Yawning, Reilly leaned his head against the wall behind him and had just closed his eyes when David announced, “Looks like a checkpoint ahead—get ready.”
Those words caused a jolt of adrenaline in Reilly’s system, and as he leaned forward to peer out the windshield again, David pulled the folding partition shut, isolating any view of the four men now readying their equipment in the back.
Reilly grasped his suppressed HK417, bracing himself for what was about to occur. David would first try to talk his way through the checkpoint using their official cover and, if that failed, attempt to pay a bribe. The odds of either playing out well against a group of savage Boko Haram terrorists were slim to none, and that meant they’d probably have to employ their third option: the shootout.
The medic’s role in this scenario was to be the first out the back, engaging any immediate threats behind them before moving to the driver’s side and orienting his field of fire to protect Tolu. Cancer would back him up while Worthy and Ian took the passenger side position, after which the battle would unfold in a fluid reaction to the enemy positions, which David was presently trying to announce.
“Two hundred meters ahead, looks like five or six with long guns.”
Reilly listened closely to Tolu’s response through the partition as the driver objected, “These are not Boko Haram—look at the tuk-tuks.”
“The what?” David asked.
“Motor rickshaws,” Tolu clarified. “Boko Haram uses motorcycles, and that is why the government has banned them in the northeast. So these people are lawful, you will see.”
“Well they’re not military or cops, so who are they?”
Tolu hesitated. “This I cannot say.”
David’s next statement was directed to the men in the back. “Fifty meters out, stand by.”
Reilly’s pulse was hammering as the van slowed to a halt and Tolu spoke to some unseen party outside his window. He sounded casual, although Reilly could only discern two English words amid the long greeting—Garrett News—and the seamless delivery of their cover story elicited an excited, rapid-fire stream of Nigerian dialect.
Then Tolu translated for David, “Civilian JTF: Joint Task Force. They are hunters, volunteering to help the government fight terrorists.”
David asked, “They mind if we ask them a few questions?”
Another exchange of Nigerian dialect ended with Tolu relaying their response in the affirmative, and David quietly transmitted over the team frequency.
“I want Cancer and Racegun to stay in the back, kitted up if anything goes wrong. Angel, see if they’ve got any intel on our route. Doc, you keep him safe.”
Reilly quickly stripped off his tactical vest, setting it on the floor and laying his suppressed HK417 atop it as Ian did the same with his own kit. Both of them wore holstered Glock pistols concealed in their waistband for just such an eventuality—although if this went bad, Reilly thought, the handguns would be a desperate half-measure to buy time until Cancer and Worthy dismounted with their long guns.
When Ian nodded that he was ready, Reilly cracked a cargo door just enough to slip out, then stepped into the blinding African sunshine.
The heat hit him like a freight train, and he felt like he was sweating before his boots hit the ground. That discomfort was quickly forgotten as he got his first clear sight of the tuk-tuks—motorized rickshaws as Tolu had indicated, all of them a uniform shade of bright yellow— followed in short order by the half dozen people clustered at the rear of the van as Ian stepped out and closed the cargo door behind him.
And when Reilly first processed the sight of the Civilian JTF members, any concerns he had for his team’s safety dissipated as he struggled not to laugh.
They were all males, though that wasn’t to say that all were men; the youngest in their group appeared to be nine years old. All were clad in black from head to toe, and all were armed...if, Reilly thought, you could call what he saw now as weapons.
Each held what appeared to be antique black powder rifles, some with crudely carved wooden stocks and others wrapped in duct tape to keep them from falling apart. They were certainly an upgrade from spears and arrows, but not by much. Some wore sheathed machetes on slings, others had knives tucked into their belts, each grinning at Reilly as they chattered in their local dialect.
This was total insanity, the kind of shit you could only find in Africa, and yet Ian reacted as if the sight were the most normal thing in the world.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he greeted them warmly. “Anyone speak English?”
Their confused glances made it clear that none did, but it was no matter. Tolu appeared a moment later, addressing the group in the same dialect as he pushed his way through them to translate for Ian.
Reilly moved toward the driver’s side of the vehicle, scanning the surrounding countryside for threats, and David did the same from the opposite edge of the bumper. If the converted muskets this group of hunters had was any indication, the pistol in his waistband wasn’t as trite of a defensive measure as he’d felt before exiting the van.
Ian began speaking through Tolu, making veiled inquiries about dangers the team may face. “You hunt Boko Haram? Have you encountered any of their fighters today?”
“Not yet,” came Tolu’s translated response, “but in the past they have conducted raids in the Sambisa Forest. Today they are searching for resupply trucks.”
“Do they know of any Boko Haram activity on this highway? Perhaps on the stretch between here and Maiduguri?”
Tolu relayed the question, followed in short order by their response.
“The rebel attacks occur in towns. Against civilians, police stations. Or in the country villages—rarely on the road. The rebels kill children, burn people alive.”
“I see,” Ian continued. “How terrible.”
“He asks if you know of the kidnapped schoolgirls.”
“From Chibok. Yes, we do.”
“Half of them are still missing. Hundreds more girls have been kidnapped, including—mi faamaay?”
The man provided some additional clarification, and Tolu continued, “One of these men married a woman kidnapped by Boko Haram. She refused to marry a fighter, so they made her put on a...a vest, with a bomb.”
“A suicide vest.” Ian nodded. “I understand.”
“Yes, this. But it did not work, and she escaped.”
Reilly was getting the distinct sense that, left unchecked, this exchange could go back and forth until sunset. He glanced over to see that Ian had apparently concluded the same, checking his watch and explaining, “Gentlemen, I’m afraid we have an appointment to make.”
But this excuse was met with another wave of questions, which Tolu summarized in one sentence.
“They would like to know who you are meeting with.”
“The mother of a senior Boko Haram leader. She’s given us permission for an interview, and we don’t want to be late.”
Another flurry of responses before Tolu spoke.