*_*_*
Afua walked across the room and opened one of the five sets of sliding glass doors that led onto the wraparound balcony. All three men walked out onto the terrace, and Kara took the opportunity to look for security cameras. She pretended to stretch her neck, and she spotted small white cameras mounted on tiny swivels in three of the four corners of the living room. She was glad she had checked for cameras prior to rummaging through the drawers of the dark wooden foyer table sitting directly under the wall-mounted photographs. This was going to be a little more difficult than she had anticipated. It crossed her mind to check the bathroom for cameras. After all, Afua Diambu had every reason to believe that any stranger in his home was there with intent to do him harm.
Due to the open floor plan, Kara could see the attached kitchen from the living room. A bar separated the two rooms with high-back rattan chairs. Kara assumed that there was not a great deal of intelligence that could be collected in the kitchen. Certainly, no money had been spared in the design of the expansive kitchen. There were green granite countertops with contrasting sand-colored slate flooring. The oversized appliances were brushed aluminum. She did notice something in the kitchen that might come in handy—especially if everything went south—adjacent to the double wide refrigerator, mounted on the wall was a pegboard with hooks. Hanging from the hooks were a collection of different types of keys. Many of the keys and dangling fobs had familiar logos stamped on them, such as Mercedes, BMW and Lincoln. She also noticed numbered keys for SUVs. There were drab keys that were not as ostentatious and looked more utilitarian—probably for different doors around the compound. The smaller keys, most likely, opened small desk drawers and filing cabinets.
The sliding glass door opened, and Kornev motioned for Kara to join him outside. “Come on outside, my precious, to see the view,” Kornev requested.
“Coming, Darling,” Kara said in a voice filled with such love that it would have even fooled her mother—if she were still alive.
TWO YEARS AGO
BOKO HARAM ENCLAVE—JUNGLE NEAR LAGOS, NIGERIA
T here was no grand ceremony to induct Boko Haram’s new leader into power. In fact, the ceremony indoctrinating Afua Diambu as leader of the sect was quite simple. Unknown to Afua, it had already been decided that the succession of leadership would go to him—even prior to his departure to complete his religious mission in Venezuela. Now that he had returned a hero, no one dared object to Afua taking the rightful place of their beloved and departed leader, Mohammad Mboso.
Each lieutenant in command of their own Islamic Boko Haram cell in Nigeria walked up to Afua and knelt in front of the true caliphate. Afua was sitting outside in the oppressive heat in a big wooden chair decorated to look like a throne. The high back of his chair was hand carved with reliefs of dozens of the Boko Haram’s favorite weapons: guns, knives and machetes. In recognition of Afua’s mission to Venezuela, the entire back of his throne had been carved with a relief of him firing a missile at a plane from a boat. As each of Afua’s men knelt in front of him, per ceremony, he tapped each on the shoulder with a loaded AK-47 with the safety off but with one finger placed on the trigger. Every time he knighted one of his men, Afua made sure his finger was on the trigger. This lethal posture held symbolism for the Boko Haram. It signified that Afua had the sanctioned power to kill any man that walked before him with a single twitch of his index finger. And each of his lieutenants demonstrated their devotion to Afua by offering their life to him.
It was a hot night and Afua was still weak from the ocean crossing. The injuries he had suffered in Venezuela were still healing. All in all, he felt like crap. In the back of his mind, he thought that this ceremony was ridiculous. But this was the way it had always been done. It went back decades, since the Boko Haram had come into existence. This was some idiot’s decision of how the transition of power should take place. Unless Afua wanted to exert the effort to change the ceremonial process, which he didn’t, he understood he would have to endure the ritual.
Afua felt cold, although he was perspiring. He missed the air-conditioned yacht, the cool ocean breeze but mostly, he missed being alone. The more he was forced to be around people, the more he resented them; however, this feeling didn’t carry over to his family. He enjoyed being around his family. The residence he had purchased in the heart of Lagos, prior to his departure, was now much too small to house his extended family. It was growing by leaps and bounds. It was time to find a larger air-conditioned house.
As the new leader touched the next potential rival on the shoulder with his weapon, Afua decided he would contact Obano tomorrow. Afua would request the realtor find him a much larger and more secure compound. After all, he was now the leader of the Boko Haram, and he had control of the organization’s purse strings. His salary had just increased to whatever the hell he wanted it to be, and he was ready to acquire a home suitable for someone of his newfound nobility.
Another man knelt, and Afua tapped him on the shoulder. He really felt like shooting the man instead. He recognized the man as Abubakar Buhari. He was one of the men who had masterminded the kidnapping of the young girls from the school. The Boko Haram had held the girls in captivity for many decades. They had enslaved them for so long that the girls grew to become women. Afua knew that most of them had been married off to Boko Haram warriors, and the others deemed unworthy or those that went crazy had been enslaved for either sex or work.
This was certainly something a Christian person would never do. But it was something that the radical Islam said was sanctioned in the Quran. When the girls were kidnapped, the passage that Abubakar Buhari had read to the world was: “and the hadith (the sayings of Muhammad) see slavery as being allowed, but only as an exceptional condition that can be entered into under certain limited circumstances. Only children of slaves or non-Muslim prisoners of war could become slaves, never a freeborn Muslim. They also consider manumission of a slave to be one of many meritorious deeds available for the expiation of sins. According to Sharia, slaves are considered human beings and possessed some rights on the basis of their humanity. In addition, a Muslim slave is equal to a Muslim freeman in religious issues and superior to the free non-Muslim.”
Being a closet Christian, Afua thought this was pure madness. He was educated enough to know slavery had brought the most powerful nation, the United States, to her knees. The act of slavery had practically destroyed their evil nation. Afua had no intention of continuing with this method of terrorism. There were other ways to get their point across that didn’t include kidnapping young girls. He felt that only cowards would prey on those who could not protect themselves, especially children. Had the men of Nigeria learned nothing? Tens of thousands of their own had been taken to America to become slaves, yet now, Nigerians were enslaving their people. It made no sense to Afua.
Afua sat on his wooden throne, refusing to touch the man knelt before him on the shoulder with the tip of his gun. The other men were waiting patiently for their turn in front of their new leader.
The AK-47 was so familiar in the hands of Diambu that the weapon felt like a biological extension of his own arm. He lowered the muzzle of the gun down
toward the man’s shoulder, but he didn’t stop until the gun was pointed directly at Buhari’s heart.
“You are a coward,” Afua said, and he pulled the trigger.
The impact from the bullet entering the man’s body threw the jihadi back on his heels. For a fraction of a second, the man tried to stand, but his heart had already stopped, and he was literally dead on his feet. Inertia pushed him backwards. His sprawled arms landed in the middle of the huge campfire. The other men all watched in horror as their jihadi brother quite literally cooked to a crisp in the fire. Buhari’s clothes had caught on fire. His hair singed and flared. His skin blistered and sizzled. Afua looked at the man, but he felt nothing. There was one thing that did catch Afua’s interest. The man landed in a way that very much resembled a cross. A necklace with a crucifix pen
dant that Afua had bought for his mother flashed through his mind. With his empty hand Afua almost made a little cross over his heart, but he stopped himself with the understanding his men would probably interpret the action the wrong way—or possibly the right way—which was still the wrong way.
The next man in line walked in front of Afua and knelt. The new Boko Haram leader saw the man tremble. Afua touched him on the shoulder with the tip of the warm barrel.
An hour later, the ceremony finally ended with a loud and dangerous conclusion. Drunk men fired AK-47 rounds indiscriminately into the air.
When it was all over, a Jeep took Afua back into town to his family, and he returned to his new love of air conditioning.
ROND POINT PORT—ABOARD THE HAIL PROTON
H ail couldn’t sleep. Instead, he found himself pacing the top deck of the massive ship. The weather outside was mild. A soft wind twisted its way in between the rows of nuclear waste containers, creating strong funnels of air that would be there one second but gone the next.
When walking didn’t help, Hail began to run slowly at first like he was a long-distance runner pacing himself. The mild jog did not appease the anxiety he was experiencing, so he ran faster. He hadn’t planned on exercising. He just couldn’t get to sleep, so he decided to go on the deck, wearing his short-sleeved pajamas and shorts—he had forgotten his shoes. As he ran around the perimeter of the Hail Proton, he hoped no one would see him. He assumed a middle-aged man, dressed in pajamas, huffing and puffing on the top deck of a cargo ship looked crazy. But he couldn’t help it. He felt he was either running away from something or running toward something. And both emotions were positive because he was moving and not just sitting in one place waiting for something to happen. He understood that besides looking crazy, he was probably a little coo-coo in the head. But he couldn’t stop running. A regular frickin’ Forrest Gump, he was. The deck of the Hail Proton was littered with video cameras, and he surmised that the security center crew was probably getting a laugh. But hell, they worked hard. So, if he could bring a little levity into their lives, at least he was doing something positive other than just running.
Just before sunset, his body resisted further movement. His lungs felt as if they were about to spontaneously catch on fire. His back was wasted. His knees, which had never been a problem in the past, had turned into rusty iron hinges. Perspiration had long since dried around the collar of his dark pajama top, leaving a ring of white saline encircling his neck. His hair was glued to his forehead, and his face was bright red and puffy. He stopped at the starboard railing of the ship and put his hands on it. He bent over, facedown, and let his head dangle between his arms. He did his best to breathe, attempting to recover. Once he was relatively certain he would not pass out or have a heart attack, he exited the top deck and climbed down the ship’s metal stairs. Once back in his stateroom, he shed his pajamas and went into the bathroom to take a shower. Tucked in the corner of the mirror was a photo of his wife and his little girls. He liked having it there. He saw it each morning and night. What would he give just to have another five minutes with them? Hell, he’d give everything. Every dime he owned. He would sacrifice his life if a magic act could be performed bringing them back to life. And that’s what was so frustrating. There was nothing he could do—no amount of money—no amount of retribution could ever bring them back. All he had was the photo in the corner of the mirror and some videos they had taken during Christmases, vacations and birthdays. He so badly missed those special moments. Now as he looked at his lovely wife and innocent blond girls smiling back at him he realized he missed the normal stuff just as much. He missed getting them ready for school, picking them up from soccer practices, and giving them big hugs in the morning and kisses at night. He missed their high-pitched laughs and his wife’s crappy cooking. As Hail stared at the three faces smiling and staring back at him, he felt helpless. He felt trapped inside a life he had never wanted. But at this point, there was no turning back. The faces that looked at him didn’t deserve to die so young. If he could prevent another family from being destroyed by terrorists—and while there were men who didn’t have a clue what the word humanity meant—he would continue with this new life. He would keep hunting down the abhorrent animals, exterminating them.
As he stepped into the shower, Hail let the water wash away the tears streaking down his face. He spent a full five minutes under the hot water, letting it burrow into the back of his neck while he stared at the water going down the drain. He had already broken his father’s rule, taking a military sixty-second shower—a ritual he had not broken his entire life. But, it seemed this was the year of breaking old rules. He and his crew had killed one of the top notorious North Koreans and were close to killing an equally repugnant Nigerian. Taking an extra sixty seconds in the shower didn’t seem to really stack up against the sins he had committed against his fellow man.
Hail eventually stepped out of the shower and dried off. He brushed his teeth and combed his hair. He donned a pair of cargo pants and a green polo shirt. As he was leaving his stateroom, he noticed his white cowboy hat on his bed. He picked it up and stuck it on his head.
“Yippee ki-yay!” he said to himself as he left his room.
SNAKE ISLAND, NIGERIA
K ara couldn’t sleep either. Diambu had, of course, provided her and Kornev their own bedroom, which had a king-size bed. Kara had laid next to Kornev for a short time, but now the charade was over. She had no need or desire to be near the Russian. On the contrary, she wanted to be as far from Victor as possible. After about fifteen minutes wondering if Kornev was sleeping or faking it, she slid out of bed and left the room. Initially, she didn’t know where to go, but all the hallways seemed to lead to the big open living room. She was pleased to see the room was empty. Kara found the TV remote and figured out how to turn on the massive flat-panel set. She flipped through a few channels and saw nothing that interested her. She turned off the TV and checked the time. It was 3:00 a.m. There was a bright moon outside the sliding glass doors, so she decided to go out on the deck to kill some time. She walked over to the railing and looked out across the jungle and the serene water.
Three stories below, she saw a guard down at the base of the stairs. He had an assault rifle and was smoking a cigarette. At least it looked like a cigarette. She also saw a guard walking on the beach a good hundred yards away. The silhouette of the man clearly indicated he was armed.
On the far side of the balcony was a hammock tied between two wooden posts holding up the deck. It was one of those wide hammocks made from thick rope that was spread out with the help of two stiff wooden slats at both the top and the bottom. The hammock was woven through the wood, creating a wide area that two or more could comfortably lay on. Kara carefully sat down on the thick webbing, making sure it didn’t shoot out from under her rump. She then kicked up her feet and did a quick 45-degree twist and fell onto her back, landing in the middle of the hammock.
The moon was bright, but Kara could still see a universe full of stars above her. Somewhere under those stars was Marshall Hail. Kara wondered if he was thinking about her, or if he was fast asleep. Maybe he was dreaming about his family. Kara felt bad keeping Hail in the dark. But he should know better than just about anyone that trusting people was a bad habit. Still, she felt guilty leaving him, leaving his ship, all the while knowing that she was never going to return. Well, never was a very long time. She wouldn’t be returning any time soon, if she lived to make that decision.
It was now time for Kara to move forward with her own plans. All the pieces had fallen into place. And if she didn’t act now, the opportunity would never
materialize again. All she had to do was put some heat on Kornev, and she would have everything she needed to pursue her main purpose in life. And that didn’t have anything to do with Marshall Hail or any of his amazing drones.
*-*-*
Kara was awakened by a smiling Diambu. She immediately knew it was not Afua, because she had
never seen him smile. Instead, it was his brother, Baako. She couldn’t remember a time during the last twenty-four hours when she hadn’t seen Baako smiling.
“Good morning,” Baako said, his smile wide and gracious.
“Good morning,” Kara responded, trying to sound just as chipper as the man looking at her.
“If you are not too tired, I have arranged for us to have breakfast on the deck out here. Or would you like to wait for your boyfriend?”
Kara sat up in the hammock and stretched.
“No, that won’t be necessary. Let him sleep. Jet lag bothers him more that it does me. That sounds wonderful. I am so hungry for some reason,” she said, although she wasn’t at all hungry.
Knowing Afua Diambu would be neutralized this morning had her nerves on edge, and her stomach was a little upset.
About fifty feet away, nearer the kitchen’s sliding glass doors that emptied out onto the deck, two women were setting a table. One of them draped a yellow linen cloth over the tabletop, and the other was setting down plates and glassware. The silverware tinkled, sounding odd against the sound of the waves that were rolling in at high tide.
Baako left Kara and walked over to the table and took a seat. A moment later, Kara rolled out of the hammock, and she sat in front of the only other place setting.
She was wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt; she didn’t feel very pretty. But then she wasn’t there to impress anyone, so she didn’t feel guilty about it. Once she had been seated, Baako nodded at her and held up a pitcher of orange juice.
Hail Warning Page 35
