Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  The driver was the first one to follow, two steps behind him. Justin had noticed the driver’s pistol was tucked in at the left side of his waist.

  Yes, this is going to work, Justin thought.

  He turned left at the corner and for a split second he was beyond the driver’s line of sight. Justin flattened himself against the wall and raised his flashlight. The driver stepped forward and around the corner, and Justin thrust the small flashlight into the driver’s throat. The driver had no time to make any sounds, but lifted up his arms to his neck. Justin reached swiftly and pulled the pistol from the driver’s waist.

  The large man heard the commotion and quickened his pace. Justin was waiting for him. As the large man’s head came into view, Justin threw a heavy punch with all his might. His fist slammed against the jaw of the large man with a loud crunch. The unexpected blow threw the man off his balance. He wavered as he tried to stay on his feet. A moment later, he came tumbling down the side of the unprotected stairs. The sharp-edged cement stairs caught his fall to the ground below.

  Justin pushed the disarmed driver to the side and raised his left arm to pistol-whip him. But he considered it for a second and decided it was not necessary. The driver was coughing and wheezing, still trying to catch his breath.

  Justin cocked his pistol and raised it as he burst into the shooter’s room. Shorty and the other guard were also caught by surprise. Shorty raised his arms up, while the other guard began to raise his AK.

  “Don’t,” Justin shouted. “Don’t shoot.”

  The guard hesitated for an instant, the assault rifle hanging in mid-air.

  “I just want him.” Justin spoke quickly and softly. “Help me load him into the car outside, and you’ll never see me again.”

  “Do what he said,” Shorty bellowed at the guard. “Put down that gun.”

  The guard thought about it for another long moment.

  “Do it! Now! I don’t want to kill you, but I’ll do it. He will help me with the shooter.” Justin nodded toward Shorty.

  The guard exchanged a glance with Shorty, who yelled something at him in their Nigerian dialect.

  Justin had no idea what Shorty said, but it worked. The guard lowered his AK and placed it gently on the floor.

  “Kick it away,” Justin said.

  He kept his pistol trained on the guard, who followed the order and pushed his AK another foot or two away.

  Justin breathed easier and dropped the pistol a couple of inches. He gestured with it toward the shooter. “Okay, smart move. Now pick him up, slow and gently.”

  Shorty hooked his arms underneath the shooter’s armpits and pulled him up, while also supporting the shooter’s head. The guard grasped the shooter by his ankles and his torn pants. Justin helped by lifting and supporting the middle part of the shooter’s body with his left hand. He kept the pistol in his right hand aimed at the guard in case he had second thoughts.

  They moved the limp body in a straight line. Out in the hall, the driver was still resting against one of the walls. His breathing was easier than before, but he was still massaging his throat and the sides of his neck.

  “The car keys,” Justin shouted at him.

  The driver struggled to get his left hand into one of his pockets, then handed Justin the keys.

  “Easy on the stairs,” Justin said, and stayed back, since the staircase was too narrow for all four of them.

  Shorty and the guard struggled down the stairs with the heavy weight. The shooter’s right arm scraped against the coarse wall and the guard almost tripped on the last stair.

  At the bottom of the staircase, the large man was lying motionless on his back. He was still breathing, but a small pool of blood had gathered around his waist. A deep cut on the lower part of his abdomen was bleeding. The gashes on his arms and legs looked worse. His right leg was twisted unnaturally at the knee.

  Justin shook his head. He looked up, but the driver was out of his sight. “Hey, make sure you get this man to a hospital. Right away.”

  He paused, but there was no reply.

  “Hey, you hear me?” Justin shouted.

  “Yes, I hear you. I’ll do it,” the driver replied in a weak voice.

  Justin went back to helping Shorty and the guard. The shooter’s wounds had reopened and fresh blood had oozed through his wounds’ dressing. Unless we get a competent doctor to treat him soon, he’s as good as dead.

  Nailah saw them as they made their way through the front yard of the house. She got out of the car and held open the back door for them as Shorty and the guard placed the shooter in the backseat. She did not ask who the man was or why Justin was having him brought into the car.

  “So, we’re good?” Shorty asked Justin.

  “Yes, we are. As long as you forget you ever saw me.”

  “Saw who?” Shorty said.

  The guard just nodded.

  Justin walked around the car. “I’ll drive,” he said to Nailah.

  She nodded and got into the front passenger seat. “Where are we going?” she asked after closing her door and buckling her seat belt.

  Justin started the car and stepped on the gas pedal. “My apartment . . . well, safe house. At least for the night.”

  Nailah gave him a shy smile. “If you wanted to take me home, you could have just asked. You didn’t have to put on this whole show.” She tried to say it in a teasing tone, but her voice wavered with nervousness.

  Justin appreciated her attempt to defuse the situation, but it was of no help. Things seemed to have gone from bad to worse, and he wondered whether the shooter would die before he could see a doctor. He said, “Nailah, do you know a doctor who could come and treat bullet wounds? Someone discreet.”

  Nailah thought about her answer for a second. “I’m sure I can find someone. For the right price, of course.” She smiled.

  “A hundred grand, and if that—”

  “Oh, that could buy you a surgeon and his entire staff. I’ll negotiate you a fairer deal.”

  “Great. Once you have their okay, I’ll give you the address.”

  Nailah nodded and pulled out her cellphone.

  Justin turned the steering wheel to the left and hit the gas. He wanted to get to the safe house as soon as possible without drawing any unwanted attention from the police, or anyone else for that matter. And before the shooter died in the backseat of the Toyota.

  Chapter Six

  Lagos, Nigeria

  March 20, 10:25 p.m.

  The surgeon came highly recommended by a close friend of Nailah. He had agreed to perform the surgery, no questions asked, for fifty thousand dollars. A very steep price, but still half what Justin was willing to pay to save the shooter’s life. Everyone understood they were paying mostly for the surgeon’s silence and discretion rather than just his skills in removing bullets and dressing wounds.

  The surgeon’s light blue Volkswagen SUV was parked behind the safe house’s apartment complex, in the dark alley. The SUV was new, but not flashy. Enough for a second glance, but not a drooling stare. Justin liked the man’s common sense and his decision not to draw too much attention to himself and become a target of opportunity. The surgeon’s fee would probably be stashed away in an offshore bank account, in Switzerland or the Cayman Islands.

  Justin waited until there was no one in the alley and sent Nailah inside the complex. She was to inform Justin when the halls were clear of all residents. Then he approached the SUV and introduced himself to the surgeon. He was a man in his fifties, with thick, black-framed glasses and a thin salt-and-pepper moustache. Then Justin’s cellphone vibrated with the arrival of a text message from Nailah: It’s safe to come up.

  The surgeon’s driver—a heavyset man who Justin suspected doubled as the surgeon’s bodyguard—helped Justin carry the shooter up the flight of stairs. The surgeon followed right behind them with two large briefcases, which Justin assumed contained his surgical instruments.

  Justin and the driver laid the shooter on t
he kitchen table and put a pillow under his head, while the surgeon put on a white lab coat and a procedure mask and began his work. The driver sat just outside the kitchen, blocking the entrance with his large body and keeping a watchful eye on Justin and Nailah.

  She went to use the washroom and Justin retreated to his bedroom. He left the door open so he could see if the driver stood up from his chair. Justin checked his phone and found a couple of text messages from Kayo. The first one noted his meeting was going well and he hoped to get the location where the kidnappers were holding Duncan. The message time stamp showed it was sent over an hour ago.

  He scrolled down to the next text message. It read: It’s in Makoko. I’ll soon have the exact shack. Justin frowned. Makoko was perhaps the toughest neighborhood in Lagos. A slum on stilts, Makoko was ever-growing and overcrowded, an almost impenetrable maze of makeshift shacks and huts. Any rescue attempt to free Duncan would be noticed before they could get close enough to engage the kidnappers. But perhaps knowing the exact shack location, and the cover of darkness, would provide Justin and his rescue team the small advantage they needed to slither unnoticed into the lion’s den.

  Justin was deep in his thoughts when Nailah appeared at the doorway. Despite the exhausting night, she still looked beautiful. “How are things going?” she said.

  She kicked off her high-heeled shoes and lay on the right side of his bed, exactly where Justin slept. She crossed her legs and readjusted her skirt.

  Justin walked toward her and spoke in a voice just above a whisper, so the driver would not hear his words. “Not very good. We’re getting close to finding Duncan, but it seems he’s held somewhere in Makoko.”

  Nailah bit her lip. “That’s a hell of a place.” Her hushed voice carried both her gloom and her anger.

  “Yes. I’m not sure how our rescue would work, but we have to give it a shot.”

  He sat on the bed next to Nailah.

  She reached over and rubbed his arm. “I’ve called a good friend to come and pick me up. Someone I trust with my life.”

  Justin nodded. It did not matter if Nailah had given the safe-house location to her friend. The surgeon and his driver were also aware of this apartment, so for all intents and purposes the CIS would have to find another safe house.

  Nailah said, “Give me the file with the information on Duncan. I’ll make sure people start pulling up everything we have first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Thanks, Nailah.”

  She waved her hand. “Thank me if I find something useful.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  He returned after a few moments with his briefcase and handed Nailah the file. She opened it and began to read the first page.

  “Would you like some coffee?” Justin asked.

  Nailah smiled. “At this hour? It will keep me up all night.”

  “All right. I’ll make a pot just for me.”

  Justin headed toward the kitchen. The driver stood up and escorted Justin inside. The surgeon was elbows-deep in the shooter’s chest and did not even acknowledge Justin’s presence. He had lined up his tools of the trade on the kitchen counter; he reached for a pair of surgical tweezers and scissors, then he mopped up some excess blood. In the absence of a nurse, the surgeon was forced to do that job as well as his own, which slowed him down.

  Justin wanted to ask how the surgery was going and whether the shooter was going to survive, but he knew it would only waste the surgeon’s precious time. If he has something to tell me, he’ll do so.

  Justin walked around the surgeon and filled the coffeemaker’s pot with water from the sink. Then he looked out the small window as the coffeemaker’s brewing gurgle filled the kitchen. He saw his own reflection: dark, tired eyes and lots of wrinkles on his frowning brow. He blinked to clear his vision and focused on the images outside the window. A group of young men were smoking and drinking at the corner of the intersection, their cheers and shouts muffled by the thick bulletproof windows of the safe house.

  The strong aroma of the fresh coffee invited him but he waited until he heard the last wheeze of the coffeemaker. He filled a cup for himself and another one for the driver, then cast a fleeting glance at the surgeon, who was working with his scalpel. His brow was covered in sweat, but he was still completely absorbed in his operation.

  Justin handed one of the cups to the driver—who thanked him with a nod—and returned to the bedroom. Nailah had closed her eyes and was resting against the headboard. She had put Justin’s pillow behind her back for comfort.

  He tried to sneak in without making any noise, but one of his shoes squeaked as he took a step. Nailah opened her eyes and gave him a small smile. “Hey, there.” She stretched her neck and shoulders, then sank back into the pillow. “How’s the gunman?”

  Justin shrugged. “No idea. Didn’t ask. The surgeon’s still operating.”

  “I hope he gets well . . . at least long enough to tell you what he knows.”

  “Yeah, so do I.”

  Nailah’s cellphone rang with a classical tune. She answered the phone, said yes and okay, and hung up. “My friend’s downstairs.” She stood up and straightened her skirt. “Sorry, I can’t spend the night,” she added in a mischievous tone. “Perhaps another time?”

  Justin shook his head, then smiled. “Good night, Nailah.”

  “Good night, Justin. I’ll call you tomorrow as soon as I have something good.”

  She came over and gave him a friendly kiss on the cheek. Then she put on her heels.

  Justin walked her to the apartment’s door. He kept his eyes on her as she went downstairs and out into the alley. She got into the front passenger seat of a dark blue Jeep, then turned around and waved at Justin. He waved back and went back inside the apartment, locking the door behind him.

  Justin wanted to call McClain for a debriefing, but it was going to be very tricky with the driver centering his complete attention on Justin’s every move. It was too risky to discuss sensitive intelligence with McClain even in a hushed voice and behind a closed door. Plus, Justin needed to keep an eye on the driver and avoid any unpleasant surprises. If only Kayo was here. Shouldn’t he be back by now?

  Justin checked his phone again, but there were no new text messages. He unlocked the vault—hidden in the bottom drawer of his dresser, behind a fake bottom—and pulled out his laptop. He sat down on his bed and began to review Duncan’s schedule, double-checking to see if he had missed anything of importance in his first analysis. His first scan had focused on things that jumped out from the page; this second read aimed at finding anything that should have been in the schedule, but was not.

  He found a Saturday in mid-October when no meetings had been scheduled for Duncan in the morning or the afternoon, but he had a business dinner at 8:00 p.m. in Paris. The name of the restaurant was not in the schedule. Duncan had returned to Zurich for a couple of meetings the next Monday. Whom did you meet in Paris, Duncan? And why isn’t the location in your schedule?

  Justin jotted down a note on a yellow notepad of things to discuss with McClain and seek the support of the CIS tech team on. He continued to dig and discovered a similar business dinner two weeks before, then a week before that, then three weeks before. He found the pattern unusual, as if someone were trying to hide his tracks and make these meetings appear irregular. But the meetings always took place in Paris for business dinners, always at 8:00 p.m.; but the location was never posted, at least not in the schedule provided to Justin. And these meetings had ended two weeks before Duncan had arrived in Nigeria on the day of his disappearance.

  Justin stood up to stretch his legs and mulled over the possibilities. The obvious one was that Duncan had a lover, someone he was regularly meeting for amorous weekend getaways in Paris under the guise of business meetings. Duncan was married and had three children, but to some men that did not mean much when it came to chasing after a pretty woman’s skirt. Is the woman working with the rebels that lover? Duncan was trying to break things o
ff and she did not take it very well?

  His blood was flowing through his brain and he felt he was getting closer to putting the pieces of this puzzle together, but he still felt there was something missing. He did not have all the information. I will have McClain e-mail me details of these Saturday “business meetings.” Someone in Duncan’s staff should know about them. Maybe the finance people, especially if Duncan expensed these trips to his government account.

  Satisfied he had achieved a breakthrough, he checked his cellphone. No text messages from Kayo. Justin began to feel a slight eerie sensation that something had gone wrong with Kayo’s mission. I shouldn’t have let him go on his own. But he insisted. Maybe it’s nothing. He’s just trying to get all the intel that he can from his contacts. Yes, that’s it.

  Justin returned to his laptop and began to draft a report on the evening’s events. He disliked paperwork, but understood its importance for people at senior levels in the agency. They had to be briefed about field operations, sometimes more than once or twice. And he realized the mistakes of memory, even a strong one like his. Forgetfulness set in and details blurred with the passing of time and the occurrence of new events.

  He lost track of time as he became immersed in his report. At some point he began to feel a pulsating headache, which turned into a sharp pain just behind his eyes. He had to stop and take a break. He rubbed his eyes and massaged his forehead as he lay on his bed and stared into space.

  “Excuse me.”

  The surgeon stood at Justin’s bedroom door and called to him.

  “Huh? Oh, yes. How . . . How did it go?” Justin said as he sprang to his feet.

  “I have bad news and good news,” the surgeon said. He turned around and led Justin into the kitchen. The driver was standing to the side by the window, his eyes fixed on Justin.

  “Start with the good news,” Justin said as he looked at the shooter. The man looked at peace. The surgeon had put a green hospital gown on him and had covered him with a white sheet. A tube was attached to the shooter’s right arm and an IV bag was placed high on the cupboard. His left arm was connected to a machine that looked like a portable heart monitor set on the counter.