Conflict Zone. Don Pendleton

was life.

      Grimaldi, having taken his advice, wasn’t around when Bolan stored most of his hardware in the trunk. A baggy shirt, unbuttoned and untucked, hid the Beretta 93-R in a fast-draw shoulder rig, with spare mags pouched under his right arm. And just to be on the safe side, he held back a couple of Russian-made RGO-78 frag grenades—the “defensive” model, with ball bearings packed around eighty-five grams of TNT, with an effective killing radius of twenty yards.

      Bolan was hoping that he wouldn’t need the pistol or grenades for his preliminary meeting with Obinna Umaru, but he knew that banking on a free ride was the quickest way to wind up lying in a gutter or a shallow grave. He would hope for the best, and prepare for the worst.

      He had a map of Warri and an hour to kill before their scheduled meeting at a marketplace on the city’s north side. Bolan decided to spend the time touring his new battleground, and checking for tails in the process.

      But first, he wanted to check out the car.

      No matter where you went, on every continent, auto theft was a problem. Millions of company cars came with LoJack technology or its equivalent, GPS systems that let the home office keep track of all wheels on the road, for whatever reason. Bolan had no reason to believe that Jared Ross would shadow him, but it was best for all concerned—and Bolan, in particular—if his movements in Warri went unobserved.

      Once he was safely off the K-Tech lot, Bolan found a place to park and went to work. He used a simple scanner, the size of a cigarette pack, tuned to the standard LoJack frequency of 173.075 megahertz and found the transceiver hidden underneath the padded liner in the trunk. He took it out, pitched it into a nearby vacant lot strewed with rubbish, and then performed a second scan of the Toyota, running through assorted other frequencies that might betray a second homing device.

      His ride was clean.

      Now all he had to do was to pass the time until his rendezvous, ensuring that he wasn’t followed from the K-Tech property by either friend or foe.

      For in the present situation, either one could get him killed.

      CHAPTER SIX

      Obinna Umaru was worried. He was early for his meeting with the stranger from America, and while he had taken every precaution en route from his home, he still couldn’t escape a sense that he was being watched.

      Perhaps, at last, he was becoming truly paranoid.

      It would be no surprise, considering the secret life he had selected for himself. At twenty-three, Umaru supplemented his moderate income from computer data analysis with covert paychecks from Nigeria’s National Intelligence Agency, the State Security Service, the National Drug Law Enforcement Agency—and yes, the American CIA.

      That last addition to his list of moonlighting engagements had given Umaru pause, forced him to consider that he might somehow be a traitor to his homeland, but he had finally decided that the rate of crime and terrorism in Nigeria had grown beyond all reason. Anything that he could do to make a difference would be worthwhile, even if it meant working with a group of foreigners.

      And if he made some money in the process, why, so be it.

      Umaru wasn’t an idealist, nor was he deluded. He understood that the CIA worked first for American interests, and only thereafter considered the needs of other nations. But Yankee interests were generally served by suppressing violent crime, and Umaru had cause to believe that America’s competitors for oil and other natural resources in Nigeria—specifically, the Russians and Chinese—each played a role in the perpetuation of endemic mayhem nationwide.

      So he would serve whoever served his country best, within the limits of his understanding and ability.

      And he would try not to be murdered in the process.

      To that end, Umaru had armed himself with a folding knife and a black-market pistol. It was a Chinese QSZ-92 semiautomatic, exported for foreign sale as the NP-42. Chambered in 9 mm, it weighed 1.7 pounds with its 15-round magazine loaded, and the double-action trigger allowed Umaru to draw and fire without first cocking the hammer.

      Umaru had practiced with the pistol until he felt confident that he could draw and hit a man-size target, provided, of course, that the target stood still and didn’t return fire. As for living men with guns, trying to kill him, well, Umaru hoped that he would never have to test himself.

      The marketplace was crowded, the perfect place to lose yourself. But by the same token, it made spotting a tail more difficult. Each time Umaru glanced around, he found a different pair of eyes appearing to examine him. Was one of them a spy, sent to observe him, or was he a victim of his own imagination?

      Even though he took precautions to avoid surveillance every day, Umaru realized that he could have betrayed himself a thousand times since he became a paid informant of the state. Aside from being seen with one or another of his handlers, there was a chance of leaks from any of the agencies he served. Worse yet, some of the groups were bitter rivals. If one learned that he was talking to the competition, even in a common cause, might he be sacrificed as punishment?

      It was conceivable, but in the absence of compelling evidence, Umaru chose to be a cautious optimist. And, in his cautious mode, he chose to triple-check the warning signs of possible surveillance.

      Was he seeing the same faces on his trail, day after day? Had there been any indication that his flat was penetrated, searched by experts? Had his car been tampered with, as far as he could tell?

      When he had answered all those questions in the negative, Umaru should have felt relieved. But he didn’t. The nagging sense of someone staring at him, breathing down his neck, simply wouldn’t evaporate.

      Another test, then.

      Picking up his pace, he chose a shop at random, turned in off the sidewalk, ducked inside and found a hiding place among the racks of hanging clothes. A salesclerk watched him but didn’t seem terribly surprised, as if such actions were routine.

      If no one followed him within the next few moments, would it prove—

      A slender man with stubble on his sunken cheeks entered the shop, jaundiced eyes sweeping the place without appearing to notice the merchandise. Seeming angry, he turned to the clerk.

      “A man came in here,” he declared. “Did you see—”

      The clerk’s eyes had already betrayed Umaru. His pursuer was turning when Umaru struck, lunging out of the racks with his pistol drawn, slamming its butt hard against the man’s nose. He went down with a grunt, crimson spurting, while Umaru broke toward the street.

      And realized his grave mistake just as he reached the sidewalk, with a sudden stirring in the crush of bodies to his left.

      He should have used the back door.

      Too late to make amends, he turned and ran.

      KELSEY DANJUMA knew something was wrong when the target came barreling out of the small shop where Sani Fulani had trailed him. He broke to the west, running hard through the crowd and—could that be a gun in his hand?

      “He’s running!” Danjuma snapped into a tiny microphone clipped onto his lapel. A squawk of recognition issued from the single earpiece as he added, “May be armed. I’ll check on Sani.”

      That required only a moment as Danjuma rushed across the road and barged into the shop. Fulani was struggling to rise from the floor, flinging blood from his scalp with each shake of his head, while the salesclerk circled around him and yelled complaints.