by Ponzo, Gary
Justin was unfazed by her outburst. He said, “His wife, she will get the honor and the glory for standing by a strong, devoted man, one who loved his family and his children very dearly, who sacrificed his life for the good of humanity. And she will inherit everything, every single penny from all the money he has funneled through his dirty, corrupt deals.”
Abeson was listening very intently, her eyes never leaving Justin’s image in the mirror.
“Deals which you know about. You can help us unmask Duncan for the corrupt politician that he truly is.”
Abeson winced. “I’m not a snitch.”
“Witness protection program for you and your mother. A new life and identity in Canada. You’re young and you have the necessary skills to make a good life for yourself and take care of your sick mother.”
Abeson swallowed hard. Justin could tell she was chewing on the offer, pondering the pros and the cons. “I would . . . I would betray my cause and my friends.”
“Thugs who you said would not think twice about butchering you and your family.”
“How’s this going to work? They’ll clue in that I’m setting them up.”
“They will not.” Justin held up her BlackBerry. “Call them and arrange to transfer Duncan to another location. Make up a story about Canadian agents and the police getting close, which necessitates the transfer. They’ll trust you, and we’ll hit them when they’re at the new location.”
Abeson arched her left eyebrow and bit her lip. “Hmmm, I’m not sure about it.”
“It will work.” Justin handed her the smartphone. “Just keep it to four, six gunmen at the most.”
“And you promise me and my mother asylum in Canada?”
“Yes. As soon as you end your call, I’ll talk to my boss about it. You’ll have to testify in Duncan’s corruption trial, of course.”
Abeson nodded. She stretched out her hand, but then held it in mid-air without picking up her smartphone.
“You know it’s the best thing to do,” Carrie said. “It’s a win-win situation.”
Abeson nodded again and took her BlackBerry from Justin’s hand. “You’re quite the diplomat, Mr. Burns. Have you ever considered a career in politics?”
Justin shook his head. “No, I hate politics. One last thing. Did your men have anything to do with my partner’s murder?”
“You’ve already taken care of that.” She gestured toward the trunk. “Mobo was the one who shot Kayo. I know it’s not much comfort, but Kayo was a brave man, standing proud and tall until the end. Never gave up anything about you or your operation.”
Justin let out a deep sigh. Then he said, “Abeson, call your mother. Tell her to get her luggage ready, hail a cab, and meet us a few blocks away from her house. Then call your people and order Duncan’s transfer.”
* * *
Justin and Carrie selected the new location because of its short distance to Lagos’s Murtala Muhammed International Airport. It was an abandoned warehouse complex with easy access to Agege Motor Road, a major artery that would take them to the airport. Abeson’s gunmen had used the warehouse in the past as a hideout, so her suggestion to move Duncan there raised no suspicions. The complex also had plenty of places where they could dump the bodies of the two dead guards.
Justin secured his position by a window on the second floor of a small building, the closest to the entrance to the complex. The room had been stripped of all valuables, including tiles, window frames, and electrical fixtures, and the concrete floor was littered with broken glass and other debris. He held his AK with his right hand and stood with his back against one of the walls, in between the two windows that offered him a sweeping view of the narrow road zigzagging through a series of apartment buildings and leading to the warehouse. He would be the first one to spot the arrival of the two-car convoy transporting the hostage.
Carrie was across the street about thirty yards away, inside the first floor of what used to be the parking garage. She had just returned from dropping off Abeson’s mother at the Cessna waiting for them near Hangar 1 of the airport. The same airplane of PrivilegeJets—a front company of the Canadian Intelligence Service operating all over Africa—that had brought her out of the Central African Republic was going to fly them across the two hundred and fifty miles to Accra, the capital of Ghana. Abeson and her mother were going to stay at the High Commission of Canada while the authorities processed their immigration paperwork.
The plan was simple and relied on the advantage of surprise. Abeson was going to serve as bait, luring the kidnappers out of their vehicles. Once the gunmen brought Duncan out, Justin and Carrie would find the right moment to rescue him. Abeson was to stay near Carrie, waiting for her signal to go out and distract the gunmen. They had left Abeson’s Lexus right outside the entrance to the parking garage, to serve as a hint to the gunmen about where they were expected to park. That location was exactly in between Justin’s and Carrie’s positions.
Justin glanced at his wristwatch. The convoy was twenty minutes late. He hoped they had merely hit heavy traffic and were not starting to have suspicions about the change of plans. The two cellphones he had taken from Abeson’s dead guards had been ringing almost nonstop for the last half hour. Justin had finally turned them off to save his sanity and his concentration.
He reached for the binoculars around his neck and observed the road for any movements. In the distance, about a mile away, he spotted a silver sedan, followed by a white van. They were coming toward the warehouse.
His hands instinctively tightened around the AK. “Carrie, we’ve got company,” he said into his throat mike. “I’ve got eyes on our target. ETA two minutes.”
“Roger that,” Carrie replied.
Justin placed his binoculars inside one of his vest pockets and inched toward the window, staying behind the wall at all times and counting the seconds. Soon enough the rumble of engines filled the air. The vehicles were almost at the entrance.
“Silver sedan pulling in,” Carrie’s voice came over his earpiece. “Parking to the left of the Lexus at ten o’clock.”
“Roger that.” Justin slid along the wall and pointed his AK in that direction.
“The van is stopping next to the sedan,” Carrie said.
“Roger.”
He took another step. His face was now inches away from the window, but he was hiding behind the wall.
Vehicle doors opened and closed with loud thuds. Footsteps rang from what sounded like two different directions.
Justin did not want to peek over the windowsill and risk giving away his position. “Carrie, what’s going on?”
“Four gunmen are out. AKs at the ready. One is looking at the Lexus.”
“Abeson, hey, Abeson, where are you?” One of the gunmen gave a loud shout and his strong, firm voice, carrying a hint of uneasiness and impatience, echoed throughout the open space.
“Carrie, it’s time,” Justin said.
“Roger that,” Carrie replied. “Follow the plan to the letter, and all will end up well,” she said to Abeson. Her soft voice came muffled to Justin and he turned up the volume on his communication set.
“Of course it will.” Abeson’s voice too came very low, but Justin did not miss her sarcasm.
He readied his AK. It was time.
“I’m here,” Abeson shouted. “Bring Duncan out.”
“She’s heading toward the Lexus. Two of the gunmen are walking toward her,” Carrie said.
“Why did you bring us into this hellhole?” said one of the gunmen. “The hostage was fine at the old location and there was no risk.”
“Just bring him out. I’ll tell you why we had to move him,” Abeson replied.
A moment of silence, then the familiar noise of the van door sliding open.
“He’s right there,” the gunman said.
“And we got the money,” another voice said.
“Now, Justin,” Carrie said.
“Roger that.”
Justin stepped for
ward. He took one second to acquire his target: the gunman standing behind Duncan. He fired a single shot. His bullet entered the back of the gunman’s head.
At almost the same exact second, Carrie fired two shots. Two gunmen fell to the ground. The metallic briefcase lay near the feet of one of them.
“It’s a trap. The bitch—”
Justin fired another round. His bullet struck the big-mouthed gunman on the right side of his shoulder. He fell to the ground, but was able to scramble to safety underneath the van.
Carrie fired again, two short bursts.
A gunman jumped out from the van and fired a long barrage at Justin’s position.
Justin fell back as bullets hit the wall. A few ricocheted around the room.
He crawled a few feet away from the kill zone as gunfire bursts exploded from the street. He climbed to his feet as he reached the hall, then dropped again to a low crawl through the adjacent room. He came to the other window and did a quick once-over.
The gunman who had fired the volley was aiming a rocket-propelled grenade toward the window.
Justin turned on his heels and jumped as fast and as far as he could away from the wall. A split second later, the grenade punched a huge hole through the wall. Its explosion sent rolling cinder blocks and a storm of shrapnel throughout the room the moment Justin slid through the door. A couple of fragments cut through his left leg, but he shrugged away the flesh wounds as he rolled and crawled through the hall.
Short bursts echoed from outside the building. Justin climbed to his feet and rushed through the hall and down the stairs. Another RPG round blasted behind him, but he was already out of the shrapnel’s range.
He stopped when he came near the door. Before he could even take a peek, a torrent of bullets stopped him in his tracks. One of the gunmen—or perhaps the same gunman who fired the RPG—had anticipated his moves.
Justin threw himself against the wall as bullets lifted concrete pieces a few inches away from his head. He could fire blindly through the door, but he was worried his bullets would hit Duncan or Abeson.
“Carrie,” he said on his mike.
There was no immediate response other than individual gunshots.
“Carrie,” he called again, louder, with concern in his voice.
Again no answer.
Justin let out a loud swear.
“My ear . . . you burst my eardrum . . .” Carrie’s voice came with interruptions and static noises.
“You okay?” Justin said.
“Yes . . . and under . . . heavy fire.”
“Same here. I’m going around the building and coming out to the right. I’ll let you know when I need cover fire.”
“Roger . . . that.”
Justin rushed through the hall. He climbed out of a window and circled the house. When he neared the right corner, he called Carrie. “Cover fire, cover fire.”
Two- and three-round bursts, evenly spaced and calculated, flared up in between the buildings. Justin stepped out, his eyes darting through the opening, searching for the gunmen. One was kneeling by the rear wheel of the van. Justin fired two rounds, pinning the gunman against the van.
Two more three-round bursts, and then a tense silence reigned for a moment.
“I’m out,” Carrie said. “Switching to pistol.”
Justin advanced with small, measured steps, holding his AK at eye level. He moved it slowly, covering every inch of the area in front of him. When he was about ten yards away from the vehicles, a gunman popped out from the left side of the van. He had pressed a pistol against Duncan’s head and was holding the man in front of him like a human shield.
“Drop the gun or I’ll kill him,” the gunman shouted at Justin.
He kept his AK pointed at the gunman’s head.
“I’ll blow his head off.”
Justin stopped, realigned his AK, and prepared to take the shot.
“I’ll do it. I’ll—”
Two shots erupted from the other side.
The gunman fell backward.
A moment later Duncan also collapsed to the ground.
Abeson appeared from behind the Lexus. She held an AK with both her hands as she pressed forward with fast steps toward Duncan.
“Abeson, don’t!” Justin shouted, and pointed his gun at her.
“You shot me,” Duncan said in a low, wavering voice. He climbed to his knees while his left arm hung against his body. He was bleeding from a wound a couple of inches above his elbow. Unshaven, with his hair unkempt, and his eyes sunk deep in their sockets, Duncan looked twenty years older than the picture in Justin’s file.
“She’s going to kill me,” Duncan said to Justin, and pointed at Abeson. “Please, help me!”
“You deserve it, you son of a whore,” Abeson shouted.
She took a few more steps toward Duncan.
“Put the gun down,” Justin ordered Abeson.
“It’s over. Do it,” Carrie shouted from Abeson’s left side.
Duncan’s head sank between his slumping shoulders and he dropped his head to the ground.
“Last time, Abeson. Drop your gun.”
Abeson stopped, shook her head, and lowered her AK. Then she turned slightly to the side, lifted the gun up in the air, and squeezed the trigger, emptying the AK’s magazine along with her wrath. Then she tossed the gun away with a loud sigh.
“Get up. We’re taking you home,” Justin said to Duncan.
“What? Huh? Thank you, oh, thank you,” Duncan said.
Justin shrugged and went to check the back of the van.
“I wouldn’t be too happy about it,” Carrie said. “Abeson’s coming with us. She’ll testify in your corruption trial about your dirty deal with CanadaOil and the NNPC. And your wife will learn all the embarrassing details of your affair.”
“You’ll rot behind bars for the rest of your miserable life,” Abeson said in a venomous voice and spat in Duncan’s direction.
Duncan’s face lost all color. His eyes carried a blank, dead look and he stared away somewhere into space.
Justin carried a jerry can from the van to the Lexus and poured the gasoline over the vehicle. He produced a lighter and set the SUV on fire. Within a few moments, large flames were chewing at the front tires. He hoped the car would burn completely, erasing any signs of them or Abeson ever using it.
He ran to the garage to retrieve his and Carrie’s knapsacks while Carrie escorted Duncan to the backseat of the silver sedan. Abeson took the front passenger seat, and Carrie sat behind the steering wheel.
Justin tossed the knapsacks into the truck, then picked up the briefcase. He snapped open its latches. All the money was still there. He placed the briefcase in the trunk, then slid next to Duncan, who was hunched in the corner, his face as pale as a corpse.
Justin said. “I’ll call the pilot to tell him we’re on our way.”
Carrie nodded. She hit the gas and the silver sedan jumped forward. She turned the steering wheel and drove through the warehouse entrance. The next moment, the Lexus turned into a huge fireball with a powerful explosion.
THE RECRUITER
By
Dani Amore
The Recruiter Copyright ©2013 by Dani Amore
All rights reserved.
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“Every man contains all the horrors of mankind. And each man adds a new wing to the museum.”
-Henry Miller, Black Spring
Prologue
The mountain is man-made.
Ten feet of blown snow and plowed ice. Once pure and white, it’s a tower of misshapen gray that is gradually being pulverized into the consistency of sand by the action of hundreds of small hands and feet.
It sits at the back of the playground, away from the rusted basketball hoops, the swingset and jungle gym. The painted lines of the kic
kball court are buried beneath the thin layer of snow and salt that escaped the sharp edge of the janitor’s chain-driven snowplow.
At high noon, the bell rings and the school doors burst open. The older boys are scrambling, pushing, shoving, falling and slipping their way toward the pinnacle. There are no rules. No alliances. No teamwork. This is every boy for himself. Chunks of ice are thrown. Hands are placed on the nearest back and pushed. Boots are pulled off. Feet are tripped. Wool scarves knitted by doting grandmothers are turned into deadly garrotes.
It is the battle of the fittest with the prize going to the swiftest.
The younger kids watching the free show, careful to stand far enough away from the battle zone so as not to be injured by shrapnel.
A young girl, with light brown hair and gray eyes watches the boys. She has on a pink coat with a yellow hat and thick yellow mittens. Her snowpants are light blue. Her boots are purple.
She is looking at the boys trying to guess which one will get to the top. The biggest boy is hurling the smaller ones with ease, but he looks slow to the young girl. She can see that he is clumsy, the way his feet slip and slide while smaller boys scramble past him.
The girl watches one of the smaller boys who seems to be the fastest. He darts in and out, getting closer and closer. Just when she thinks he’s going to be the one, one of the bigger boys a ring below him grabs him by the scruff of his jacket like a mother cat gathering up a kitten, and hurls him to the bottom. No, she thinks, he won’t be the one.
She watches the melee, a group of ants trying to organize itself. The boys are interchangeable, flitting in and out of the stream, until one boy begins to stand out. He has on a thin blue jacket with no hat or mittens. The girl wonders how he can manage in the bitter cold. He has dark hair and a pale face. His white basketball shoes are mottled and worn. He has made it near the top and is close.
The girl studies him. He looks different, but why? There are other boys who are underdressed and wearing tennis shoes instead of winter boots.
And then she realizes why.
He’s the only one not smiling.
