Don Pendleton - Threat Factor

How else could the American expect to tackle Mogadishu’s warlords and survive?

As far as the specifics of his mission, no details had been forthcoming. It was strictly “need-to-know,” a bit of hedging by Waabberi’s CIA control against the possibility that he would be abducted and interrogated by some unnamed enemy.

And so, Waabberi came to the Bakaara Market with a pistol tucked under his belt. It was a big Beretta Model 92, dragging his pants down on the left and covered by the loose tail of his baggy shirt, positioned for a cross-hand draw.

Waabberi guessed that most of those around him in the market crowd were similarly armed. Reliance on a gun or knife for personal defense was something every Mogadishan child learned at an early age from parents, older siblings, or the acts of violence they witnessed for themselves. Survival of the fittest—or the fastest—had replaced the rule of law so long ago that only those of middle age or older could recall a better time.

But if Waabberi’s life was dangerous before, he knew that the real peril would begin this day, within the next few minutes. When he met the stranger from America—assuming that the man actually showed up—Waabberi’s danger level would increase dramatically.

He would no longer be just an observer of the violence around him, someone who reported back in secret and was paid in U.S. dollars for his trouble. From the moment he laid eyes on Cooper’s face and shook his hand, Waabberi knew he would become a target.

Any second now.

SIMEON BOORAMA WAS TIRED of waiting. He had spent the best part of a week trailing his target, wishing he could simply kill the man and be done with it, reining in his agitation with great effort.

Now, the job was nearly done. This day Boorama was expected to eliminate his mark—but still, he had to stand and wait, until some other man arrived. It was a two-for-one, and his instructions were exremely clear: Miss either one, and it would be his own head on the chopping block.

Preferring overkill to failure every time, Boorama had collected five more soldiers for the final act. They melded perfectly into the mob of shoppers thronging the Bakaara Market on this absolutely normal evening. Their weapons were half-heartedly concealed, and in the absence of police patrols they passed unnoticed among others who were similarly armed.

Boorama watched his target, drifting among the produce stalls that offered maize, beans, sorghum, peanuts, wheat and sesame. A few aisles over, someone was cooking sambuusa spiced with green peppers that made his mouth water. Boorama contented himself with a cup of sweet lassi—yogurt and water, flavored with mango and sugar—while stalking his man.

A time or two during the long week of surveillance, he’d been almost certain that he had been spotted. Once, Dirie Waabberi had turned in the aisle of a grocery store and stared at Boorama directly, but Boorama had brushed on past him, nearly touching shoulders with a muttered “Scusi,” and moved on.

Apparently no harm had been done, since the target had not varied his routine over the next few days. Granted, Waabberi had made some basic efforts to evade surveillance, but Boorama had assistants on the case by then, and the man could not shake them off, no matter what he tried.

And finally, the end was near.

Boorama hoped his next assignment would be simpler. In and out, an easy execution without all the spying nonsense complicating every move he made. Of course, he offered no complaints to his superiors—that would have been the next best thing to suicide.

Boorama understood he was just a cog in the machine, expendable and easily replaced. With nearly half of all adult Somalis unemployed, and those with jobs averaging less than one thousand U.S. dollars per year in income, thousands of young men literally would have killed to claim Boorama’s job.

Somali lives came cheap, Boorama’s own no less than those he had extinguished on behalf of his employers. He’d lost count along the way, but knew his willingness to kill upon command was the only thing that kept him earning money—kept him breathing.

Boorama thought he might even have killed his own kin in order to survive. Waabberi’s life meant less than nothing to him, in the larger scheme of things.

His choice of weapons for the job was a Benelli CB-M2 submachine gun, an Italian 9 mm weapon that measured less than eighteen inches long with its butt folded. He had loaded the piece with a 30-round box magazine and stuffed his pockets with spares, just in case.

Not that he planned to miss.

Up close, the way Boorama liked to work, he would cut Dirie Waabberi and his nameless friend in two before they even recognized the danger to themselves.

His other soldiers were for backup, to support him if the set went wrong somehow—if, for example, Boorama killed or wounded others in the crowd, and the injured or their friends and relatives returned fire. He would have to fight his way out of the market, reach one of the cars that he had standing by and make good his escape.

What was it they always said in the United States?

No sweat.

If only that were true in the Bakaara Market, where the floodlights seemed to amplify the fading heat of yet another muggy afternoon, forcing Boorama to mop his forehead with a shirtsleeve. He looked forward to the getaway, riding at high speed in a stolen car with all the windows open, chilling him with the evaporation of his sweat off his skin.

But first, the kill.

Tired as he was of waiting, Simeon Boorama felt it coming to an end. His man was moving now, with more assurance than he’d shown since entering the market. Not just drifting, killing time, but walking with a purpose, eyes straight forward, locked on someone he’d been waiting for.

Boorama saw the white man half a second later, knew that he had to be the contact Waabberi had been expecting. Who he was or where he’d come from mattered no more to Boorama than the stranger’s choice of underwear or aftershave.

It was Boorama’s job to kill him, nothing more.

“I see him,” he informed the others, speaking into the tiny microphone attached to his lapel. “It’s time. Move in, but remember, they belong to me.”

BOLAN IMMEDIATELY RECOGNIZED Dirie Waabberi from his photograph and moved to intercept him near a market stall piled high with what appeared to be secondhand clothing. He kept it casual, no rushing, making himself as inconspicuous as a tall white man could be.

Waabberi drifted toward the clothing stall, not making any signal of acknowledgment as yet. Bolan took time to scan the crowd behind his contact, and to either side, looking for any evidence of urgent, hostile movement. But the shoppers surged in all directions, jostling one another, making it a tough call.

Moments later, Bolan stood beside Waabberi, studying a rack of mismatched scarves as he began the ritual.

“I always fancy red or white,” he said.

“I like the blue, myself,” Waabberi answered automatically. “Welcome to Mogadishu, Mr. Cooper.”

“Thanks. I need to get some things before we start. Hardware. But it’s too public here.”

“No problem,” Waabberi said. “I know a dealer who provides good quality.”

“Are you on foot?”

Waabberi nodded and replied, “I understood that you would have a car.”

“I do.” Bolan had paid to park it in a fenced lot, guarded by a one-eyed man who wore a rusty-bladed panga on his belt. “We may as well get started.”

They were turning when he saw the gunman coming at them, smiling in anticipation of an easy kill. The shooter wore a loose jacket, drawn back to bare a stubby submachine gun slung over his right shoulder, its muzzle rising as he closed the gap to fire at point-blank range.