The arms dealer stared at Hail, looking both confused and terrified, like he had invented a new type of weapon that could hurt, or maybe even kill, but wouldn’t leave a trace of blood behind as evidence.
Kornev stayed on his knees, one hand holding a mysteriously benign wound on his chest, and his other hand was busy vigorously massaging his throat.
“Are you starting to understand how this game will be played?”
Hail told the Russian. “Right now, the gun on the drone is loaded with airsoft pellets. Just moments before you landed we swapped out both the gun and the real ammo, just to give you one last chance. This is your final warning. The next time you try to sell your big weapons to the bad guys, we will not be changing out the gun’s ammo. All those rounds will be steel-jacketed, and that will be the end — at least the end of you. Please send me that postcard from Hell to let me know what the weather’s like so I can dress accordingly.”
Hail looked at Kornev indignantly, like the Russian were a horse on his way to the glue factory.
Kara walked in front of Kornev and stood next to Hail.
Kornev feebly pointed at Kara and croaked out, “Who are you? And, who is she?”
Hail considered disregarding the question, but then thought about what Kara had told him. Kornev needs to respect the man behind the weapons. And the only way for Kornev to do that was to know a little about him.
“I’m a freelancer,” Hail told him. “And she can tell you whatever she wants you to know about her.”
Kara turned to Hail and said to him, “Wow, that’s mighty nice of you, Marshall. You give me up. Then you are gracious enough to let me tell this piece of trash who I really am?”
Hail looked at her and remained quiet, believing anything he said would just anger her even more.
Kara turned to address Kornev. “I can at least tell you this, Victor. The man standing beside me is Marshall Hail.”
A look of distant recognition showed on Kornev’s face. He slowly got back to his feet and asked in a scratchy voice, “You mean the Physics Nobel Prize winner?”
“The one and the same,” Kara said, turning and giving Hail a mocking smile.
“That wasn’t fair to let this scumbag know who I am,” he told Kara. Now, Hail looked mad.
“And it wasn’t fair for you to let this piece of garbage know who I am either!” Kara shot back.
“Hello, I’m right here,” Kornev protested, raising his hand, but Kara and Hail continued quarreling.
“I never told him who you were,” Hail said.
“Oh, no,” Kara said sarcastically, “You just contacted him on my phone, and Kornev is way too stupid to put two and two together.”
Kornev stood patiently, still rubbing his neck, getting increasingly pissed off at the insults.
Understanding they were getting nowhere and had things to do, Hail said, “We can talk about this later. Right now, we need to get those missiles loaded onto my plane and get them to Batman. You can either go with Nolan and Renner in the Gulfstream back to Batman, or you can stay here with me and wait for them to return.”
“I’m torn,” Kara fumed. “I’d like nothing more than to get away from you right now, but I also want to stay and tell you what’s on my mind.”
Hail looked away from Kara and back to Kornev. Kornev gave him a little shrug, like Hail was screwed no matter what she did.
Kara thought it over for a minute before announcing, “I’m staying.”
Neither Hail nor Kornev responded.
Hail noticed Kornev looking off to his left. He followed Kornev’s gaze to watch as Nolan walked back toward them with his huge sniper rifle pointing down toward the ground.
“Let’s get the missiles loaded onto my Gulfstream,” he told Kara and Kornev.
As a group, they turned and walked toward the back of Kornev’s plane.
Gage Renner followed them closely, flying U2 alongside the group, ensuring Kornev didn’t try any funny stuff.
Two Years Ago Atlantic Ocean — Aboard the Nigerian Princess
Days turned into weeks as the Nigerian Princess slowly made its way across the Atlantic. As time passed, Obano became less preoccupied with the notion that Afua was going to kill them, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was less paranoid. Something was different with this crossing.
During the trip from Nigeria to Venezuela, the jihadi had not been particularly talkative or congenial, but he had been semi-social. Afua had taken his meals with the Obanos in the main dining room, and he had made a minimal degree of small talk. But now, per Afua’s request, Mrs. Obano was instructed to deliver his meals to his stateroom. Hours later, Essie would see the empty tray sitting outside Afua’s door on the floor, normally only half-eaten. And as the days trickled by, the tall Nigerian became even more withdrawn and laconic.
The lack of conversation, unto itself, wasn’t necessarily a telltale sign letting them know the nature of the man’s psyche. It wasn’t as if the Obanos had a great deal to discuss with a terrorist. There weren’t many topics for civilians to discuss with a person who had killed, raped and pillaged for a living. Individuals so pent up with rage and venom that were preoccupied with thoughts about killing other people usually didn’t spend their “free time” attending sports events, watch television, and most certainly didn’t go to movies. This limited conversational dialogue. Discussion with Afua, prior to completing the mission focused on mission elements that needed to be discussed. But now that the mission was over, brief discussions were unnecessary. Isaac had never told Essie why Afua was on the boat, but she had been with her husband long enough to understand that many of his business practices were shady, to say the least. She knew her best course of action was to look the other way and keep her nose out of Isaac’s business.
As the yacht closed in on the coast of Nigeria, Isaac Obano noted that Afua had begun sitting on the bow of the Nigerian Princess cradling the huge Barrett sniper rifle. Isaac surmised Afua was waiting for a reappearance of the pirates they had encountered on the first crossing. He would sit there for hours, at times all day, with nothing but the rifle and a large bottle of water. He would stare off into the distance.
So far, no pirates had attempted to take over the yacht. The trip across the Atlantic had gone off without a hitch. The weather had been divine and they experienced nothing but calm seas and warm sunshine. In stark contrast, dark and menacing cold fronts filled the interior of the yacht for the entirety of their return
trip. Isaac Obano was still suffering nightmares and had trouble sleeping. His mood was noticeably gloomier than it had been on the initial voyage. He had to make a concerted effort to act upbeat when he talked with his wife. There was no sense in drawing her into his own little mental hell. Did she know they had been accomplices in the downing of the airplane? Obano didn’t believe so. If she knew, she pretended they had done nothing except enjoy a wonderful vacation aboard a luxury yacht. Her demeanor was still upbeat and vivacious.
When the Nigerian Princess finally pulled into the harbor in Lagos, several of Afua’s men were at the dock waiting for him to arrive.
Before his mission had begun, it had been determined that there would be no electronic communications between Afua and his Boko Haram sect because it was too easy for communications to be intercepted. That would have jeopardized the mission. But a day before arriving back in Lagos, Afua had called ahead for his men to pick him up.