan K-Tech had furnished him, before he had to meet his contact.

As to what would happen after that, well, it was anybody’s guess.

“THERE WAS SOME difficulty overnight, I understand,” Huang Li Chan said. His voice was soft, but no one well acquainted with him would mistake it for a casual or friendly observation.

“Yes, sir,” Lao Choy Teoh replied.

The two men sat with Chan’s large desk between them, in his office on the top floor of a building owned by China National Petroleum, in downtown Warri. A glass of twenty-year-old Irish whiskey rested on the desk in front of Chan. None had been offered to his visitor.