Ian watched the data upload on the computer, then turned to face Worthy, who was seated on the mattress in Tolu’s bedroom.
“Ninety percent,” Ian said, “and I’ll need Cancer’s phone next.”
Worthy grunted, never removing his eyes from the phone in his hand. He’d been assisting Ian with transferring all the photographs from the team’s Android phones to the secure laptop via specialized cables in preparation for a data shot to CIA headquarters. In doing so, Worthy scrupulously analyzed each image with an intensity normally reserved for Ian alone.
Cancer and Reilly entered the bedroom then, each with their vice of choice: a lit cigarette for Cancer, and Reilly holding a sardine sandwich—a Nigerian specialty, they’d been assured—which he took a bite of before speaking.
“You get everything sent, or what?”
“Not yet.” Ian saw that the upload was complete and addressed Worthy. “Your pics are complete, go ahead and hook up Cancer’s phone next.”
Cancer tapped his cigarette ash into a nightstand ashtray and said, “You better not send that until David checks in. God forbid Duchess finds out we take a minute to relax before calling her.” Taking a drag, he concluded, “Not that any of this matters anyway.”
The jaded sniper would have found something to complain about no matter what—that was his nature.
But regrettably, in this case he was right.
The mission had been a tactical success, no question. But strategically, it was an abject failure: no evidence of the hostages, and certainly no definitive links to Boko Haram. In that sense, they’d sunk a significant portion of their dwindling time in Nigeria to arrive at a dead end, one that might influence some political or trade negotiations behind closed doors but nothing that would achieve their stated mission of degrading terrorist leadership or, for that matter, pursuing the lead to Erik Weisz.
David entered the room, holding a rocks glass filled with amber liquid.
Ian asked, “You ready to get this over with?”
“Not yet,” David replied. “Tolu’s got something for us.”
The Nigerian man appeared a moment later, speaking around the lit cigar clenched between his teeth.
“All right, boys, time to drink up.”
Tolu held a large green bottle in one hand and a cluster of small mason jars in the other. He passed the jars to everyone but David, and Ian held up a hand to defer. “None for me, thanks.”
Undeterred, Tolu set down a jar on the windowsill before him and said, “You boys are in my crib, taking over my bedroom. Least you can do is play by my rules.”
He poured from a green bottle, filling each jar with milky-white liquid. “Besides, you do not take time to celebrate, life will pass you by.”
Ian reluctantly lifted his jar, sniffing the palm wine and detecting an unpleasant bittersweet aroma before nodding to David’s glass. “How come you don’t have to drink this?”
“Because I raided his bottle of Jameson as soon as we got back,” the team leader replied. “Next time, take some initiative.”
Then David raised his drink and said, “To Gradsek.”
“To Gradsek,” the men murmured, clanking their drinks together and taking a sip.
The palm wine was sticky-sweet but left a yeasty, sour aftertaste in Ian’s mouth—if he’d encountered this drink under any other circumstances, he’d have thought the bottle went bad. It tasted like day-old ginger beer laced with pineapple juice.
“So what you think?” Tolu asked.
Ian swallowed, wincing slightly. “On a scale of one to ten, I’d rate that as an acquired taste.”
Then he took another small sip—when in Rome, after all—and said, “Second one goes down easier.”
“Second drink is always better,” Tolu said, taking a puff from his cigar. “Third, smoother still. You boys handle your business. I’ll be in the living room, catching up on football.”
Ian watched the man depart, wondering for a moment what tumult existed beneath his aloof veneer. Tolu had lost a brother to Boko Haram, and while that had justifiably incentivized him to help America’s covert counterterrorism efforts, it also meant that any enemy fighter his team killed could be his missing family member. If that thought gave Ian reason for pause, it must have been an internal crisis of sorts for Tolu—but the man sauntered easily out of the room, leaving a lingering cloud of cigar smoke in his wake.
David addressed his teammates. “All right, you guys can clear out too—I’ve got to call Duchess.”
No one made a move to leave.
Taking another bite of his sandwich, Reilly mumbled, “And miss the chance to hear you get crushed by our boss? No way.”
Cancer shrugged. “I want to see what she’s worked up about.”
Worthy said nothing, instead remaining totally focused on the intelligence pictures he was transferring to the computer.
Finally David acquiesced, extracting the radio from his kit and hooking it up to the satellite dish Ian had erected at the window. Then he switched his radio to speaker mode as the others huddled around to hear.
“Raptor Nine One, Suicide Actual. All men and equipment back at the apartment, we’re preparing to transmit our consolidated intel findings.”
Duchess responded at once, sounding remarkably alert given that it was approaching midnight on America’s east coast.
“Suicide Actual, this is Raptor Nine One. I’ve received multiple corroborated reports that contradict your previous SITREP, and you have thirty seconds to explain yourself.”
David cut his eyes to Ian, who gave an exaggerated shrug. Whatever Duchess was talking about, it was beyond everyone in the room.
Keying his radio, David replied, “My reporting has been timely and accurate, and the information stands. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that Gradsek reported an attack on their facility at the Duniya Port Complex. An exchange of gunfire resulting in minor injuries to two personnel.”
“So?”
“The attack occurred at 0223 West Africa Time, coinciding with your team’s entry to Building 8.”
Cancer tapped his cigarette into the ashtray again, shaking his head resolutely as David scanned him for some response.
Then he replied to Duchess, “Well it wasn’t us. Check your CCTV footage.”
“It was outside of the CCTV fan, so there’s nothing for me to check. And the timing is too precise to be coincidental.”
David asked the assembled team, “You guys hear anything on the objective? Any gunfire?”
“No,” Worthy replied, looking up from the phone in his hand, “and it wasn’t because we weren’t paying attention. I was on security and pretty well freaking out about getting caught—if shots were fired, I would’ve known.”