part0022

Justin and Carrie updated Moretti on the evolving situation and informed him of their plans. They had decided to leave the safehouse behind, after cleaning it of any sensitive intelligence. The surgeon had arranged for an ambulance, which had taken the shooter to a hospital. The operatives were going to check Emodi’s emergency contact address, a house on the other side of Lagos. It was the residence of her mother, a woman in her late seventies, according to the information in Emodi’s personnel file.

They called a taxi for the ride across the city. The cab driver—a young man in his twenties—offered to carry their luggage to the trunk, but they declined his offer. The two large duffel bags contained two AK-74 rifles, two Sig Sauer pistols, and numerous magazines for their weapons. Justin and Carrie each wore a pistol in their concealed waistband holsters.

At this time of the day, the traffic was crawling at a snail’s pace. It was another blistering hot day in the furnace called Lagos. The taxi had no air conditioner. The rolled-down windows drew no gusts of fresh or cool air, only the dust and the grime of the city. The cab driver was a chatterbox, entertaining them with tidbits of the city’s politics and history. Like many other people, he shared his disgust about the “thieves in power,” as he summarily called all politicians in Nigeria. He had nothing but swear words for the oil companies operating in the country.

After about an hour, the driver turned onto some back alleys, and the taxi picked up its pace. It seemed he was trying to make up the lost time. He was racing as fast as the narrow, potholed alleys allowed the taxi. It often screeched to abrupt halts to avoid stray dogs, cats, or little children playing in the garbage-littered alleyways.

Occasionally, Justin gazed back behind the taxi, trying to establish if someone was following them, but he found no one. The way the driver was crisscrossing through the city would have made it quite an achievement for someone to keep up with them without being noticed.

The taxi dropped them off three blocks away from the house of Emodi’s mother. The operatives covered the remaining distance on foot. The neighborhood was clean and quiet, with two-story houses lined with palm trees. The streets were empty, unpaved, and narrow, barely sufficient for the width of two cars.

Their target house was surrounded by an eight-foot-high cinderblock wall topped with concertina wire. Justin and Carrie slithered along the wall encircling the house. When they reached the front entrance, Carrie casually stepped around the corner. Emodi or her associates—if they happened to be outside the house—wouldn’t recognize the Canadian agent.

She observed the area for a brief moment, then gestured for Justin to follow her. A brown Lexus sedan was parked outside the large black solid-steel gate, in front of a NO PARKING sign painted on the side of the wall. A small door was next to the gate.

“No one’s in the car,” Carrie whispered.

“The mother could be inside.” Justin gestured toward the gate.

Carrie nodded. She found her phone in one of the pockets of her khaki pants and dialed a number. It was Emodi’s emergency contact number. Justin and Carrie were counting on Emodi’s mother unknowingly providing them with vital information on the terrorist’s location. If the old woman didn’t answer the phone, they would break into the house and search it top to bottom.

Carrie crouched next to the Lexus and held her phone in front of her mouth. She had pressed the speaker button, so that Justin could hear the other side of the conversation.

“Yes, this is the Emodi residence,” came a feeble and raspy old woman’s voice.

“This is Amber Smith from Citibank. May I please talk to Ms. Abeson Emodi?” Carrie asked in an upbeat tone.

“Yes, just a moment.”

Carrie’s eyes flashed with excitement. “Abeson is inside.” Her mouth formed the words without making any sounds.

Two women’s voices came from the phone. The first one was of the old woman who had talked to Carrie. “I don’t know; I forgot her name. She said she was from a bank.”

“Why did you tell them I was here?” asked the other voice.

“Well, you are here.”

The other voice swore and grew louder. “Who is this again?”

“Amber Smith with Citibank. May I please talk to Ms. Abeson Emodi?” Carrie repeated her line in the same cheerful tone.

“She’s not here. What is this all about? How did you get this number?”

“That’s her. I’m sure that’s our target,” Justin mouthed the words in a hushed whisper.

“I’m sorry; I can talk only to Ms. Abeson Emodi. I’ll call again later. Have a great day,” Carrie said and hung up.

“We’ve got her all riled up. Get ready.”

Justin pulled out his pistol and held it low to the side. He stood up and put his back against the wall to the right side of the gate. Carrie set up her position behind the front wheel of the Lexus.

A long minute passed, then someone pushed open the small door next to the gate. A man sprang forward, holding an AK rifle in his hands. Carrie leaped up from her position. Her pistol was aimed at the gunman. “Drop it,” she shouted.

The man began to swing his AK in her direction, but Justin’s right fist caught him on the left side of his face. He fell against the Lexus, his head hitting the glass of the rear passenger window. He tried to turn his rifle in Justin’s direction, but the operative shot him at close range.

A second man burst through the door. He pointed his pistol at Justin. Before the gunman could pull the trigger, Carrie fired her weapon. She planted a bullet in the man’s chest. The Sig pistol equipped with a sound suppressor made no more than a low cracking noise.

Justin thanked her with a nod.

Carrie gestured toward the door, and Justin walked through it, holding his pistol in front of him. On the other side of the gate, inside the yard, Abeson Emodi began to raise an AK in his direction. Before she could aim it, Justin shouted, “Drop it.”

Her hands froze in mid-air.

“Drop it! It’s over,” Justin shouted.

“What was that noise?” The old woman’s voice came from inside the house. The main entrance door to the house was still ajar.

“Are you going to kill me in front of my sick mother?” Emodi asked in a low voice.

Her entire face was screwed up. She gave Justin a dirty look full of hate.

“Try me, and you’ll find out.” Justin realigned his pistol with her head.

“Where are you? What is going on?” the old woman called. Her voice was getting louder and more impatient as she was probably shuffling toward the door.

Emodi hesitated for another brief moment and lowered her AK in front of her. The barrel was pointing to the ground. She hid the rifle in front of the long black robe that came down to her feet. Then she held the rifle by the worn wooden stock with one hand while readjusting her hijab over her head.

“Do you have her?” Justin asked Carrie.

“I’ve got her,” Carrie replied.

Justin tucked his right hand, which was still holding his pistol, inside his khaki vest’s pocket. He kept his finger on the trigger, in case Emodi had a change of heart.

“Who are you? What’s happening?” the old woman shouted at Justin.

Justin looked at the thin, frail-looking woman hunched over at the door. She was leaning on her cane and breathing heavily. A pair of glasses hung from her neck, and she struggled to find and raise them to her eyes with her bony, trembling hand.

“It’s okay, Mom. He’s a friend picking me up,” Emodi said without looking back.

She nodded and gestured for Justin to walk toward the car.

The old woman peered at Justin through her glasses, then lowered them to the tip of her nose. “All right, then. Don’t forget to call me in the evening.”

“Of course, Mom. Bye now,” Emodi said.

Justin gave the old woman a slight nod. She must not have noticed it because she didn’t say anything or wave back.

Emodi walked slowly. Her AK was hanging harmlessly in her hands.

Justin kept his eyes on her and backed away, taking slow and measured steps toward the gate. The pistol inside his pocket was aimed at Emodi at all times.

Once she stepped through the gate and was beyond the line of sight of her mother, Carrie pointed her pistol at Emodi. Justin hurried to disarm her, and Carrie gave the woman a quick pat-down. Her search turned up no other weapons, only Emodi’s cellphone and a thick wallet.

“She’s clean,” Carrie said. She held the woman against the wall and twisted her arms back to snap a pair of white plastic handcuffs on her.

“Front passenger seat,” Justin said to Emodi. “Where are the keys?”

Emodi pointed at the man that Carrie had shot in the chest.

Justin rummaged through the man’s pockets and found the keys. He unlocked the doors and tossed the keys to Carrie. “I’ll take care of the bodies.”

“Let’s go.” Carrie held Emodi by the arm.

Justin dragged the dead men to the back of the car. He waited for a couple of moments for Carrie to unlock the trunk while he cast his gaze at the nearby houses. Two men were peering from the balcony of the house three doors down and across the street. Justin wondered how many more were observing the scene from behind windows. If they haven’t called the police yet, it will be just a matter of minutes.

He loaded the bodies into the trunk and did the same with their weapons. He rifled through their pockets and collected two phones. Then he climbed into the backseat.

Carrie hit the gas before Justin had a chance to close his door. The Lexus roared forward as she wrenched the steering wheel hard, making a tight right turn. They rounded the corner and drove for a few moments through the back alley behind Emodi’s mother’s house. Carrie cut to the left, and they merged with traffic on a three-lane thoroughfare. The Lexus fishtailed, almost crashing into a van, but Carrie was able to jerk the steering wheel to the right and avoid the collision.

“Emodi, perhaps you could help us?” Justin faked a British accent. He wasn’t doing a good job at it, but it would suffice for the task at hand. “We’re looking for a foreigner, a Canadian diplomat.”

Emodi’s frown told Justin she wasn’t amused.

“And a million dollars,” he continued. “I’m ready to make a trade: I want Duncan and the money in exchange for your head.”