“And Tupac was a poet, with better lyrical ability.”
“Ah,” Cancer countered, “consider the storytelling, though. You ever listened to the Ready to Die album? I mean, really listened to it?”
“I could ask you the same about Me Against The World, my friend.”
Cancer was about to respond when David transmitted over his radio earpiece.
“Cancer, this is Suicide.”
“Shit, hang on,” Cancer said, then keyed his mic and replied, “Send it.”
Tolu turned off the radio as David responded, “We’re three minutes out.”
“All right, I’ll meet you at the spot.”
Tolu looked over and asked, “You want me to help?”
“No, I got it. Just wait here.”
Then Cancer exited the cab into the warm night air, now in the seventies even in February—as close as Nigeria got to having a winter season. By mid-afternoon, he knew, temperatures would easily crest a hundred degrees.
Walking to the back of the panel van, Cancer opened the twin cargo doors to reveal interior walls lined with gear: video cameras, tripods, rolls of extension cord, microphones, and recording equipment. Tolu had carved out a decent living for himself transporting journalists and reporters to various hot spots across his homeland, and that professional capacity gave him the access and placement to have long since been vetted and flipped to a CIA asset. The man’s day job also dictated the team’s cover: they were posing as investigative journalists for Garrett News, a niche media company that served as a front for select Agency operations abroad.
But Cancer ignored the media supplies for the time being, turning his attention instead to a hidden latch in the floorboard that he pulled open, removing the panel to uncover a cavernous space beneath the false floor.
He descended the dirt slope to a series of wooden slats over the water, then crossed the long dock to its endpoint twenty feet into the Niger River. The chanting warble of night creatures in the surrounding forest was soon drowned out by the approaching boat, which he caught sight of a moment later. Its engine began throttling back as the craft slowed, gradually settling to its stopping point alongside the dock.
In the dim glow of the running lights, Cancer could make out his three teammates as they prepared to transfer the cargo. Turning on his headlamp, he saw David handing down a rucksack.
Taking the heavy pack and setting it aside, Cancer asked, “How was your trip—you guys find Colonel Kurtz or what?”
David clambered off the vessel with a grunt. “Had a scrape with a pirate boat, closed the loop. Anything new on your end?”
“Yeah.” He reached for a rifle case from the team medic. “After three days stuck in a safehouse with Ian, I’m ready to retire from this line of work forever. Our driver’s cool as shit, though.”
David eyed him suspiciously, then took a kit bag and set it on the dock. “It’s unsettling to see you in a good mood.”
The gear transfer was complete within minutes, after which the boat cast off and continued its churning path upstream. Each of the four men donned a ruck and hoisted the rest of the kit and weapons bags, then began the short uphill trudge back to the van.
A bloodcurdling cry came from the forest, making Reilly jump.
“Rock hyrax,” Cancer said with a knowing smile. “Looks like a guinea pig.”
Worthy shook his head. “Pirate ships and guinea pigs from hell: gentlemen, we have officially arrived in Africa.”
As they reached the van and began piling their equipment into the false bottom, Cancer announced, “Fellas, meet Tolu. Tolu, these are the guys.”
The driver turned in his seat and nodded to the men. “Hey, boys, how far?”
David squinted at him.
“How far to what?”
Cancer explained, “Pidgin English. How far means how are you doing.” He addressed the driver. “Don’t worry, Tolu. I’ll get them schooled.”
After replacing the floor panel over the false bottom, the team loaded into the vehicle—David in the passenger seat, and Cancer, Worthy, and Reilly taking up positions among the press gear in the cargo area.
Tolu fired the engine, and Nigerian rap began playing over the speakers.
Cancer nudged Worthy. “I told you, he’s awesome.”
Worthy raised an eyebrow, looking at Cancer as if he must have been joking. Some people had no taste in music, the sniper thought, turning his gaze to Reilly. The medic appeared to be sulking, having barely spoken since stepping off the boat, and one of his pant legs was soaked from the knee down. Cancer sniffed the air, then tapped Reilly on the arm. “Why do you smell like oil?”
Reilly pulled his arm away and muttered, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
3
Ian stepped out the front door of the safehouse, shielding his eyes from the sun as he peered across the heavily planted front yard. The gate opened within a few seconds, and he caught a glimpse of the media van rounding the fence and pulling into the winding driveway.
As it approached, Ian glanced around the yard for any signs of observation.
Most of the surrounding homes stood on tree-covered lots with little visibility to the street, their rooftops emerging above the vegetation and driveways blocked by small iron gates. The neighborhood was located in the outskirts of the capital city of Abuja, and its houses were mostly occupied by a thriving community of expatriates from various countries. While the building Ian had just exited was visually indistinguishable from the rest, its interior was where things got interesting.
The van swung in a tight turn before reversing toward the front door where Ian stood waiting, a knot forming in his gut. Cancer had left scarcely eight hours ago to retrieve the rest of the team from their maritime infil, and in that time their entire mission had shifted on its axis. As the team’s sole intelligence operative, Ian had monitored the developments first with curiosity, then dread—and he didn’t relish having to break the news to his teammates, David least of all.
Reilly was the first to exit through the van’s cargo doors, easing his hulking frame onto the pavement as he gave Ian a brief nod and then stretched. Worthy was next, looking as if he’d just woken up—probably the case, after their all-night boat ride—and before Cancer could set foot outside the van, David stepped out of the passenger side, his eyes darting across their surroundings. He was already nervous about the safehouse’s proximity to a major urban area, Ian knew, and he considered that the team leader’s day was about to get a whole lot worse.
As the team members began unloading their equipment, David approached him with brisk strides.
“Hey, brother, what’s good—”
“We’ve got a problem,” Ian cut him off.
David came to a halt, rubbing his eye with one hand.
“All night on a boat and that’s the first four words I get from you.”
Ian shrugged. “You want me to help get the gear inside first?”