Well, that ends tonight. Boko Haram is a hydra with a hundred heads, but I’m gonna hack off at least one of them.
I wish I had my normal crew with me. This job is dicey. I’d rather have Ghost by my side, or even Psycho. But the Black Knights are currently occupied in Ukraine. Bomber was the best option I had on short notice.
“I have to pee so bad,” he mutters.
“I told you not to drink so much water.”
“It’s fuckin’ hot, though . . . ”
“Shh,” I hiss at him.
I can hear at least one other person helping Kambar unload the cart. The last thing I need is for the insurgents to overhear Bomber whining.
I hear Kambar chatting with somebody a dozen yards away. Then a pause. Then the three swift knocks on the side of the cart that tell us the coast is clear.
I reach beneath me, flipping up the latch that holds our little compartment in place. The doors swing open, dumping Bomber and me out in the dirt underneath the cart. I see the bullock’s hooves up by my head, and two rickety wheels on either side of me. Bomber and I roll between the wheels, hiding ourselves behind a pyramid of oil drums.
Kambar doesn’t even glance back at us. He climbs up in his cart again and flicks the reigns, whistling for the bullock to get going.
Bomber and I hide behind the oil drums for another two hours. Bomber digs a channel in the dust and releases his aching bladder, which I wish he wouldn’t do two inches from my elbow, but there aren’t any other options. I hear the cooks rattling around in the kitchen, making the dinner meal for the fifty or so soldiers inside the compound.
I smell the mouthwatering scents of sizzling lamb and bubbling tomato sauce.
“We could sneak in and grab a bite . . . ” Bomber whispers.
“Don’t even think about it.”
At last it’s dark, and I’m pretty sure everyone is done eating. I see the glow of lantern light up in the window at the southwest corner of the compound. The room Nur is using.
“Let’s go,” I mutter to Bomber.
I don’t want to wait until the night watch comes on. I want to act now, while everyone is full and drowsy, while the soldiers who watched the compound all day long in the hot sun are counting down the minutes until they can go have a cigarette and a drink, play cards, or go to bed early.
We’ve been watching the compound for days. I have a fairly good idea where the guards are posted, and what their patrol pattern looks like.
Bomber and I creep up the back staircase.
The compound reminds me of a medieval castle—all big, rounded stones, and windows cut into the walls without any glass. Instead of panes, colored cloth is hung to block dust from blowing inside.
There’s no air conditioning in places like this. They rely on brick or stone, and airflow, to keep the interiors relatively cool.
Bomber hangs back while I poke my head around the corner, checking for the guard. He’s standing at one of the windows looking outward, his rifle set butt-down on the stone floor next to him, the barrel resting against the wall.
Sloppy. These men have no training. They’re ferocious enough against unarmed civilians, against women and children, but their sense of invincibility is unearned.
I creep up behind him and wrap my arm around his throat, covering his mouth with my hand and choking him out. I wait until he goes limp in my arms, then I drop him gently to the floor.
I strip off the man’s clothes. He’s wearing desert camouflage, with a green turban and face wrap to show his devotion. He’s a much smaller man than me, but luckily the top and pants are baggy, probably pulled at random out of a stack of uniforms.
I put his clothes on over my own, grateful for the turban because I can use it to hide my face. When I’m ready, Bomber covers me as I approach Nur’s door.
Two guards bookend the door. These two know better than to set down their rifles or show any indication of boredom. If Nur caught them slacking, he’d shoot them himself. Or order one of his more creative and disgusting tortures.
The last time his insurgents took hostages outside of Taraba, he ordered all their hands be cut off and hung by a string around their necks. Half the hostages died of infection or blood loss. Nur didn’t seem to care.
Looking down at the floor to hide my face, I stride purposefully toward the guards.
“Message for Nur,” I mumble in Kanuri.
The guard on the right holds out his hand for the message, thinking I’ve brought a note or a letter.
Instead, I cut his throat with my Ka-Bar knife.
He gasps soundlessly, bringing his hands up to his neck, more surprised than anything else.
The guard on the left opens his mouth to shout, swinging his rifle around at me.
I block the rifle with my arm, clamping my hand over his mouth. Then I stab him six times in the chest.
Both men drop at almost the same time. There’s no muffling the sound of their bodies falling, or the gurgling of the man on the right.
So I expect Nur to be waiting for me.
I haul up the man on the left and hold his body in front of me as I push my way through Nur’s door.
Sure enough, Nur fires three bullets in my direction. Two hit the body of his hapless guard. The third splinters the wooden doorframe next to my ear.
Running straight at Nur, I throw the guard’s body in his face. He stumbles backward, tripping over a footstool and landing hard on the luxurious Moroccan carpet spread across his stone floor.
I kick the gun out of his hand, then step aside so Bomber can shoot him. Bomber is right behind me, with a silencer screwed on to his SIG Sauer. He shoots Nur twice in the chest and once in the head.
Nur wasn’t wearing a vest. Just a loose white linen top, on which the bloodstains bloom like flowers. I can hear his last breath of air whistle out through a hole in his lung.
I’m always surprised how very human these warlords are. Nur is about six feet tall, soft-shouldered, with a belly. He’s bald on top, the patches of hair around his ears streaked with gray. The whites of his eyes are yellowed, and so are his teeth. I can smell his oniony sweat.
There’s nothing special or majestic about this man. He’s murdered thousands of people and terrorized many more. But right now he’s dying in a dull way, without any last words. Without even putting up much of a fight.
Bomber and I wait until he’s fully dead. I check for a pulse with my fingers, even though I can already see from his glassy eyes that he’s gone.
Then Bomber and I latch on to the window ledge and rappel down the side of the building.
We’re planning to go out through the drainage chute, where the kitchen staff dumps the dirty water and other refuse.
It wasn’t my first choice of exit, but Bomber and I have had all our shots, so hopefully we won’t catch anything too nasty.
As we creep through the dark yard, the guards are beginning to swap shifts. In about ten minutes, they’ll find Nur’s body. They’re sure to check in on their boss.
Bomber and I are passing through a narrow stone hallway to the kitchen when he hisses, “Long Shot, take a look.”
I scowl back at him, annoyed that he’s slowed down. There’s no time to look at whatever caught his attention.
Still, I backtrack to the locked door. Peering through the tiny window, I see five small girls huddled on a bare floor. They’re still wearing their school uniforms of plaid jumpers and white cotton socks and blouses. Their clothing is remarkably clean—they can’t have been here long.