It took Payne a moment to gather himself. “With the new information that you just gave me, one suddenly leaps to mind.”
“Go ahead, fire away.”
Payne wished he’d stop using that expression. “How in the hell did you find us? I thought the people on the boat must’ve told you about the Plantation, but since they’re still missing I guess they couldn’t have been the ones.”
Dawson nodded. “A couple of planes noticed the house explosion from the air. They, in turn, notified the local authorities. Eventually, word filtered down to us.”
“And you’ve had no luck finding the missing slaves? What about Levon Greene and Octavian Holmes? Any luck with them?”
Dawson shook his head. “We put out an APB and flooded the airports and local islands with their pictures. Unfortunately, if they decided to head south, we’ll have little chance of finding them. Hell, a guy in a sailboat can fart and propel himself to Mexico from here. We’re that close to the border. It makes things kind of tough for us.”
ONCE Payne was excused from the conference room, he rode the elevator to the main lobby, where he met up with Jones. The two greeted each other with a firm handshake, then walked into the bright sunlight of the Crescent City.
“How’d the questioning go?”
Jones smirked like an uncaught shoplifter. “Just peachy, and you?”
“Not too bad. When things started to get sticky, I made a big fuss, and they immediately backed down.” Jones’s smirk must’ve been contagious because it quickly spread to Payne’s lips. “Did they ask you anything about the hard drive?”
Jones patted the pocket of his T-shirt and laughed. “Nope. And to be honest with you, I forgot to mention it.” He stopped on the sidewalk and pretended to turn around. “Do you think I should go back and tell them? Because I could-”
“Nah, I doubt it’s important. The damn thing is bound to be blank.”
“Yeah, you’re right. It probably won’t tell us where to look for Ariane, or Levon, or the other slave owners. And even if it did, it’s not like we’d care.”
“Not at all,” he growled. “Not one bit.”
THE property in Tampico, Mexico, had been in Edwin Drake’s family for four decades, but he never had any use for it until recently. After several years of dormancy, the land was now critical to Drake’s slave exportation business. It served as a makeshift airport in the middle of nowhere, a place where they could load people without interference.
The boat of slaves, piloted by Octavian Holmes, reached the Tampico coast just before dawn and was greeted by two trucks full of dark-skinned guards, all chosen from Kotto’s plantations in Nigeria. The Africans loaded six slaves into each truck, then drove them to Drake’s property, which sat ten miles northwest of the Mexican city. When they arrived at the camp, the slaves were quickly herded into a containment building. They were stripped, hosed, deloused, and clothed, before being fed their first meal in over a day.
The slaves were then examined by Kotto’s personal physician, who treated each of their injuries with urgency-these people were Kotto’s property, after all-making sure that every wound was cleaned and every infection was attended to. After certifying and documenting the health of each person, the doctor gave the slaves the immunization shots they would require for their trip to their new home, Africa.
Once the medical details were taken care of, the slaves were led to Drake’s homemade airfield. There the guards checked the names and ages of each.
Doubting the ability of the foreign guards, Levon Greene double-checked the list of passengers. He realized these twelve people would generate a huge payday and knew how far that money could go in Africa, so this wasn’t the time to make any mistakes.
“How do things look?” Holmes asked, no longer worried about Payne or Jones. “Are the dirty dozen ready for their trip to the motherland?”
Greene nodded. “As ready as they’re ever gonna be.”
Holmes smiled. “To help their transition, we’ve selected
Roots
for their in-flight movie.”
CHAPTER 58
Wednesday, July 7th
Ibadan National Railyards
Ibadan, Nigeria
(56 miles northeast of Lagos)
THE
dark-skinned American looked both directions, making sure that the busy rail station was free of incoming traffic. When he was satisfied, he continued his journey forward, lifting his white cotton robe away from the grease-covered tracks. After crossing the congested railyard, he turned left, walking parallel to the far rail while trying to conceal the limp in his gait. It was the only thing about him that was the least bit conspicuous. Other than that, he blended in perfectly, resembling the rest of the peasants as they rode the trains home after a hard day of work.
“May the peace, mercy, and blessings of God be upon you,” said a passing Muslim.
“And also with you,” he replied in Yoruba, one of the common languages in Ibadan.
With a watchful eye, the American continued forward, searching for the designated meeting spot. He had already completed his reconnaissance of the neighborhood-checking the security around the Kotto Distribution Center, studying the building blueprints, looking for weak spots in the perimeter of the industrial plant. Overall, he was happy with his findings, but his opinion mattered little in the greater scheme of things. He was simply a pawn in a very complex game, one that he knew very little about.
But that was about to change.
At the rendezvous point, he glanced in all directions, making sure that he wasn’t being followed. Everything looked clear to his well-trained eyes. Smiling confidently, he knocked on the railcar five times, the agreed-upon signal to gain access to the boxcar that had been commandeered for the current operation.
“Who is it?” called a high-pitched voice from inside.
This wasn’t a part of standard protocol, but the dark-skinned man was more than willing to play along. It helped to lessen the tension of the moment. “Domino’s Pizza.”
“Your delivery took more than thirty minutes. I expect a large refund.”
The American grabbed his crotch with both hands. “Open the door, lady. I’ve got your large refund, right here!”
The cargo door slid open, revealing a white soldier in full black camouflage. “Oooh,” he exclaimed in a feminine voice. “And what a big refund it is!”
Both men laughed as the black soldier climbed into the railcar.
“Any problems with your recon?” asked one of the soldiers inside.
“None, except for my damn gun.” He reached under his robe, removing the weapon that had been strapped to his leg. “I need to get a new leg holster or something. This thing cut off my circulation within ten minutes, and I’ve been limping ever since.”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch!” teased a familiar voice from the back of the car. His view was obstructed by a large stack of crates, but he knew exactly who he was listening to. “You were bitching when I first trained you, and you’re still bitching now. Haven’t you grown up yet?”
A grin appeared on Lieutenant Shell’s face. He removed his cap as a sign of respect and looked for his former commander. “I’ll be damned! What are you doing here?”
“Listening to you bitch! I thought I taught you to be tougher than that. Complaining about a cramp? Pathetic! Take two Midols and get back to work.”
The two men hugged briefly, a touching reunion between MANIACs past and present.
“It’s great to see you, sir. It really is. But I have to admit, ya look like shit! What happened?”
With scabs all over his face and body, Payne glanced at his left arm, dangling lifelessly in its sling. “This is what happens when you reach your mid-thirties. Your body starts to fall apart.”
“Don’t let him fool you,” Jones interjected, moving from his hiding place on the other side of the boxcar. “He got into a disagreement with an exotic dancer, and she kicked his ass. Breast to the face . . . breast to the face . . . hi
gh heel to the nuts . . . knockout!”
Shell laughed like a little kid as he rushed to D.J.’s side. It had been a long time since they’d spoken, and the smiles on their faces revealed their love and admiration for one another. It was the type of bond that developed when two people had been through hell together-the type of stuff that the MANIACs were known for.
“How are you doing, Rocky?”
“Pretty damn good,” Shell declared. He hadn’t heard his nickname since Payne and Jones had left the squad. “But I’d like the right to change my opinion. I mean, if you guys are here, then something big is about to go down. Right?”
He looked at Jones, then Payne. He noticed anxiety in both sets of eyes, something that was atypical for them.
“Damn,” he groaned. “How big are we talking about?”
“Pretty big,” Payne admitted. He tried to smile to lessen the tension, but his effort was less than successful. “And quite personal.”
The comment piqued Shell’s interest. “Personal? As in, off-the-books personal? As in, the-government-doesn’t-know-we’re-here-but-who-gives-a-rat’s-ass-about-them-anyway personal?”
Payne nodded, looking forward to Shell’s response.
“Halle-fucking-lujah! Military missions are always so boring. It’s about time we got the old gang back together and had some fun!”
Jones nodded in agreement but wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic. “You’re right, it’s been way too long. But I don’t know if
fun
is the right word to describe this mission.”
“Oh, yeah?” Shell laughed, still not understanding the sensitive nature of the assignment. “Then what word would you use?”
Payne took a step forward, intensity returning to his face. It was a look that Shell had seen several times before. One that meant it was time for business. “The word I’d use is
desperate.
”
“Desperate?”
Payne nodded. “And once I tell you why I called you here, you’ll understand why.”
“You called us here?” Shell asked, dumbfounded. “How did you pull that off? Nobody’s supposed to know where we are, yet you somehow managed to track us down? Don’t get me wrong, it’s great to see ya, but that doesn’t make much sense to me.”
Captain Juan Sanchez, the MANIACs current leader, cleared his throat. “It doesn’t have to make sense to you, as long as it makes sense to me.”
Shell sprang to attention. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Sanchez winked at Payne, his former team leader. “But since you’ll bitch the rest of the night if I don’t tell you, I’ll be a nice guy and let you in on the secret.”
“Thank you, sir. I’m all ears, sir.”
“As luck would have it, I stay in touch with Captain Payne on a regular basis, which is apparently more than you. He gave me a call and briefed me on his current situation. Soon after, I offered to give up our much-needed R amp; R in order to help. That is, of course, if it’s all right with you.”
“Once a MANIAC, always a MANIAC!” Shell shouted passionately.
“You’re damn right!” Sanchez growled. He quickly turned his attention from his second in command to the man he had served under for several years. “Captain Payne, at this time I would like to offer you control of the finest, fiercest fighting force ever to walk the face of this fucking planet. We are the MANIACs, and we will follow you and fight with you until death-their death-so help me, God!”
Payne nodded in appreciation.
It had taken a while, but he finally realized that everything would be all right.
THE
Qur’an, the spiritual text of Islam, required all Muslim adults to pray five times a day-at dawn (
fajr
), noon (
zuhr
), midafternoon (
asr
), sunset (
maghrib
), and night (
isha
)-to prove their unyielding faith and uncompromising devotion to Allah. Unfortunately, these sessions were not assigned to a specific hour, making prayer time a difficult thing to agree upon among modern-day Muslims. In order to rectify this problem, most Islamic communities utilized a muezzin to climb the minaret of the local mosque and announce the beginning of each prayer session. When his voice was heard, echoing loudly throughout the streets of the city, all Muslims were expected to stop what they were doing and drop to their knees in prayer.
These breaks were their holy time, moments of forgiveness and thanks. But in Payne’s mind, it was also their biggest weakness. It gave him five daily opportunities to catch the enemy with their guard down. Literally. And he planned to exploit it for all it was worth.
As nighttime crept over Nigeria, the MANIACs snuck along the outer perimeter of the eight-block Kotto Distribution Center, using the shadows as their cover while waiting for their signal to start the assault. Although Payne had showed them the advantages of this unconventional approach, the twelve soldiers didn’t like the lengthy exposure time that they would have in the field. They were used to invading, dominating, and leaving, but rarely waiting. But in this case, they agreed that the benefits of their master plan far outweighed the negatives. In fact, if all went well, they knew their battle with Kotto’s men would be over within seconds, making it the easiest mission they’d ever been on.
Unfortunately, it didn’t feel very easy while they waited.
Dressed in black and trying to blend in with the landscape, the soldiers were unable to relax. They were nervous and eager, excited and scared, but not relaxed. Too many things could go wrong for them to be relaxed, especially since the start signal was in the hands of a stranger they had never worked with before.
No, not Payne. All the MANIACs followed his advice like scripture.
In actuality, they were waiting for the muezzin, the Islamic crier. They would go on his call, during the Muslims’ moment of weakness-when the sun kissed the horizon and the guards least expected violence.
The voice rang out like a tormented wail, soaring from the largest mosque in the city to the smallest homes in the neighborhoods below. The muezzin’s impassioned plea, like a hypnotic command from Allah himself, sent people dropping to the ground, causing all Muslims to set aside their nightly activities in order to give thanks.
And the MANIACs took advantage of it.
“Gracias,”
said Payne, who was thankful for the opportunity to burst into the complex with a silenced Heckler amp; Koch MP5 K in his hands. He knew when he reached his assigned territory, a small section in the center where the hostages were supposedly kept, that all of Kotto’s guards would be on the floor, praying toward the distant land of Mecca. And once he found them, he would use them for target practice.
Payne was trailed by Jones, Shell, and Sanchez, and their path met no resistance along the way. No guards, no workers, no noise. The place was an industrial ghost town, and the lack of activity unnerved Payne. In confusion, he drew a large question mark in the air.
Responding in the silent language of the MANIACs, Shell touched his watch, made a counterclockwise motion with his finger, pointed to his eyes, then to the room straight ahead. That meant when he had come through earlier, he had seen the guards in the next room.
Payne nodded in understanding.
If Shell’s reconnaissance was accurate, the massacre was about to commence, and it would take place in the chamber they were facing. Their goal was to eliminate as many guards as possible-the plant workers were already out of the building, so they didn’t have to worry about innocent by standers getting hit-and rescue the slaves from captivity.
After taking a deep breath, Payne calmly pointed to his watch, his foot, and then his own backside before glancing back at his partners. The unexpected signal brought smiles to their faces. In MANIAC-speak, it meant it was time to kick some ass.
The four men moved forward, looking for the best possible opportunity to begin their assault. An
d as they’d hoped, that moment occurred the instant they walked in the door. Ten guards, all assembled in the tiny area, were spread across the floor in prayer. Each was kneeling on an individual straw mat while facing Mecca.
And unluckily for Kotto’s men, that direction was away from the door.
Wasting no time, Payne and Shell crept to the left while Jones and Sanchez slid to the right. Then, once everyone was in position, Payne looked at his friends and nodded. It was his signal to commence the assault.
Pfffft! Pfffft! Pfffft! Pfffft!
Fury rained upon the guards like a judgment from God, splattering their innards all over the room like a slaughterhouse floor. The tiny bursts of gunfire, muffled by the silencers, continued at a rapid pace until the MANIACs were confident that Kotto’s men were dead.
Then, just to be safe, Shell and Sanchez fired some more. No sense in taking any chances.
When target practice was over, Jones treaded through the carnage, inspecting bodies as he moved. Crouching near the door, he examined the spring lock and chose the proper pick. “The infrared that we used earlier showed that this room was full of people. From what we could tell, there was no sign of weapons. Hopefully, they’re who we’re looking for.”
Payne nodded anxiously, praying that Ariane was inside and unharmed.
It had been nearly a week since he had last kissed her, since he had held her in his arms and confessed his love to her. It was the first thing he was going to do when he saw her. He was going to grab her and tell her how much he cared, how much she meant to him, how lonely he had been without her. She was his world, and he was going to make damn sure she knew it.
“Got it,” Jones whispered.
The sound of his partner’s voice brought Payne back to reality. He moved to the left of the entrance, wrapped his finger around his trigger, and waited for Jones to turn the handle.
With a flick of his wrist, Jones swung the door open and calmly waited against the outside wall for an outburst of violence. Payne and the others waited, too, knowing that inexperienced guards often charged forward to investigate the unknown. But when the four men heard nothing-no footsteps, voices, or gunshots-they realized they were either facing an elite team or no one at all.
The Plantation paj-1 Page 31
