Kabir felt a stab of fear. It was the kind of atrocity the Black Axe was known for. “Thank you for the warning,” Kabir said. “Although there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “Oh, but there is!” Mfon replied fiercely. “I will come for you tonight. Be ready.”

  Kabir wanted to ask, “For what?” But the guard opened the door at that point and Mfon turned away.

  Time passed slowly. An hour, two hours, and three hours. All without any sign of Mfon. Finally, Kabir was forced to conclude that something had gone awry.

  All he could do was hope that the young woman was all right, and try to steel himself against the ordeal to be faced the following day.

  I don’t want to scream, Kabir thought. But am I strong enough to prevent it? And what does it matter anyway?

  Twenty minutes later Kabir heard the sound of the padlock being unlocked. Oh, my God, Kabir thought. They’re going to cut my finger off!

  But when the door opened Mfon was standing there. And behind her, lying in a pool of blood, was a body. “Come,” she ordered. “Do exactly as I say.”

  It was like meeting a different woman. “The guard,” Kabir said. “How did you?”

  “I asked him to kiss me,” Mfon replied. “Then I stabbed him in the neck.”

  And sure enough, as Kabir followed her out of the room, he saw a pool of blood on the floor. “Hurry!” Mfon said urgently. “We must exit the building before they find the body.”

  That made sense. But rather than take Kabir down the fire escape, Mfon led Kabir up the stairs. Kabir was out of shape, and Mfon wasn’t, so it was difficult to keep up with her.

  Kabir was breathing heavily by the time they reached the top of the stairs and the door to the roof. “Wait here,” Mfon ordered. “I will kill the lookout.”

  It was said matter of factly. As if Mfon killed lookouts on a regular basis.

  Will she kill him the same way? Kabir wondered. Probably. Men are stupid. But how did she learn to do such things?

  Five long minutes passed. Then the door opened and Mfon motioned for him to step out onto the roof. “Follow me.” Kabir had to step over a dead body.

  Lights glittered all around, except in the orphan buildings which, unlike the Black Axe building, didn’t have power.

  Kabir was mystified. Where was Mfon going? They were trapped on a roof. The answer came as a surprise.

  “This is an anchor point,” Mfon explained, as they approached a vertical pipe. “And that is a zipline. There are four of them. One at each corner of the building. Mr. Lawan had them installed for emergencies. Have you used one before?”

  Kabir shook his head.

  “It’s simple,” Mfon told him. “Step up onto the platform, and hook this trolley over the line. Gravity will pull you down. Pull back on the orange handle bars to slow down or come to a stop. That’s all there is to it,” Mfon assured Kabir, as she fastened his safety harness.

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be right behind you,” Mfon assured him. “So be sure to lift your trolley off the line, and step out of the way. I might crash into you if you don’t.”

  And with that Mfon gave Kabir a shove.

  Suddenly Kabir was sliding into the night. Lights blurred to the left and right, cool night air was rushing past his face, and the ground was coming up to meet him.

  Brakes! Kabir had brakes. He pulled back on the orange handle bars and felt the rate of descent slow. It worked! He wasn’t going to die.

  A feeling of exhilaration overtook the politician then vanished as he continued to brake, hands grabbed him, and a voice said, “Remove the trolley! Mfon’s coming in!”

  Kabir was about to step sideways when hands jerked him out of the landing zone. I’m safe! Kabir thought. Thank God.

  There was a brief commotion as Mfon landed and a command was given. “Cut the line! Don’t let the axemen use it!”

  “Hello,” a bass voice said. “I think you’ve heard of me … I’m Akin Adebayo. I lead Boko Haram in Nigeria.”

  It was hard to see in the half light. But Kabir got the impression of a bald black man with a bushy beard and a commanding presence. And that was the moment when Kabir realized that he’d been stolen from the Black Axe by an equally brutal group.

  Boko Haram was opposed to the westernization of Nigerian society, and claimed that it was responsible for Nigeria’s “culture of corruption.” And the solution, insofar as Boko Haram was concerned, was to transform Nigeria from a largely secular society into an Islamic state. Something Kabir opposed.

  Shortly after Boko Haram declared its support for ISIS (The Islamic State of Iraq and Syria). Boko proclaimed that, “It was the rejection of nationalism that drove the mujahidin (jihad fighters) in Nigeria to give bay’ah (fealty) to the Islamic State, and wage war against the Nigerian murtaddin (apostates) fighting for the Nigerian taghut (idolatrous tyrant)».

  A none too grabby statement, but one which welcomed Boko into the terrorist fold.

  Kabir’s spirits sank. The emotion must have been visible on his face. Adebayo smiled. His teeth were very white. “That’s right idolator. Fifty-three percent of Nigeria is Muslim. And that’s what your government calls a majority. Welcome to janat allah ealaa al’ard.” (Heaven on earth.)

  ***

  Imo River, Nigeria

  Baxter was better. Not perfect, but better. The headache had abated and the lump on the back of his head was considerably smaller. That was the good news.

  The bad news was that yet another atrocity had been committed by the Black Axe. And, in spite of orders to avoid entering buildings that hadn’t been cleared, Seaman Nichols saw the sign that read “Bar,” and noticed the open door.

  He went inside to either buy or steal a bottle of booze. And while doing so, Nichols triggered the IED that destroyed the building, and blew Baxter off his feet.

  There would be a form to fill out. And, where it called for “cause of death,” Baxter would write “KIA.” Rather than, “The dumb shit blew himself up.” A kindness that would allow the Nichols family to gradually convert their grief into pride.

  The column of boats was headed for the next Black Axe trading post when the ET came to get him. “Colonel Martel’s on the horn, sir. He says it’s urgent.”

  What now? Baxter wondered, as he made his way to the tiny cubicle where the radioman did his job. The mike was waiting on a tiny fold down desk. “This is Pirate-Six.”

  “Puma-Six here,” Martel replied. “I have a data dump for you.”

  Baxter listened as Martel explained that “the subject” had been removed from the custody of “Bravo-Mike” and delivered to “Bravo-Hotel,” which meant nothing to Baxter at first.

  Then, when Martel used the phrase “out of the frying pan and into the fire,” Baxter realized that Bravo-Hotel stood for Boko Haram. “Damn! What do we do now? Over.”

  “Break it off,” Martel answered. “And return. The trucks will be waiting for you. And so will new orders. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Baxter replied. “Over.”

  ***

  Abuja, Nigeria

  It was shortly after one in the morning. After receiving permission to access the Dog Master’s personnel file, Captain Chun Cho had gone to Ru Lee’s apartment for the specific purpose of murdering him.

  Each member of the Chinese embassy’s staff was required to leave a house key with the security director, who in response to orders from Ambassador Ying, gave Cho the access card for Lee’s home.

  The agent was a killer who ran teams of killers—everyone knew that. So, Cho’s hands were trembling, and he felt sick to his stomach, as he slid the card through the reader.

  The green LED appeared and Cho heard a click. So far so good, the army officer told himself. A suppressed pistol was ready in his hand. I’ll empty the magazine, Cho decided. There’s no reason to conserve ammunition.

  The door opened on silent hinges. Indicator lights glowed in the kitchen to the right, and on a large TV, which was straight ahead.

  Cho advanced with the pistol up in a two-handed grip. The bedroom, Cho thought. Shoot him in bed.

  Cho’s low-cut sneakers made no sound as he turned to the left, and opened a door. The indicator light for a second TV, plus the face of an internally lit clock, were sufficient to see by.

  Cho crept forward and took aim at the form under the covers. That was when Ru Lee shot him in the leg.

  ***

  The Dog Master was armed with a suppressed pistol. It produced a barely audible clacking noise as Cho fell. The army officer had rolled onto his back, when Lee placed a foot on his gun hand and said, “Don’t move.”

  He bent to take Cho’s weapon. “Well look at this! A trusted member of the PLA! (People’s Liberation Army.) Sneaking around like a thief in the night. Don’t tell me, let me guess … Ambassador Ying sent you.”

  Lee had removed his foot by then. And Cho was trying to staunch the bleeding with his hands. “Please! Please! Please! She made me do it.”

  “And I believe you,” Lee replied. “Did the bitch give a reason?”

  “Yes,” Cho moaned. “She said that because you and I failed to find Kabir before Boko Haram took him, one of us had to die.”

  Lee sighed. “Of course, she did. It was so predictable that I predicted it. Although I was expecting a couple of professionals rather than a boy scout. Well, no merit badge for you.”

  Lee fired twice. One bullet in the head, and one in the chest. Cike zhi dao. (The way of the assassin.)

  ***

  Port Harcourt, Nigeria

  A message was waiting for Baxter when he arrived at the Squadron 2 base in Port Harcourt. “Please attend the planning meeting scheduled for 0800 tomorrow. And wear a dress uniform if you have one. Colonel Martel.”

  Dress uniform? WTF? Was Admiral Cogan in town?

  But orders are orders. So, Baxter was decked out in a freshly pressed, summer white uniform when he reported to Legion headquarters the following morning. New ribbons included.

  After clearing security Baxter went to Martel’s office which, much to Baxter’s surprise, had been converted into a TV studio.

  The legionnaire was sitting on a folding director’s chair across from a beautiful woman. She had flowing black hair, an oval shaped face, and big eyes. “So, Colonel, how do you and your men propose to find the president?”

  “French Foreign Legionnaires will be involved,” Martel assured her. “But so will personnel from Allied nations including the United States. As for the exact details of how we’re going to find your father, it would be inappropriate for me to discuss that on television, thereby warning Boko Haram.”

  Baxter took it in. Kabir’s daughter was a TV reporter? Who was covering her father’s abduction? That’s how it appeared.

  “Ah,” Martel said. “I see that U.S. Navy Commander Leo Baxter has arrived! Please join us Commander … I’m sure that Ms. Kabir has questions for you as well.”

  The bastard is inviting me into the frying pan, Baxter thought, as he crossed the room. The reporter stood. Her grip was firm. “Ms. Kabir is too formal. My name is Sifou. Please have a seat.”

  Watch what you say, Baxter told himself. This is a fucking minefield.

  “So,” Sifou began. “Were you chosen for this assignment because you’re black?”

  “I was chosen to command Riverine Squadron 2 because I was qualified,” Baxter replied. And because I didn’t want a ticket to the big navy.

  “Please tell our audience what Riverine Squadron 2 does,” Sifou said, as her eyes bored into him.

  Baxter told Sifou about the squadron’s successful effort to free the crew of the African Moon, thanks to the leadership offered by Police Inspector Ikande. Baxter saw Martel smile, and knew he was on the right track.

  Sifou nodded. “My father believes that there are many excellent public servants in Nigeria, and we must do all we can to support them.

  “Now tell me Commander, why you? Why will your squadron be involved in the search for my father?”

  “Nigeria’s rivers are like highways,” Baxter replied. “And they can be used for purposes good and bad. So, it makes sense to be ready in case our skill sets are required.

  “We are by no means the most important resource your country has however. That role belongs to the police and the army.”

  Baxter saw an infinitesimal nod from Martel and felt a sense of relief. Admiral Dixon arrived two minutes later. And that meant Martel and Baxter could leave the set, and retreat to the coffee service at the back of the room.

  “That was spot on,” Martel whispered. “I’m sorry about the way it went down. I was going to brief you ahead of time, but the camera crew was ready, and Sifou wanted to start.

  “She’s something else, that one. She has a degree from the Sorbonne, was Miss Nigeria two years ago, and anchors a show on Channels Television.

  “Sifou was terrified that Black Axe would kill the president, and wanted to get involved,” Martel explained. “But high-ranking figures in the government convinced her to stay out of it.

  “She did at first. But, when her father was kidnapped by Boko Haram, that was the last straw for Sifou. She’s calling on her audience to submit tips that could lead to a rescue. And it’s working. We have a lead.”

  “And Sifou knows that?”

  “Yes, she does,” Martel replied. “She plans to film the rescue.”

  Baxter frowned. “That isn’t good.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Martel agreed. “Sorry about that. But I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Because,” Martel answered, “if the tip proves to be correct, President Kabir is being held on a raft in the middle of a lake. I know you specialize in rivers. But Squadron 2 can operate on lakes too. Oui?”

  ***

  Abuja, Nigeria

  The early morning traffic was terrible. The best cars could do was creep along, constantly changing lanes, in hopes of gaining ground. And the Dog Master planned to take full advantage of that.

  Due to the leg injury, Lee couldn’t ride motorcycles by himself anymore, but he could sit behind the driver. In this case a Somalian contractor who went by the name Tut, and jokingly, “King Tut.” Both wore helmets with dark visors.

  Tut was one of the men who had taken part in President Dauda’s assassination, and was a known quantity. His job was simple: Pull up next to the black limo occupied by Ambassador Ying and stay there. Lee would handle the rest.

  Lee had been gathering Intel on Ying for a month or so. And thanks to the ambassador’s passion for punctuality, he knew the exact time when Ying would leave her gated community.

  Ying’s security detail consisted of two agents, a man and a woman. Both seated in front.

  The Honda Super Cub motorcycle pulled in behind the black sedan. Would Ying’s driver notice? That seemed unlikely. The Cub was the best-selling motor bike in the world. And the city of Abuja was home to thousands of them.

  Tut had instructions to hang back at first, and allow a single car to pass, to ensure that Ying’s driver didn’t become suspicious.

  As the ambassador’s car approached the intersection of Herbert Macaulay Way and Independence Avenue, Lee leaned forward. “Now!”

  Tut opened the throttle, passed a Toyota, and brought the bike in next to Ying’s sedan.

  Lee was ready. “Goodbye Bitch!” had been written on a sheet of paper in Mandarin, and sealed in clear plastic. And, because the envelope had been sprayed with adhesive, it stuck to the window when Lee slapped it into place.

  Would Ying read it? Yes. And would spend the last seconds of her life wondering how she was going to die. The answer to that question was contained in the block of C-4 which Lee placed on the door inches away from Ying.

  Tut wove in and out of traffic until the Cub was well ahead of the sedan.

  Lee removed the remote from his pocket and turned to look over his shoulder. The car was stopped, the doors were open, and Ying was getting out. Lee pressed the button.

  The result was a bright yellow-orange explosion, a clap of artificial thunder, and an expanding cloud of dust.

  Lee took pleasure in the moment as a neighboring car was flipped onto its side, a second burst into flames, and a third rammed the vehicle in front of it.

  Lee turned back and tapped Tut on the shoulder. “Take me to the airport.”

  Lee’s suitcases were already there, stored in lockers. Because of the war, it would take the better part of three days to reach Malaysia, and Lee’s secret home in Penang.

  Time and money would be required to rid himself of the renters, but Lee had both, and would soon settle in. Would the Intelligence Bureau of the Joint Staff Department of the Central Military Commission try to find him? Naturally.

  And would the Bureau succeed? And send a dog team to kill him? If so, most, if not all of the puppies would die. Lee smiled. Yin and Yang. Balance had been restored to his universe. And that was the best he could hope for.

  ***

  Lake Tiga, Nigeria

  Though referred to as “The Raft” by those who lived on it, no single name could properly describe the ever-changing conglomeration of barges, houseboats, and floating platforms that was anchored in the middle of Lake Tiga.

  The roughly one hundred and ten-square-mile body of water was situated behind the Tiga Dam, which had been constructed to improve food security via irrigation projects.

  And that, President Kabir knew, hadn’t gone as planned. Those living up river prospered. But those down river from the dam received less water than they had previously. Yet another example of how the law of unintended consequences could overwhelm government’s efforts.

  In some ways captivity on the raft was more pleasant than the high-rise Black Axe prison had been. Kabir’s new cell consisted of a twenty-foot-long, steel cargo container complete with mismatched furniture and a barred window.

  Kabir spent hours of each day standing on a stool, and looking out over the lake. That part of Nigeria was fifty-three percent Muslim, and therefore somewhat sympathetic to Boko Haram’s goals—if not its ruthless methods.