Insurrection. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
aimed the Beretta his way and sent another trio of rounds through the back window of the car to pound into his throat and head. This time the turban stayed on but turned red.
Bolan switched his attention back to the grenade in the parking space. It still lay where it had come to rest, and he was surprised that it had failed to explode. There had been more than ample time for it to detonate, since the pin had been pulled.
A dud. It happened. Particularly when weapons and munitions were purchased on the black market, the way terrorists usually obtained them.
But the Executioner had no more time or need to contemplate the stroke of luck. The workmen had all hit the concrete or found other cover. Bolan glanced toward the front of the Isaac Center and the dorms just beyond.
None of the bullets flying through the air, or the grenades, were heading that way.
“Get us out of here,” he ordered.
“But the children—” the center’s director started to say.
“Aren’t the target,” Bolan stated. “We are. Now move it!”
She floored the accelerator, moving forward this time. The Maxima began to fishtail again, but the woman behind the wheel kept control and straightened it. They sped to the end of the alley, turned right and emerged onto a street. Suddenly they were cruising away from the attack, and the only danger left was the possibility of severing an artery on all the broken glass inside the Nissan.
“Praise God, Christ and the Holy Spirit,” Galab said around choking gasps for oxygen. Then, as the Maxima blended in with the other traffic, she drove on, skillfully weaving in and out of the flow until they reached the edge of the last market area the cabbie had driven through when he’d brought Bolan to the Isaac Center. The soldier thought back on their escape from the alley. At first the woman next to him had panicked, but then, suddenly, she’d settled down and reacted almost like a professional stock car driver. It was as if she’d become a different person.
“I thought you told me you weren’t a fighter,” Bolan said.
Galab glanced his way, her expression curious. “I did. I am not.”
“Well,” Bolan said, “once you got over your initial fear, you operated that steering wheel and foot feed like a lifelong hillbilly moonshiner trying to lose the Feds.”
The metaphor was obviously out of Galab’s frame of reference. “I do not understand,” she said, frowning.
“It just meant that you’ve got the skills of a well-practiced race car driver,” Bolan said.
“Ah, yes,” Galab said as she patted the steering wheel with both hands. “I have driven in rescue missions many times to get the children. I suppose I have picked up some skills along the way.” She paused, took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “But driving is not fighting. I do not think I could ever pull the trigger of a gun and take a human life.”
“You wouldn’t have to,” Bolan said, chuckling softly. “You could always just run them over in the street.”
The woman’s only answer was a smile. A moment later she turned into a parking lot, then settled the Maxima in an empty space. “It is better if we go from here on foot,” she said.
The soldier glanced around at the shattered windshield, shards of broken glass and bullet holes now decorating the vehicle. “Yeah,” he said. “I suppose we might draw a little unwanted attention in this thing.”
“And we should take your bags,” Galab stated. “Where we are going will be as good a place as you will find to store them until they are needed.”
Bolan nodded, got out and pulled the straps of several bags over his head to hang from his shoulders. “Aren’t I going to draw a lot of attention with all this?” he asked.
“Certainly,” the woman said. “But the path down which I will lead you will be away from interested eyes. At least for the most part.”
A second later they left the parking lot and started down a deserted alley behind the busy market.
He had designed the room himself, all the while keeping his tongue pressed firmly into his cheek. It was a joke in many ways, a humorous glimpse into the life of an old-style caliph. A cross between modern reality and a cartoon view of what it was like to be a wealthy oil sheikh. But to Fazel Hayat it was fun and certainly exciting. Maybe not quite as exciting as blowing up a chapel full of Christian bishops, or watching on his laptop screen as his men shot at this mysterious American agent.
Hayat thought back to the bombing of the seminary chapel. They had killed many of the bishops. But the primary target—Bishop Joshua Adewale—had escaped, and that made the Boko leader angry. He had wanted to kill the man because he was a Christian bishop, but also because he was an American. In addition to disrupting the bishops’ conference and destroying the seminary, Hayat had been planning to humiliate the United States and show the world how the Satanic democracy had lost power, will and influence.
That part of the plan had failed, but he would correct the error.
The soft purr and splash of the artificial waterfall built into the wall and leading down into the indoor swimming pool had a relaxing effect on Hayat, and he stretched out on his side atop the large stuffed pillows. In front of him now was a beautiful shapely blonde wearing nothing but sheer capri pants. Behind him, he felt the large-breasted brunette he had just been kissing reach up with both hands to massage his neck.
The waterfall and pool were the room’s central features, but the scantily clad young women swimming and playing in the water also commanded the leader’s attention. Other members of what Hayat jokingly called his Boko Haram Harem lounged on huge silk pillows around the room.
The walls of the Haram Harem were of tile, and each one featured a saying from the Koran. At least that was what Hayat had been told. He had never bothered to actually read any of them. For that matter, he had read very little of the Koran.
When he wasn’t engaged in some sort of sexual act with the women, Hayat kept busy eating and drinking or planning the next attack on Nigerians who paid homage to the ways of the West. It mattered not if they were Christians or Muslims.
On the other side of the room, across the pool, were two violinists, a string bass player and a harpist. All four were beautiful females. Eerie sounds of music in a minor key came from their strings and guided the steps of three dancers in front of them. These women wore completely transparent pantaloons and blouses, and veils that covered their faces except for their alluring eyes.
Hayat listened to the music and stared at the dancers and musicians. But even in this atmosphere, which had been designed totally for pleasure and pleasure alone, his mind kept wandering. He was now aware that an American agent of some kind—a true specialist, a man whose skills went far beyond those of the usual commando or intelligence officer—had come to Nigeria. He had learned about the man from his contact at the airport, who had been paid by the Americans to guide the man through customs. Hayat did not yet know exactly what this American agent’s mission was, but until he received that information, and the man was eliminated, he could not completely rest.
He felt himself frowning. Some of his tracking agents had followed the man as he left the airport in a taxicab. They had tailed him to the Isaac Center, where they had attacked, but been unsuccessful in eliminating him. That was Hayat’s own fault, he had decided. He had not taken the threat as seriously as he should have, and had allowed his second team to attempt the assassination. He would not make that mistake again. As soon as they located the American again, he would put Dhul Agbede on the job. And Hayat had not forgotten the Nigerian-born American bishop, either. Joshua Adewale had somehow escaped both the explosion and the machetes of the Bokos sent to the chapel.
He was another enemy who needed to be located. And killed. But Dhul had enough on his