***

  Purgatory Lagoon, in The Niger Delta

  There was a burst of static followed by the sound of Colonel Martel’s voice. “This is Puma-Six actual. Go. Over.”

  Time was of the essence. Baxter kept it brief. “We have a visual on the target. He’s on a small barge surrounded by hundreds of fishing pirogues. The meeting will end soon. We need the NRO to follow the bastard to his lair. Don’t take ‘No’ for an answer. My GPS coordinates follow.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Martel replied, once he had the coordinates down. “Over.”

  Then he was gone.

  ***

  Abuja, Nigeria

  President Kabir heard the gunshots as if from a long way off, and was waiting for the bullet that would kill him, when strong hands found his armpits. “Cut his seatbelt,” a voice said. “I’ll lift him up.”

  Kabir’s eyes were watering, his vision was blurred, and it was difficult to breathe.

  But, in spite of those distractions, Kabir realized something important as the attackers removed him from the limo. He was alive! For the moment anyway. But that begged the question: What were they planning to do?

  Rough hands helped Kabir over the side of the truck as another smoke grenade went off. Then he was hustled into a taxi cab. “Put your seat belt on,” the guard sitting next to him ordered. “Always remember: Safety first.”

  The comment was so surreal that Kabir laughed as the cab left a cloud of smoke, entered an alley, then waited for police cars to pass before it exited onto a street. Rather than try to race off, which was nearly impossible in downtown traffic, the driver took his time. And that, Kabir realized, was smart. Don’t run. Fit in.

  That, at least, made sense. What didn’t make sense was the driver’s failure to leave the side streets, and get on a highway out of Abuja.

  Instead, the cab was headed toward Bolingo Junction, where the Bolingo Hotel and Towers were located, along with a cluster of “orphan” buildings which had been started but never finished due to greed, corruption, and incompetence. Just one of the issues that he and Amobi Dauda had promised to solve.

  And as the empty-eyed, high-rise structures appeared up ahead, Kabir came to realize that the orphans, or one of them, was the taxi’s destination. Another smart decision. While the police searched the countryside his captors would be hiding downtown.

  Who was behind the plot? There were dozens of possibilities. I’ll find out soon enough, Kabir reasoned, as the cab turned a corner into a defunct business park. It was surrounded by a much-abused cyclone fence, strewn with construction debris, and protected by a lone rent-a-cop. He waved the car through.

  A heavily-shadowed vehicle entrance yawned up ahead and took the taxi in. A ramp led down into a parking garage which, except for a relatively small area near the elevators, was a full-on homeless encampment. All manner of tents, cardboard shelters and flimsy shacks had been constructed to take advantage of the shade and escape the seasonal rains.

  A guard ordered Kabir to get out of the cab. The stench caught at the back of Kabir’s throat and it was hard to keep his breakfast down. “Not what you’re used to, is it?” one of the guards demanded. “Well, this is how tens of thousands of Nigerians live. And it’s your fault. Get on the fucking elevator.”

  “The fucking elevator” was off in a corner away from the passenger lifts meant to whisk business people to and from the offices that had never been finished.

  Where are they getting the power? Kabir wondered as the freight elevator groaned, clanked, and began to rise. Had they been able to tap into one of the city’s underground transmission lines? That kind of piracy wasn’t unheard of in Abuja.

  The lift jerked to a halt on the twelfth floor, one of the guards pushed the door out of the way, and the other gave Kabir a shove. “Welcome to Black Axe headquarters, Mr. President. Thought Leader Milo Lawan is waiting to meet with you.”

  Black Axe. The name sent a chill down Kabir’s spine. Black Axe was a crime cult known not only for its criminal exploits, but the brutality of its members, the so-called “axemen.” And he had fallen into their hands.

  The knot of fear in Kabir’s belly tightened. Were they going to torture him? Quite possibly. Could he resist? He would try.

  Though far from tidy the twelfth floor was a lot cleaner than the parking garage. And, as Kabir was escorted down a long hallway, he caught a glimpse of offices to the left and right. Some were clearly being used as sleeping quarters. Others were crammed with supplies. One was labeled with a handwritten sign: “Armory.”

  Armed guards flanked the door to Lawan’s quarters. Was that for show? A mark of the gang leader’s importance? Or, was Lawan afraid of his own men? All were possibilities.

  One of the guards opened the door as the other gave Kabir a shove. He stumbled, caught himself, and stopped just short of the strip of caution tape on the floor. The words, “Stop Asshole,” had been spray painted just beyond that.

  Kabir’s eyes came up to meet those of a black man with short blue hair, high cheekbones, and about a day’s worth of stubble on his angular face.

  He was seated on a thronelike piece of furniture, framed by two inward-curving elephant tusks, and resting on a carpet of overlapping leopard skins. A much sought-after animal which, if not protected, might disappear.

  “So,” Lawan said. “I am Milo Lawan. A nobody. And you are President Kabir. Yet, I’m the one in charge. That’s because crime pays. In fact, it pays so well, that something like half of your police officers are on the take.

  “In spite of that, you and your mindless minions continue to arrest and convict my loyal axemen. Two hundred and forty-two are currently rotting in various prisons.”

  Lawan raised his voice. “Send Bako in.”

  Kabir turned to see a man carrying a fancy camera enter the room.

  “Give him the newspaper,” Lawan ordered.

  Kabir had no choice but to accept that morning’s copy of The Nation newspaper.

  “Hold it up next to your face,” Bako commanded.

  Kabir complied and a series of clicks were heard. “I have it.”

  “Good,” Lawan said. “Send your best photo to all media outlets with the following message. “Free all members of the Black Axe from prison within fifteen days or President Kabir will die.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Niger River Delta

  French Foreign Legion Lieutenant Marcel Dupont, and four of his men, were swimming in the channel that led to William Eze’s sprawling compound. The water was dark, blood warm, and home to crocodiles.

  Would the African reptiles succeed? Where the Black Caimans of South America had failed. And use the legionnaire as a snack?

  Dupont didn’t want to think about that, so he didn’t. Ce qui sera sera. (What will be will be.) There were other things to worry about.

  The American NRO had been able to track Eze, aka Billy Sunday, back to his hideout. And ever since then the pirate compound had been under surveillance by Nigerian Wing Loong II, unmanned combat drones.

  Based on the intelligence they’d been able to gather the S&R team knew where the prisoners were, where the guards slept, and where Eze spent most of his time. Which was on the second story of an old dredge.

  The legionnaires were heavily armed. But, thanks to the additional buoyancy provided by their tactical life jackets, it was easy to stay afloat. The legionnaires were using the breaststroke to minimize splashing and maximize their ability to see.

  Dupont could hear the steady rumble of a generator and see the buttery glow of lit windows. And there, silhouetted against a distant light, was a sentry. “Target to the right,” Dupont whispered into his boom mike. “Kill him.”

  “He’s mine,” a legionnaire named Conte whispered. The water was shallower by then. That allowed Conte to plant his high tops in the mud, draw his suppressed Glock 17, and take aim. Two shots. Pop, pop. One in the head and one in the chest.

  The sentry collapsed like an empty sack. Conte hurried to grab the dead man’s ankles and tow him into the muddy water. An AK-47 followed.

  “Bien,” Dupont said. “Remember the path. Run to the boiler. Take cover behind the pile of timbers. Watch your spacing. Savin has our six. Follow me.”

  With that Dupont rose from the water and dashed forward. The boiler was covered with rust and lying on its side. Nothing could grow in the polluted soil, so the area was bare of vegetation. Dupont knelt by the boiler. The rest of the legionnaires arrived one at a time.

  The officer looked around. The pile of timbers was about twenty yards away.

  He was about to lead his team forward when a door creaked open, a shaft of light shot out onto the ground, and a silhouette appeared.

  Dupont could hear the muted thump of pop music as the pirate opened his fly and took a leak. Then, after a careful survey, the Nigerian returned inside.

  That was Dupont’s cue to run for the timbers. He was halfway to his goal when the merde hit the fan. Without so much as a growl two Rhodesian ridgebacks charged out of the darkness to attack the intruders. The dogs were big, and they’d been trained to kill.

  The first beast hit Dupont straight on, knocked the legionnaire to the ground, and went for his throat. The Glock 17 saved his life. Dupont could smell the dog’s fetid breath as he pressed the pistol against its side and pulled the trigger twice.

  The ridgeback jerked, produced a blood chilling howl, and collapsed. Dupont jumped to his feet. “The shed! Quick! Before they kill the hostages!”

  The whole point of the mission was to secure the prisoners prior to the main attack. Unfortunately, the second ridgeback had a grip on legionnaire Favro’s right arm and refused to let go. Savin shot the animal in the head and it fell. “Now!” Dupont yelled, as searchlights came on. “Follow me!”

  An LMG began to stutter, and bullets kicked up geysers of mud, as the legionnaires zigzagged across open ground toward the shed where the African Moon’s crew was being held.

  Three guards were visible. They raised their assault rifles but only got a few shots off before Davin fired the grenade launcher. His aim was perfect and the orange-red explosion swept the Nigerians away. “Kill the prisoners!” a disembodied voice said over the compound’s PA system. “Kill them now!”

  Fortunately, the distance had closed by then. “In the shed!” Dupont ordered. “On the floor! And that means the hostages too.”

  A padlock secured the door. Savin was armed with a shotgun. A single blast blew the lock away. The legionnaires rushed in. “Down! Down! Down!” Dupont yelled. “We’re French! We’re here to rescue you.”

  Most of the prisoners were already down on the dirt floor. Those who weren’t joined them. “They’ll come from all sides!” Dupont warned. “Give your pistols to the hostages … Create firing ports if you can. ‘Souviens-toi de Camerone!’ ” (Remember Camerone!)

  No sooner had the words left the officer’s mouth, than a hail of bullets hit the shed, many of which passed through the metal siding and pinged the other wall.

  Dupont keyed his mike. “Pirate-Six, this is Puma-Two. We have the prisoners, but we’re under fire. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Baxter replied. “We’ll be on the beach in a minute. Hang in there. Over.”

  ***

  Thanks to the crisscrossing searchlights, and the sound of sustained gunfire, there was no doubt about where to go. The plan, had everything gone perfectly, was to take control of the makeshift prison without firing a shot. Thereby freeing Baxter and his team to go after Eze.

  But that plan was in the shitter. Now Baxter had to attack the guards in order to protect the hostages and the legionnaires.

  Sneaker One and Two came in hard and ran up onto the mud. The coxswains remained with the boats as the rest of the team followed Baxter. A flare went off. An eerie glow flooded the compound. The attackers were easy to spot.

  The guards opened fire on Baxter’s team and a sailor went down. A French medic stopped to provide first aid as the rest of the force pushed on.

  Baxter saw movement, took a knee, and gave thanks for the self-illuminating sight on his M4. He fired. “This is Six. Tango down. Light the bastards up! Over.”

  The guards had AK-74 assault rifles which fired the 5.45x39mm cartridges instead of the 7.62x39mm rounds that the AK-47s ate. But the updated weapons lacked night sights, and most of the pirate bullets went wide.

  The guards went down one-by-one until those who could, turned and ran. “This is Six,” Baxter said. “Let them go. Throw some security around that shed. Move it. Over.”

  ***

  William Eze was disappointed by the loss of what would have been an excellent payday. But he had plenty of money stashed away, and would make a new start. Perhaps it was time to put piracy behind him. Human trafficking had a certain allure. Such were Eze’s thoughts, as he threw some items into his bugout bag, and left the office.

  The sounds of fighting had started to fade by the time Eze made his way down rickety stairs to the main deck, and from there to the ground via an aluminum ladder.

  Then Eze had to force his way through thick undergrowth to the narrow channel where his personal watercraft was waiting. The pirate was bent over, strapping the bugout bag down onto the passenger seat, when he heard a voice.

  “Nigerian police. Raise your hands and place them on top of your head. Turn slowly. You are under arrest for murder, piracy, and spitting in the street.”

  Eze turned. The man was holding a pistol. “And who, if I may ask, are you?”

  “I’m Inspector Ikande.”

  “I’ll pay you five times your annual salary to let me go. Most of the cops in the Delta work for me parttime.”

  “They’re traitors,” Ikande said calmy. “As are you.”

  Eze had been careful to put one foot ahead of the other. The way a runner does. He took two steps forward, and was about to charge, when Ikande shot him six times. “Iwoomusu.” (Asshole.)

  ***

  The helicopters returned after Baxter notified Colonel Martel that the newly freed prisoners were alive, and in reasonably good shape. It was going to require two trips to get everyone and everything out. The hostages went in the first load, as did the wounded, pirates included. With guards to make sure they behaved themselves.

  There were more bad guys in the swamp, people who would be eager to loot Eze’s compound. Which meant that Lieutenant Dupont and his legionnaires had to guard the perimeter while Baxter and his sailors went about the task of gathering Intel.

  Pocket litter, garbage cans, backpacks, and the stuff in Eze’s office. All of it had to be collected, annotated, and bagged.

  By the time the helicopters returned at noon, the Intel sweep was complete, and everything was ready to load. Boats too. Removing four engines and humping them to a helo was the worst part of the process.

  Once his chopper was airborne, Baxter stretched out on the deck, placed a first aid kit under his head, and fell asleep. He was still conked out when the Z-8 put down in Port Harcourt. Ikande nudged him with a foot. “Get up American. You can sleep in your barracks.”

  And that was exactly what Baxter had in mind, as Master Chief Riley moved in to supervise unloading, and guide sailors into the so-called “hotwash,” where Nigerian and Allied Intel personnel were waiting to pepper them with questions.

  But Baxter had to pause at the desk in the common room. “I’ve got a hot potato for you, sir,” the duty PO told him. “The runner said to deliver it ASAP.”

  Baxter thanked him, and took the manila envelope upstairs to his room. The message was from Colonel Martel: “Please join me and Admiral George Dixon, Commander U.S. Naval Forces Africa, for breakfast in my office at 0800 in the morning.

  “By the way, well done.”

  “Henri.”

  The attaboy felt good. The meet-and-greet with Dixon less so. But odds were that the get-together would be brief. “Hi there. Blah, blah, blah. See you later.” Meanwhile Baxter was going to take a hot shower, grab something to eat, and hit the rack.

  Everything went according to plan, and a much-refreshed Baxter arrived at Martel’s office at 0745, and was immediately shown into a small dining room.

  Retro lion and tiger wall paper covered the walls, a large fireplace was waiting for the next snowstorm, and a threadbare carpet concealed most of the floor.

  The table was round and set for three. Martel stood. “Good morning, Commander … Please allow me to introduce Admiral Dixon.”

  Dixon put his coffee cup down and came to his feet. He had snow white hair, a longish face, and a strong chin. His handshake was firm. “This is a pleasure. Congratulations on the rescue. From what I hear the prisoners are grateful, their company is pleased, and the Nigerian government is claiming most of the credit. A sure sign that things went well.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Baxter replied. “And I’d like to take this opportunity to recommend some sort of recognition for Lieutenant Dupont. Without his leadership, and valor, the whole operation would have been impossible.

  “Inspector Ikande should be commended as well, if we have the means.”

  “We do,” Martel replied. “Please have a seat. And if you’d be so kind as to submit a letter regarding Lieutenant Dupont, I can assure you that I’ll forward it to the right people.”

  A waiter arrived at that point, took their orders, and left. “So lay it on us,” Dixon said. “What’s the nitty gritty? How did the mission go down?”

  Baxter was careful to keep it short and dispassionate. Once he was finished Dixon nodded. “I read your file, Commander. You have a reputation for getting into scrapes and pushing limits.

  “Yes, you got your dick in a wringer in Aden—but overall—you’re one hard charging son of a gun. And believe me, regardless of the letter they put in your file, there are plenty of people who admire you. That’s why I was asked to deliver these.”

  At that point Dixon dipped into his briefcase and withdrew three identical cases. He opened them and turned each toward Baxter. “You’re looking at a Navy Cross, a Navy Distinguished Service Medal, and a Purple Heart.