Nigeria Meltdown Read online

  “No time for this,” Samuel called as they descended. “We have to go—Cooper will explain on the way,” he added, seeing the expressions on Ken and Achuaba’s faces.

  “You men,” Bolan said, addressing the military team. “I want you to go back to the air strip. Captain Shonekan is an odd man, but he’s loyal to the government. He suspects some of his own men. We can’t let word escape, so help him secure them and wait for word before you leave.”

  “What about you?” Ayinde asked.

  “You don’t need me,” Bolan said, clapping him on the shoulder. “None of those Brotherhood bastards will get past you. I’ve got to get back to Lagos quickly and quietly. I’ve work to do, and these men are best to follow me as they have no official status. You’ll have to trust my judgment.”

  Ayinde shrugged. “It’s been fair up till now.”

  One of the trucks in the camp was still working. Bolan took it, with Samuel, Ken and Achuaba, leaving the military men and their prisoners to trek back to the savanna, where they still had a truck to carry them back to the air strip. It would take time, but that would suit Bolan’s purpose.

  The journey back to the Huey, the refueling and the first leg of the flight back were carried out in virtual silence. The empty seats where Ekwense and Kanu should have been sitting loomed over the remaining men. Bolan assisted in the flight, but felt a ghostly presence on his shoulder.

  It was only when they made the second refueling stop, precarious in the dark, that they began to discuss what had happened and what Bolan proposed to do on their return to Lagos. It took some persuasion for Ken and Achuaba to agree to return to their families and the families of those who would not return. They trusted Bolan—more importantly they knew that Samuel would ensure that justice, however rough, was meted out.

  The early morning sun was rising as they reached the small airfield where they had departed only a day before, a day that seemed like a lifetime. Leaving Ken and Achuaba to attend to the old man at the hangars, Samuel and Bolan took the car that had been left behind and drove into a Lagos that was just awakening to a day that would not unfold as some had planned....

  * * *

  MILTON ABIOLA HAD been at his desk since the previous evening. Only snatched moments of sleep, some pills and coffee to keep him going, and the end was in sight. In a few short hours the coup would be in operation, and Oruma would assume his rightful position as the head of Nigeria. The old man had been treated shamefully and dismissed by the military regime that he had done so much to put in place, and his reputation as a maverick and loose cannon had led to the post-military regime distancing themselves from him, despite the hero status he held from the days of Biafra. Once he assumed command, Abiola was convinced that the people would rejoice. The only thing concerning him was the fall of the communications system. That did not matter. Oruma’s broadcast to the nation once the transmitters had been seized would be enough. Still, if that fool Ehurie had failed, and the man Oboko had infiltrated proved as useless as the man who had sent him, then it meant that the American was still alive.

  But too far away to be a problem. He could be dealt with in due course.

  Abiola drew the blinds in his office and blinked at the rising sun. He would go and check on the old man, who always arrived early at the ministry, but was more likely to today of all days.

  Abiola left his office and pushed the button for the elevator. He was wrapped up in thought and did not notice the two men approach him from the rear as the doors opened. He did not register what had happened to him until his face was pressed up against the cold metal wall of the elevator.

  “Major, you will take us to your leader, if you don’t mind,” Bolan whispered in his ear.

  “How the hell—”

  “Did we get here? Ingenuity and determination. By the way, if you were going to be around for any longer, I’d tell you how useless your night security is. But your time’s up.”

  The elevator door opened, and Samuel led them out, Bolan keeping Abiola in an armlock. The corridor was empty. Outside Oruma’s office, Bolan knocked once. Abiola opened his mouth, but found it hard to talk through the barrel of Samuel’s AK-47. A muffled voice from within bade them to enter.

  As they strode in, Oruma’s secretary, openmouthed in shock, rose from her desk. For such a prim-and-proper middle-aged woman she was quick with a Mauser, which she pulled clear of her desk drawer as she rose. She had it leveled at Bolan and Abiola but had no chance to act on her intent as Samuel took her out with one shot from the AK-47. It sounded deafening in the quiet room and drowned any sound she made as she hit the wall.

  Bolan indicated to Samuel to open the inner door and stand to one side. As Samuel did so, Bolan thrust Abiola forward. The major stumbled forward, unable to stop himself as the armlock was released. He tried to speak, as he knew what was about to happen, was too slow and powerless to stop it. As he barreled through the doorway, three shots from a Glock stitched his chest.

  Bolan and Samuel used this diversion to swiftly enter the office, each man moving either side of the doorway to split the target.

  Oruma stood behind his desk, the Glock pointed down. With cold fury and hate, he looked from Samuel to Bolan and back.

  “Try it,” Bolan said calmly. “You shoot one of us, the other takes you down. You really want to die?”

  Oruma smiled as he slowly put his gun on his desk. “You cannot stop me. Even if you imprison me, my followers will now know me, and they will free me or wait for me. Better a live martyr than a dead one.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on that,” Bolan said coldly. “Once the sham of the Brotherhood is exposed as just a sordid vehicle for your fantasies of gaining power, the thing that binds all the fanatics together will go. It’s idealism, not people, that they want.”

  “We shall see,” Oruma mused. “You know, it is a pity that you are such a self-righteous prig. Maybe you and I could have made an alliance.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” Bolan replied. “Now just come out from behind the desk and lie on the floor.”

  Oruma looked at him, confused.

  “Hey, indulge a self-righteous prig,” the solider said, gesturing with his gun.

  With a puzzled expression, Oruma came out from behind the desk and with a difficulty that showed his age, got down onto the floor, arms spread-eagled, face in the carpet.

  “Samuel, I’ve just got to check the corridor. I think you wanted to have a word with our friend here.”

  Bolan left the room. Samuel stood over the old man.

  “The name Victor Ekwense would mean nothing to you,” he said in a harsh whisper.

  “Is that you, my friend? I can use a man like you, Victor—”

  “Be quiet,” Samuel snapped, silencing him. “I am not Victor. He was my friend. We ran together, fought together. He is dead because of you. You are a Christian man, you say?”

  “Yes,” Oruma said hurriedly. “I am sorry to hear of your loss—”

  “Do you know the Old Testament, then, as well?” Samuel interrupted. He saw the aged man stiffen. “I see that you know what I mean. Think of this now....”

  Samuel leveled the AK-47 and squeezed once. Oruma’s body shook in spasm and then was still.

  Bolan was waiting in the corridor when Samuel came out.

  “There’s some mopping up to be done,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “You up to giving me a hand?”

  Samuel nodded. “I am now.”

  * * *

  IN NEW YORK CITY, Benjamin Williams raised his hands helplessly as he sat opposite Hal Brognola. Adam Mars-Jones sat next to the old man, shaking his head. Two days had passed, and the coup had been strangled at birth, an obscure army captain named Ernest Shonekan being hailed as a national hero for raising an alarm before action had begun.

  “I would have truste
d Wilson with my life,” Williams said sadly. “The man who saved me once before would not have done this. I do not know why—”

  “You’ve been away a long time. Things change,” Brognola interrupted gently. “Your integrity is not in doubt.”

  “But your man—he might have—”

  “My man has an unerring nose for the good guys.” Brognola grinned. “He found some. When you’ve got his experience and a few good men, it’s surprising what you can do.”

  * * * * *

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  ISBN-13: 9781460324455

  Special thanks and acknowledgment to Andy Boot for his contribution to this work.

  NIGERIA MELTDOWN

  Copyright © 2014 by Worldwide Library

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