Insurrection. Don Pendleton

videotaped stumbling away from the scene?”

      “It was,” Hayat replied.

      “Is there anything else you can tell me that might help me get started?” Sam asked.

      Hayat squinted, thinking hard. He knew something else had been unusual, but he couldn’t remember exactly what. “No—” He stopped as a memory suddenly returned. “Wait. Yes... It may be of no consequence, but he appeared to have injured his arm.”

      “And what makes you say that, sir?” Sam asked.

      “He was holding his left arm, right above the wrist, as he walked away,” Hayat replied. “I remember that clearly now. But it must have been a minor injury. It did not keep him from disappearing down the street.”

      “Could you tell what type of injury it was? A broken bone, perhaps? Or a puncture...an abrasion?”

      “I could not tell,” Hayat stated. “Even through the binoculars or on the laptop screen.”

      Sam nodded and turned, starting to go.

      Hayat stopped him, saying, “Would you like a woman or two before you leave?”

      San shook his head. “No, thank you, sir. I appreciate the offer, but I am anxious to get to my task.”

      “Do you think you will be able to find him?” Hayat asked.

      Sam turned back briefly with a smile. “Of course,” he said. “It is what I do.”

      Hayat shook his head, which caught Sam’s attention. “Is there something else, sir?”

      “No. It was just the way you phrased your last comment. It made me think of Dhul. It is also what he does, but the two of you do it in such different ways.”

      “I certainly hope so,” Sam replied. “I believe I would cut my own throat if I thought there were any similarities between the two of us.”

      And with those final words, he turned quickly and was gone.

      * * *

      GALAB LED THE Executioner along what was primarily a series of alleys. But there were enough streets that had to be crossed, and enough curious eyes falling on them when they did, that the Executioner knew that they and his lime-green luggage would be remembered.

      The bags had been an advantage at the airport, where they hid his weapons and other gear in what looked like typical tourist luggage. But here on the streets of Ibadan they had become a liability, drawing attention to him. Galab herself fitted into the landscape like a stalk of wheat in a wheat field, but with Bolan and his bags along, anyone could see that something out of the ordinary was taking place.

      He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly through clenched teeth. Every mission he undertook had its ups and downs. Little things that worked for good as he progressed through the obstacles between him and his goal could easily turn around and hinder him a moment later. He was tempted to abandon the gaudy “sightseer” bags and carry on without them, but knew he might need much of the equipment the bags contained. And by now the damage had already been done. The only thing that would draw more attention than the lime-green monstrosities would be openly carrying the weapons and other equipment they contained.

      The Executioner’s mind continued to work as they walked swiftly on, hurrying down alleys and crossing streets as quickly as they could. The bottom line was that he needed to find a different, lower-profile means of transporting his gear as soon as possible. But he needed to remember that some damage had already been done. The men and women who saw him and Galab would remember them, and that meant that soon the Boko Haram terrorists were going to learn that they had been in the area with their neon luggage.

      Galab had to be thinking along similar lines. “We are almost there,” she said as they rushed on. “Soon we will be out of sight again and you can store those abominable bags in a safe place.”

      Bolan just nodded. In all missions, he had found over the years, there were calculated risks that had to be taken. And at this point, the only alternative to allowing themselves to be seen was to turn and go back, forgoing this place where he planned to base his operations. And even then, he had already drawn too many curious looks. If the Bokos didn’t already know Bolan and the Isaac Center director were in the area, they soon would. So the best plan of action at this juncture was to make sure they didn’t learn exactly which building they’d be in.

      The soldier clenched his teeth again and moved on. Finally, he and Galab hurried into another deserted alley and the woman from the Isaac Center led him to a back door. The asphalt on which they stood was crowded with stacks of building materials: wallboard, boxes of nails, plywood sheets and other items.

      The door led into a building constructed long ago of clay, but that appeared to be undergoing a major remodeling. It was at the end of a half-dozen other clay buildings that shared common walls and looked like some ancient shopping center. A walkway led away from them to the right, and Bolan looked down it and saw that it would take them to the busy street in front of the buildings. As if to confirm his assumption that the building was getting a makeover, he could hear the sounds of various power tools on the roof overhead. Whoever was operating them was too far back from the edge to be visible from below.

      Galab caught his line of sight and answered his question before he could ask it. “This structure is old and beginning to fall apart,” she said in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the racket. “The roof is currently being repaired. The men are back too far for us to see them.”

      Bolan nodded. “Just get us out of sight, too,” he said, glancing up and down the alley to check if anyone was watching.

      “In addition to the bakery out front, the repair work also adds to the cover,” the woman added as she raised a fist to knock on the door. “It gives us an excuse for people to be going and coming, in case any of the Boko Haram spies take note.”

      Without another word she knocked three times on the door, waited a few seconds, then knocked four more times. A moment later, a soft single knock came from the other side. Galab replied with one last thump of her fist, and the door swung open.

      A man wearing black slacks and a blue tunic unbuttoned at the neck ushered Galab quickly inside. Bolan took a final look both ways down the alley, satisfying himself that there were no prying eyes taking in this final leg of their trip, then followed.

      The man in the tunic closed the door behind them.

      Bolan found himself in a dimly lit hallway. Copper pipes and white PVC plumbing, heat and air-conditioning lines were exposed overhead. A steady hum came from the ceiling, punctuated occasionally by a strange buzzing sound. Bolan wondered briefly at its source, then turned his attention to the man who had opened the door.

      Galab and he embraced quickly, then stepped back from each other. “Paul,” the woman said, “this is Matt Cooper, the American I told you would be coming.”

      Paul extended his hand and Bolan shook it. “We can use all the help we can get.” He had evidently seen the Executioner’s glance toward the ceiling. “Many of our converts are skilled artisans,” he said. “They are in the process of making the currently unused areas of this building more livable for those who must hide here.”

      Bolan nodded. Faintly, from the roof, he could hear the same hiss and snap of a nail gun that he’d heard at the construction site back at the Isaac Center. Men on the roof would indeed add to the secrecy of this Christian hideout. It made it even less conspicuous than if the building was left unoccupied. The construction was a perfect example of the old ruse of “hiding in plain sight.”

      The soldier glanced at Paul, somehow knowing that having workers on the roof had been this man’s idea. It was strange, sometimes, how warriors could recognize each other—even in the most peaceful settings. As they’d traveled the alleys, Galab had told Bolan a little about Paul. The man’s main mission in life since his conversion to Christianity might be leading other souls to Christ, but his background as a member of Boko Haram—in short, his experience as a working