Meanwhile, Quinn—accompanied by Marie and Dan—had arrived two days ago via a commercial flight and were staying on Victoria Island at one of the luxury resorts in Lagos.
The biggest issue we’d encountered so far related to private citizens and firearms. Private citizens could not carry firearms in Nigeria. This meant all security, private or otherwise, had to be contracted with the local government. Quinn opted to hire a team of guards through central military channels, trusting the advice of a local contact and old friend, who just so happened to own the luxury hotel where he was staying. His friend handpicked the guards, but I could tell Quinn was still uneasy trusting anyone with his wellbeing and safety.
Last I heard, Quinn, Dan, and Marie had already met with the local police and initiated the process for ransom negotiations.
Dr. Evans passed me a new bundle, which I accepted, and quickly set to work pulling on the baggy attire.
“When we leave this room, we’re going to pass through the hospital, then exit via a set of double doors. We’ll be taking one of the triage vans—a mobile clinic unit—and two of my colleagues will join us in about thirty minutes. They’re locals, trained medical assistants. I’ll tell them you’re a visiting physician, but don’t be surprised if they address you as Oyibo.”
“Oyibo?”
“White person. Whereas they call me Akátá, it means African American.”
I slipped on the lab coat. “One more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Is there a toilet on the way?”
She chuckled. I heard her steps move away, toward the outline of the door. “Yes. No problem.”
I did have to go to the bathroom. But more than that, I hadn’t yet received word whether proof of life had been obtained. I was itching to reconnect my satellite phone and check for an update.
***
I waited. And waited.
And waited.
And while I waited, I watched.
The camp wasn’t heavily guarded. Not at all. I observed neither rhyme nor reason to the guard’s movements. Obviously, they had no expectation of being raided. And this angered me.
Initial overhead schematics sent by Alex misrepresented the size of the structure. I’d assumed it was a warehouse. It wasn’t. It was an old refinery, likely illegal, and the ceilings couldn’t have been higher than twelve feet. The tin roof was rusted, caving and peppered with gaping holes in several places.
Alex sent a second data package just before sundown with several rough architectural sketches, presumably of the structure some fifty feet away. I was thankful for the additional specs, because the refinery had a lower level, a basement carved into the rocky earth. A single staircase led down to a long hallway with six ten-by-ten offshoots.
That’s where he was. He was in the basement, in one of those cells.
By midnight, I still hadn’t received any update from Quinn, but I was tired of waiting. I also knew, in my bones, Greg wasn’t dead. I just knew. He was alive and he was within reach.
So, after watching two of the guards for thirty minutes share a bottle of liquor, finish it, and open another—all the while playing cards on a picnic table—I made my approach.
They were already drunk. No challenge there. I did take their weapons though, emptied the magazines, and slid their semiautomatics under a rusted-out Buick LeSabre. I also picked up the half bottle of Ogogoro liquor. If anyone were to come by, they’d see two of their comrades passed out from imbibing too much distilled juice of Raffia palm trees.
I forced myself to go slow, counting to thirty between each position, listening, waiting, watching. I had to take out three more guards between the side entrance and the stairwell leading to the lower level. One of the men must’ve weighed three hundred pounds and required two Ketamine darts—one in the neck, one in the leg. I had no way to move him so I propped him against the wall and placed the half-drunk bottle of Ogogoro liquor in his fist.
Despite my training, despite all the mental preparations and subduing of emotions, the last week was catching up with me. Anxiety bloomed in my chest, a hot impatient weight. I needed to see Greg. I needed to touch him and see him and scream at him for putting me through this nightmare.
My heart galloped on adrenaline and it tasted metallic on my tongue. I was sure I’d been operating mostly on adrenaline since learning of his abduction, because my headaches were gone—or at least I hadn’t noticed them. But my hands were steady as I opened the door to the basement.
The hall was clear, lit by hundred-watt bulbs placed twelve feet apart. Several had burned out.
I itched to move, to act. My skin was too tight, stretched over my bones. Yet I waited.
A man appeared, exiting one of the cells. He had a Heckler & Koch MP5. The strap was around his chest, the gun on his back, and he was locking the cell door.