Don Pendleton - Insurrection

Layla Galab smiled as she extended her hand across the desk. “Mr. Cooper,” she said. “You will excuse me, please. My mother’s mind is failing and I must check on her several times a day.”

Bolan nodded in understanding as he set his bags on the floor. Her smile appeared genuine, but he noted that her lips stayed pressed together as they curled up at the corners.

The Executioner took her small hand in his, noticing that while it was delicate, her fingers and palm were covered by calluses. This woman was not just a sit-behind-the-desk paper pusher. She got out and worked for the welfare of the children who lived at the Isaac Center, perhaps even helping with the ongoing construction next door.

“Miss Galab.”

“You will excuse me, also, I hope,” she said, turning her hands palm up and glancing down at them. “But as you no doubt saw when you arrived, we are constructing new housing, and I often go out to help. I am afraid it has taken away the femininity from my hands.”

“No,” he said. “It just emphasizes your other feminine qualities.” The Executioner stared down into the woman’s chocolate-brown eyes. She was indeed beautiful, and he could feel the electricity passing back and forth between them.

Breaking eye contact, Galab pointed to a chair in front of her desk and said, “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Cooper?”

“Thanks.” He sat, then looked back across the desktop and said, “But call me Matt.”

“Thank you. Please call me Layla.”

She resumed her seat and said, “Now, Mr. Photojournalist Matt Cooper, can you tell me the real reason you are here? I do not think it is to take pictures for National Geographic .”

Bolan crossed one leg over the other. “I understand you’ve helped Americans before,” he said.

Galab gave the room a 180-degree glance, as if it might be bugged, before nodding. Then, in a low voice, she said, “And I will help you in any way I can.” A second round-the-room glance seemed to take some of the stress from her face. “I will do anything to keep the terrorists from murdering more mothers and fathers and creating more orphans.” She leaned down and pulled open a drawer in her desk. A moment later, a bottle of antacid appeared in her hand. “You will excuse me if I—” she began.

Bolan interrupted her. “Of course.”

“I’m afraid I have developed an ulcer from all of this,” the woman said, as she twisted off the cap.

A faint odor of chalk floated across the room as she took a long drink. Bolan chuckled to himself. The woman was self-conscious about the calluses on her hands, but didn’t seem to mind looking like a wino who’d just found a bottle of Mogen David 20/20 when it came to her ulcer.

Enough pain, Bolan knew, had a way of chasing self-consciousness right out of the soul. Besides, he thought. Like her calluses, chugging the medicine straight from the bottle somehow emphasized her femininity rather than detracted from it. It made her seem more human.

When she had finished, Galab screwed the cap back on and returned the bottle to her desk drawer. She pulled a tissue from the same drawer and dabbed daintily at her lips before turning her attention back to Bolan. “Let us get to the topic at hand,” she said. “Are you able to tell me what you have planned?”

“Up to a point,” Bolan replied. “I’m primarily here to find Bishop Joshua Adewale and get him safely back to the US. But I also plan to do all I can to rid your country of men like those who killed the parents of the orphans you have here. I just haven’t decided exactly how I’m going to accomplish that.”

The statement was meant to be blunt, and Galab took it that way, shrinking back slightly at Bolan’s words. “Let us make sure I understand you correctly,” she said in a small voice. “Do you intend to arrest or simply kill these men?”

Bolan paused a moment, looking deeply into the woman’s eyes. “I have no power of arrest in Nigeria,” he said. “But Boko Haram has gone way past that point. Even if I could arrest them, with all due respect, the Nigerian government has become so corrupt they’d probably be set free again.” He stopped speaking for a moment to let his words sink in. “So I intend to do what I have to do.”

The woman got the message. But instead of recoiling further, as Bolan would have expected, she seemed to relax. “I would like to help you, Matt, but I am neither trained as a fighter nor do I have the temperament to be one.” She paused and took in a deep breath. “I can, however, take you to men who can and will help you.”

“Can these men be trusted?” Bolan asked. “Both to be on our side and keep their mouths shut?”

“I believe so,” Galab said. “They are good men, I think. But they do not have a good leader.” She paused a moment, then added, “At least they haven’t had a good leader so far.”

Bolan uncrossed his legs and leaned forward slightly. While Galab seemed to be a caring person, he didn’t particularly trust her judgment on who could be counted on and who couldn’t. Many “good” people tended to think others thought, and behaved, as they did. And that was often not the case.

The soldier’s only option was to meet these men and decide for himself.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll need a base of operations, too. Someplace I can store my gear and hide out when it becomes necessary.”

“Do you think it will become necessary?”

“At one point or another,” Bolan replied, “it always does.”

“Do you want to meet these men now?”

“There’s no time like the present,” he told her, standing. “Do you have a car?”

“I do.” Galab rose in turn. “Since I suspect I know what some of the things in your luggage are, I think we should take it with us.”

Bolan nodded. They left the building through a back door and found themselves in an alley. Two minutes later, they had loaded Bolan’s bags into the back of Galab’s Nissan Maxima.

The Isaac Center director was backing the vehicle out of her parking space behind the building when the first explosion of gunfire erupted.

A volley of rounds shattered the car window next to Bolan, missing both his and Galab’s heads by centimeters. Then more gunfire broke the side window next to the woman behind the wheel.

She screamed.

Another burst of bullets, this one coming from the front, turned the windshield into tiny fragments of glass. In his peripheral vision, Bolan saw a man wearing green fatigue pants appear to the side of the Maxima, pull the pin on a fragmentation grenade and roll the bomb under the vehicle.

“Hit it!” Bolan yelled. His left foot shot across the front seat and stomped down on Galab’s right, flooring the accelerator. She shrieked again, her voice blending in with the screech of the Maxima’s tires. They tore away from the grenade in reverse, peeling rubber like some teenage show-off leaving the local youth hangout.

Two seconds later, the grenade detonated, but they had cleared the kill zone and nothing but a few pieces of shrapnel hit the Maxima and skidded off.

Bolan had drawn the sound-suppressed Beretta, but not for the usual reason. He didn’t need to try to keep the 9 mm explosions from being heard by whoever was attacking them—in fact, the sound of return fire would actually have helped, telling their attackers that he didn’t plan to go down without a fight. But that aspect of the impromptu battle was overshadowed by the fact that Bolan didn’t want to burst his and Galab’s eardrums inside the Maxima. And if he counterfired with the massive Desert Eagle, there was every chance of that happening. Even with the windshield and side windows blown out, the .44 Magnum explosions inside the car would be deafening.