What looked like our truck—the vehicle Alex had arranged and Greg had absconded with this morning—was approaching from the north. I squinted at the cab, trying to determine who was behind the wheel as it passed.
A spike of alarm had me straightening my spine when I recognized Greg was driving the truck, but he wasn’t alone. A second man—white male, stocky build, head turned away—was in the cab with him. Greg was driving too fast for me to make out the passenger’s features.
The man with Greg could be an ally, or an enemy. I had no way of knowing, at least not yet.
Quickly considering my options, I counted to ten before pushing onto the road, following the truck from an innocuous distance. The bed of the vehicle was empty. He wasn’t using it to move the money, but I wasn’t going to worry about that now. I needed to focus on how to extract Greg from the truck.
Giving Greg a heads-up that I was behind him and ready to help wasn’t a priority. Based on his earlier behavior—tricking me the night before, his nightmares, tying me up and leaving me—I knew my presence would only serve to distract him. Therefore, with my heart thumping like mad and my throat tight and scratchy with anxious irritation, I stealthily followed from a distance.
He was taking major roads back to Enugu. Traffic was a problem in the city. Still, I was surprised when he took the bypass route instead of heading directly back to the hospital. Nervously, I checked my gasoline gauge. I only had fifty miles left until I would need to refuel.
Sixty-two minutes later, just after Greg took the turn off for the main highway leading to Lagos, the Ducati ran out of gas. I rushed to refill the tank and quickly did the math in my head. If Greg was heading to Lagos instead of returning to Enugu, then I had another five and a half hours of riding ahead of me.
And I was at least four gallons short on gas.
***
Six hours later my body ached.
I felt every one of my thirty-six years—in my joints, in my bones, in my muscles—and my thoughts were narrowed on two goals: rescuing Greg and murdering Greg.
My fuel problem turned out to be easily remedied. Between the westbound and eastbound lanes of traffic on many major highways in Nigeria are dirt paths, which are used mostly by commercial motorcyclists. Also, traffic in the country and road upkeep are a real problem.
Both the dirt motorcycle paths and the shoddy civil infrastructure worked to my advantage.
We encountered a traffic jam in Benin City just as I was starting to sweat my dwindling supply of gasoline. Greg and his companion were stuck on the road. I was not. I considered attempting a rescue, but decided against it. I wasn’t rescuing anyone without more fuel.
I used their delayed status to weave through traffic and exit the highway in search of a gas station. Keeping my helmet and gloves on, and thankful for the baggy scrubs covering my black bodysuit and holster, I used one of the stolen hundred-dollar bills Greg had left for me at the hospital to pay for the gas.
I told the attendant to keep the change after showing him my gun. Doubled the incentive to not fuck with me.
Once I topped up the tank and bladder bags, I sped back to the highway, spotting Greg’s truck just two miles farther along, amidst traffic just beginning to clear. My anxiety eased considerably now I’d secured enough fuel should Greg and his companion be leading me to Lagos.
Now, hours later, that’s where we were headed. And once we exited on to the Lekki-Epe Expressway for Victoria Island, a nagging feeling prickled my hot skin and made the hairs on the back of my neck rise in warning.
I’d studied the cities of Enugu and Lagos in great detail while en-route to Nigeria, so I knew the US consulate was at the western end of Victoria Island.
But what I couldn’t fathom was why Greg would be headed there, especially if his companion was a hostile.
This realization—that his car mate was on our side, someone Greg trusted—made me feel both better and worse. Obviously better because he was safe. But worse because he’d left me in Enugu. He’d accepted help from someone else. He’d cut me out, made plans without me. The sun was going down. He would never have made it back to Enugu in time for us to leave.
Now was not the time for me to feel hurt by all this, but I was. As inconvenient, and perhaps irrational, as the feelings were, hurt and anger settled like a granite boulder in my chest, making it difficult to breathe and focus.
However, much like baseball, there is no crying in espionage. So I remained focused.
The Lekki-Epe Expressway became Ozumba Mbadiwe Avenue, and swanky buildings rose before me, the sign for the Radisson Blu Anchorage Hotel visible in the distance. The waterfront was an oasis of clean white buildings and well-maintained roads on a shimmering blue lagoon, and the sight made my stomach turn sour.