LAGOS, NIGERIA
FRIDAY, 11:44 A.M. WEST AFRICA TIME (6:44 A.M. EST)
The consulate van had exited the expressway and, on Judd’s direction, weaved its way through the side streets of Lagos.
“Take the next left,” Judd ordered. He was leaning against the driver’s seat, his phone pressed to his ear, taking instructions from Sunday, who had called back and was now watching them on a live satellite feed from his desk 5,400 miles away. “When you come to the Mr. Bigg’s burger stand, take that left. It’s bright red and yellow. Coming up in . . . thirty seconds.”
“You owe us an explanation,” Isabella demanded, pulling Judd into the back of the van. “You still haven’t told me why we got off the highway. Why we aren’t going to the airport? Quién carajo is calling you?”
Judd vigorously shook his head.
“Who is this Sunday?” she demanded.
Bola Akinola and Tunde Babatunde both glared at Judd in anticipation.
“If we’re in danger,” Isabella said, trying to calm down, “we need to know.”
Judd met Isabella’s gaze, which had evolved from angry to anxious. “In half a kilometer, take the roundabout exit to the north,” Judd directed. “At Yoruba Junction.”
“After that exit, go straight until I give you the next turn. I’ll call you right back,” Sunday said quickly, and then he hung up.
Judd dropped his arm and gave Isabella a barely perceptible nod. “We are going to the airport. We’re taking an alternative route. A safer route. On the advice of”—he held up the phone—“a friend back in Washington.”
“What is the danger?” Isabella asked.
“Bola, your life is under threat,” Judd declared, facing the judge. “You know that, right?”
“When is it not, my friend?” Bola replied.
“No, Bola. This is different. We have information that there’s a specific plot to assassinate you. Right now. That’s why we’re taking these side roads. That’s why I’m trying to navigate a safer route.”
“What about Landon Parker?” Isabella asked. “You just had him on the phone. Why didn’t you tell him we had Bola—that we were bringing him in? If we know Bola’s life is in danger, the State Department can give him protection. We can grant him asylum.”
“No.”
“Why the carajo not?”
“The Nigerian attorney general got to Parker first. Or maybe it was Ambassador Katsina.”
“What does that mean?”
“Officially, Bola is a fugitive. We can’t bring him in now.” Judd faced the judge. “Your government has issued an arrest warrant for you.”
“I know, my friend.”
“And the Nigerian federal police are on a nationwide hunt.”
“Yes.”
“Well, then Bola’s coming with us,” Isabella insisted.
Tunde Babatunde spoke up. “Why not sneak him onto my plane?”
“That’s exactly what we’ll do,” Isabella said. “You just get back on the phone with your secret friend and get us to the airport safely. Once we’re airborne, they can’t stop us. We’ll be home free.”
“What do you think, Bola?” Judd asked.
Before he could answer, Judd’s phone buzzed. “This is Ryker,” he said.
“Stop the van,” Sunday commanded.
“Stop the van!” Judd shouted.
“You’re surrounded.” Sunday tried to calm his voice and slow down. “To the immediate west is an abandoned industrial park. Pull the van inside the main gate, cut the engine, and wait.”
“There!” Judd pointed at a cluster of disused warehouses, a broken sign for Sahara Sunny Fabrics hanging precariously on the front gate. “Pull in there and kill the engine.”
The driver followed Judd’s instructions.
“Now what?” Judd asked.
“Wait there. I’ll call you right back,” Sunday said.
“What?” Judd started to protest, but it was too late. Sunday was gone.
Isabella was about to unleash another round of questioning, when her own phone buzzed with a text:
Your operation is on.