On Home Soil

By Blanka

When the deadly and elusive Ahmed ibn Facquard bombs the World Peace Summit at the Sandton Hilton Hotels Complex in Johannesburg, South Africa, the world cries for blood. Led by a reeling United States, calls are made for decisive action to be taken apprehending the terrorist who for all appearances is being protected by his home country.

In a chilling race against time, two unlikely agents are brought in by their respective countries to track down and eliminate the threat “by any means necessary.” The hunt begins in the ruins of the demolished building and in the backstreets of a lowly oil-drilling settlement in Nigeria, and culminates in a high-stakes, no-holds-barred showdown in a mansion On Home Soil in one of Nigeria’s bustling conurbations in which the two agents are pitted against each other and against a terrorist whose origins conceal a deadly secret.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Jan 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781504323369

Blanka

Blanka is writer with more than ten years of freelance and ghostwriting in fiction and non-fiction across several genres. He holds a BSc. in Mechanical Engineering from Obafemi Awolowo Univeristy (OAU), and a Postgraduate Diploma in Computer Science from University of Ilorin, both in Nigeria. Blanka holds a third-degree black belt in Karate.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

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T he soft breeze rustled the leaves in the lone tree. The only other sounds were those of the night: crickets singing away under the cover of darkness; a solitary owl, invisible in the distance, hooting its disapproval of the invasion; a hawk screeching high overhead; a toad croaking a hoarse message, out of place in the barren locale.

The moon was high and it shone with eerie brightness on the scenery for as far as she could see. The long lonely stretch of road wound up behind her, coming from miles out, and stretching in front of her, disappearing over the hill up ahead.

She knew she was not alone, although orientation of the landscape made it seem so. Now she detected other sounds and smells too. She became aware of the distinguishing scent of blood in the gentle waft from up ahead. She was downwind from the hill and the smell came easily to her, borne by the gentle breeze.

She had ditched her car a short distance back when she saw the telltale signs of wheels in the dirt by the side of the road. The markings hadn’t been made by one set of wheels but by two. That could only mean one thing – her quarry and someone else had met here. It meant her target was no longer alone, a fact which by itself would be inconclusive. But then there were the footprints in the sand too that told her someone in the other car had tried to grab a person or persons from the car of her quarry, which had zoomed off, and the other car had followed. She saw all this from the tattletale scattering of loose earth and pebbles on the side of the road, and from the burn marks of rubber on tarmac.

Her target was in a limousine, however, a vehicle designed for comfort, not speed. The chaser was in a powerful SUV from the looks of the imprints the tires made. She figured it would be a short chase.

And apparently a short chase it was. The tire tracks on the blacktop beneath her as she moved further up the road, following the signs, revealed that the SUV was already upon the limo and the glass shards alongside the tracks indicated that the stronger vehicle had possibly rear-ended the limo. She also interpreted that the limousine was out of control from observing the rubber marks that zipped back and forth across the surface of the road. There simply was no way this was going to go on for much longer, she surmised.

As she approached the crest of the hill, she stepped onto the side of the road and went into a crouch. She slipped easily through the scant underbrush until she reached a large boulder she could hide behind just at the top of the ridge. From there she could see the scene below her, arrayed like a chessboard with moving pieces.

She had been a bit less than accurate in her estimation.

The limousine had been broadsided off the road by the SUV, now resting a few inches in front of the luxury car, dominant and imposing from the looks of it. The limo was probably reinforced, so it had not been torn apart from the impact. However the back door was open and there were two people outside of it, on the ground. The man was in a tuxedo and the woman was in an evening gown. They were splayed in the dirt while the marauders stood over them, kicking and toying with them.

The man was no younger than fifty years old, slim for his age, the tuxedo in which he was clad mired and roughened by his assault. She couldn’t make out his features, but his actions clearly showed him protecting the woman at his side, whose expensive-looking gown was becoming shredded. She was younger and more slender than he and screamed with each impact as the laughing men around them pushed rifle butts into their sides or kicked them in the ribs with their heavy boots. It seemed to her that there was time to act.

There was a third vehicle as well, a large Toyota SUV. She mentally reprimanded herself for failing to make out its tracks with the others. She speculated that maybe it hadn’t been involved in the pursuit and had only just arrived after the limousine had been stopped. There was someone in the back seat of the Japanese import, but everyone else was outside.

There were eight of them, counting the man still in the Toyota. They were hooded and carried automatic rifles.

The driver of the limousine appeared dead, hanging halfway out the open driver’s door. She assumed that the dark stain on the ground beside him had to be blood, and the darker object in the blood pool would be his weapon. Two bodies lay in the dirt too – presumably bodyguards from within the limo. However it was hard to tell if they were still breathing – they certainly weren’t moving.

The exquisitely garbed man and woman were at their mercy. The woman cried and begged for their lives, while the raiders tore playfully at her clothes and generally threw around the man in the suit. He seemed barely conscious. For all she could tell, the marauders could have been trying to kidnap or kill them. In any event, there wasn’t a lot of time left to act. If she was going to do something, she would have to do it right now.

Three shuriken whizzed silently through the night. One of the captors screamed and fell backward into the sand, throwing his gun wide. He soon lay motionless with the throwing star sticking out of his chest. Two other black-clad men fell into the grime by the hard shoulder of the road; one of them gurgled and clutched his throat while the other just dropped like a stone.

Those were all the free shots she was going to get, but they were more than she usually got. The remaining men immediately dropped to the ground, all of them apparently well-trained, and started to search for the source of the Oriental throwing stars. They didn’t get much of a chance because she materialized out of the dark on the far side of the Toyota. The man in the back seat had just closed his door in a shielding move, but before he could activate the lock mechanism, the door on the other side opened and the last thing he saw was a shady silhouette that suddenly appeared. He was dead before he could raise his voice.

The men outside had not seen or heard it happen. One masked man who walked up to the Toyota unawares died moments after her right foot crushed his windpipe and a second blow broke his neck as he fell.

The others opened fire now, determined to staunch the threat. They couldn’t find their target, though, because it kept moving. She was on the ground, rolling toward the Expedition; then she was up on the other side of it, coming toward one of the men who was still shooting at the Toyota. She broke his neck by grabbing his head and yanking it back, hard. She quickly drew a long dagger in the same fluid motion and threw it toward another man. He had heard the skirmish behind him and turned around with his gun. She missed his heart, catching him in the armpit instead, having thrown the weapon a split second faster than was optimal. As the man screamed, letting go of his gun, she brought forward the steel rod hanging from her back and whacked him across the face with it. She spun around with the same motion, throwing her right foot to push the knife deeper into his rib cage, effectively piercing his heart.

She cursed her luck now; these individual encounters were costing her time. The eighth and final raider had grabbed the half-naked woman and put a pistol to her temple, shielding himself from the smaller feminine form that stood over his dead associates. She was clad in black too, with a skin-tight ski-mask covering her features. For all her exertion she wasn’t even breathing heavy, bending down now to retrieve her dagger from her previous kill.

Don’t move. Don’t you dare move! I’ll kill her!

She moved, daring him with one careful step toward him.

I said don’t move! I’ll put a bullet in her brains!

She moved again, this time taking two steps, her eyes never leaving his face. She now stood only a couple of feet from captive and captor. She did not speak; she just looked. She could tell he was frightened.

What the hell are you? he rasped frantically and brought his gun to bear on her head. It was the mistake she had waited for. The collapsible baton flew out her hand and struck the pistol, not enough to disarm him, but sufficient to throw off his shot.

He didn’t get another chance. Before the weapon turned back on her, she was upon him. Ignoring the captive woman, she seized the man’s extended wrist and twisted it so that he screeched and fired again. When she shoved the big blade into his bicep, the scream became louder and he dropped the firearm. She silenced him by withdrawing the blade and digging it this time into the soft flesh between his neck and shoulder. The man died gurgling, spurting blood from the gash and from the openings in his face.

Mission accomplished.

Good morning, Mr. Senator. She turned to the two dazed figures, the wife on the verge of hysteria, the husband’s eyes about to pop out of their sockets. I’m sorry about the ordeal you have just been through but I assure you the danger is past.

Her voice was muffled by the fabric on her face, but the words were clear enough. The tattered woman whimpered and drew away as she drew close, so she turned away from her and reached down to help the man to his feet.

The female agent was visibly relaxed now that the threat was over. Now she could report back that the threat intercepted at headquarters had been real, but she had also been able to neutralize it. It was a shame that she had to miss her date for this, but it was not a bad outing for a young agent trying to earn her stripes with the agency.

I believe you should be able to drive. You want to be away from here before others come looking for you.

He looked suspicious and reluctant to take her hand. She reached further.

I’m sorry, Senator. There’s no time for…

She straightened up suddenly and reached quickly for an object lodged in her upper thigh. Pulling it out, she recognized the tranquilizer dart and started to ask herself where it had come from; what she had missed. A second dart dug into her neck, stinging. The effect of the drug was immediate; her brain was already beginning to fog.

She turned with a questioning look to find the shooter, and got the third tranq-dart in her chest. The dart she was holding in her hand dropped to the ground and struck dirt a second before her knees did the same. She fought it, even though she knew it was futile. She was passing out, even though she knew she should stay awake. She was unconscious seconds later, sinking face-first into the dust without another sound. One last thought fluttered through her mind before the darkness claimed her:

The other bodyguard…

CHAPTER ONE

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A t first the sounds were like the annoying buzz of bees; she tried to shake them off, but they persisted. Presently, the buzzing evolved into voices, and then intelligible words.

…awake yet. Whatever those guys hit her with must have been awful strong.

Can I go in?

"Suit yourself. She’s just sleeping like a baby. The doctor left about a half-hour ago. Said her vitals are strong and she oughtta be coming outta it any time. What the hell does that mean anyway? ‘Her vitals are strong? Gawd, doctors!

Man, shuttup! You say she’s still out? The door creaked open. Well, I guess so. The door clicked shut. In that case I gotta go tell the boss. Maybe we oughtta just leave her be for the night and come around in the morning. Whatchya think?

If you ask me, I think we shoulda planted some lead in her skull and dumped the body. Don’t know why you guys always gotta ask questions. You heard what they say she did. If she really could do all them things, I wouldn’t want her coming at me. Don’t you ever see the movies? Bad guy gets a chance to kill the hero but he stops to ask questions. Good guy sweet talks his way out of the jam and pumps the bad guy full of lead. Adios, amigos.

"You know what your problems is, Frank? You talk too much. And you watch way too many movies. This ain’t the movies, partner, this is for real. Plus, we are the good guys, and she ain’t going no place. See for yourself; she’s all trussed up like a turkey."

Trussed up don’t never stop double-o-seven. I say it ain’t too late: we plug her now and be done with it.

And I say you shut your trap. Boss wants to talk to her; boss gets to talk to her. Now you just sit tight, alright? Nobody goes in, nobody goes…

…nobody goes out. Sure, I know my job. And I got only an hour left. You tell Vinny he’d better be on time ’cause I ain’t pulling one extra minute.

Obviously the other man ignored him and kept walking. She heard a soft creak as Frank took a seat just outside the door and began to softly whistle.

She opened her eyes slowly.

The light was dim, but shafts of pain shot through her pounding skull, causing her to wince. Slowly she regarded the interior of a featureless room. The floor was bare concrete; the door was solid wood that looked like it could only be opened from the outside. The only window was a tiny square high on the blank wall.

Her clothes were a dark pile in a corner of the room, one piece atop the other, as were her weapons. A naked orange-light bulb dangled from the ceiling, a few feet from her face, emitting an insipid gleam which added to her discomfort, and radiating heat that made her sweat in spite of her near nakedness.

Her head throbbed, every muscle in her body ached, and the caustic irritation was like a living thing with hydra prongs that reached beyond her flesh to her bones.

She knew she was suffering after-effects of the drug that had knocked her out, including hallucinations and enhanced sensitivities to external stimuli. The uneasiness she felt was merely a magnified form of what it really was. She still felt them though, and it was mean.

She looked down at her body and saw bare skin and black undies. She was dangling by her arms from the ceiling, her toes still two feet off the floor. Every inch glistened with sweat, even though what she felt was the cold and a numbing pain that radiated from the sockets in her shoulders.

Trussed up like a turkey? Somebody’s idea of a joke.

Thick nylon rope bound her wrists and ankles. The aches in her arms told her she must have been there quite a while.

She shut her eyes briefly against the glare of the exposed bulb as another wave of pain and nausea coursed through her. The effects of the drug were receding because the discomfort was less than the last time.

Again she looked around.

Trussed up like a turkey? That’s a laugh. These guys are amateurs.

With a silent heave, she swung her feet up and caught the ankle-rope in the hook, providing leverage to lift the rope on her wrists out of it. Seconds later, head pounding from the exertion, she landed noiselessly on the floor, took a deep breath, and rolled to the corner where her clothes and weapons lay. She retrieved her knife, cut the cords, and got dressed. For a moment, she stopped and leaned against the cold wall, breathing deeply to clear her head.

Then she opened her eyes and inspected the window. It had bars across it, and they were not wood. No way out there.

She turned thoughtfully to the door. Solid oak. She couldn’t knock it down; she couldn’t pick the lock. She would end up bringing all the guards in the building to the door. That left only one thing; she had to get someone to come in and leave the door open behind him.

Frank. Piece of cake.

At least that would be easier than facing ten or more goons who thought they were first-rate hoods. Besides, she did not want to kill anybody else – that wasn’t an integral part of the job description or of her very nature. She was just very good at it. All she was supposed to do was protect the senator, which she had done when she disposed of the marauders who had attacked them. How he ran his campaign or his household was none of her business.

She was already running late. A glance at her watch told her she must have been out for over twelve hours. That meant she was more than six hours overdue to report at the state office.

She just had to get out of here first.

She coughed audibly. Good thing there was no peep-hole on the thick oak door through which anyone on the outside could see what was happening on the inside.

Amateurs.

She flattened her back against the wall beside the door.

The doorknob turned and the door began to open. She grabbed and pulled. The door swung inwards and Frank stumbled wide-eyed into the room. His mouth formed a startled O as the tips of the fingers of her right hand found his Adam’s apple. He gagged silently as she kneed him in the groin, and he dropped senseless to the floor when her fist crashed into the base of his skull.

Poor Frank.

She dragged the prostrate form into the room, slipped out, and shut the door behind her.

She was in a short corridor with a staircase that led up to ground level, she presumed. On the landing, she cracked the door open.

Nobody. Nothing.

She stepped into a thickly carpeted hallway.

Whatever were these guys up to that would cause her superiors to authorize a CIA operation on American soil? And to think they would be this careless with a captured operative. These guys had no idea what they were messing with.

But that was not any of her business; she needed only to get out and report to the LA office.

She heard voices from a room down the hallway.

Will you quit messing with me, woman? Somebody just tried to kill me…

"Us, darling. Somebody just tried to kill the both of us and our little girl. Then an angel comes out of nowhere to save us, and now you’re keeping her?"

We don’t know who she is …

No, but she saved our lives, Billy. We should have a doctor checking her not have her down in the interrogation room…

She slipped out the front door.

Outside, a man in a dark suit leaned against a sleek white limousine with his back to her. She avoided him, and soon she was out of the compound and trying to hitch a ride.

No one wanted to pick up a black-clad figure in the dark in a swanky neighborhood.

Damn.

She pulled down the zipper on her jacket front and started jogging. Fifteen minutes later, a Harley pulled alongside her. On it was a big, bearded guy dressed similar to the way she was. He sized her up.

Hey, Baby. You going mah way?

Sure, honey. You got room for two?

Yah, Babe. Hop on.

She did, locking her arms around him and pressing her body against his.

Hmmm, he murmured.

Thanks, Daddy, she said.

Anytime, he replied, and rode off into the gathering twilight.

Mission accomplished.

In all of history, there have been only a few times when the infamous exploits of one man resulted in such global unrest. Even the escapades of Osama bin Laden before and after the September 11th attacks on the United States and other parts of the world did not cause this much of an uproar. Though heads of states were not at this conference in person, all world powers were represented in some way or another, and their interests voiced.

One did not lob a grenade at a mouse, but sometimes one could very well burn down a barn to smoke out a colony of disease-carrying rodents. Most of these nations were preparing for war – they might not be able to find ibn Facquard, but they were bound to make hell for any country and anyone known to harbor the fugitive or offer him any assistance. And the whole world had its eyes on Nigeria.

For two days the debate had been hot. The European Union and the United States, Russia and China, India and Australia, all wanted in. The terrorist had openly declared war on the West, and anyone that had sided with them, for crimes he claimed they had committed against him and his ancestry. He had backed this up with attack after daring attack on almost every one of the countries present, and those not yet struck worried that they were next on the hit list.

Everyone at the summit was of the same opinion. Let a team of United Nations experts flood his home country and smoke him out before he killed again. Everyone, save for the Nigerian leadership and those of a handful of other African states.

Their argument was simple, but for the Americans it was difficult to comprehend: these nations had spent the greater part of the last century climbing out of economic mediocrity and the Third World; with their newly acquired status, the thought of some world power coming in to do their work for them was more than demeaning - it undermined everything they had worked for over the years. They agreed that enough was simply enough. However, if Ahmed ibn Facquard was on Nigerian soil, or in any other nation of the world for that matter, then they felt it was up to them to find him and bring him to justice, and not for Europe and America to dictate how that was to be done.

The U. S. was furious. They had been hit the worst, suffering losses both at home and abroad. But Nigeria would not budge. This had been going on for years, argued the West. Should not the perpetrator have been apprehended and stopped by now, had the efforts to do so by his government been sincere?

The African response ignored the underlying suggestions in the challenges and asked simply for patience, promising that he would be brought to justice.

Finally the deliberations came to a close on the same note on which they started, with nothing of worthy note achieved. Frustrated, the edgy delegates began to file out of the hotel conference room, largely ignoring the hungry media as they pressed for information. Everyone, it seemed, merely wanted to catch a quick flight back to his home and inform their superiors of their failures. Only one pressman from a local newspaper appeared to have gotten lucky with a German diplomat who let slip that strong words had been exchanged on the inside. Other newsmen pressed around, reaching, pushing their microphones into the face of the speaking man.

The man from China, it seemed, had accused the other African states of siding with Nigeria and stalling for time so that some Black-Africa agenda could be carried out in the wake of an attack of global proportions by the hunted man.

Affairs, it appeared, may have deteriorated a bit from then on, but it could be safely assumed that the meeting came to a close without bloodshed, although hidden and double meanings heavily coated the parting words of the men and women in attendance. Veiled threats, however, were what diplomats were trained to deliver best and were therefore no grounds for speculations.

Television screens in all of South Africa and around the world blinked from image to image of the tired delegates as they filed out of the Conference Hall of the Sandton Hilton and found their vehicles. Reporters with facts and presumptions prattled on excitedly about the events of the past few days and the chances of an outbreak of war between the West and Black Africa.

They are making a statement, one bold reporter said. "In spite of the stakes at hand, Africa, spearheaded by the growing giant, Nigeria, is saying that she has had enough of Europe and America dictating to Africans how to run their affairs. Why they would choose a sensitive issue such as the location and apprehension of the terrorist ibn Facquard to do this is anyone’s wild guess.

Ahmed ibn Facquard, however, remains at large and may have just been given more time. For a fact he will strike again. The only question is who, where, and when?

The explosion shook the whole of Johannesburg and deafened the entire world. First, a bright light flashed and the earth trembled as though shrugging. Then people were lifted clean off their feet like rag dolls shaken by a belligerent child, as TV screens went blank and remote cameras spun in all directions. Debris snowed everywhere.

Everyone within a three-mile radius of the Hilton Hotels complex heard the loud boom like a giant’s shriek of pain that deafened ears. Shock was immediate. Drivers spun their vehicles off the road, crashing into one another, and leveling pedestrians. For two long minutes, confusion reigned as men, women and children ran for cover or hugged the concrete. Bright streetlights that beautified the streets of the capital city suddenly blinked off, plunging buildings into a harsh dusk of advancing night.

On the Hilton grounds, everything was in disarray. Concrete, steel and body parts lay everywhere. It was long moments before bodyguards and secret service agents gathered their senses enough to drag their stunned charges to the ground and draw their weapons, staring nowhere in particular for an enemy that would not reveal itself.

All was in chaos.

Then silence fell.

For an eerie moment, nothing moved and nobody said a thing. Even terrified birds seemed to comply with a period of motionless silence. Eyes darted furtively left and right, and frayed nerves stayed on edge.

The first shrill scream of a woman rent the cold night air. Suddenly, everyone was painfully aware of the situation and wanted to do something.

Good God! There are people in there! someone exclaimed in shock, pointing at the hotel that billowed thick black smoke and flames.

Oh my God, somebody help them! yelled someone else.

Women fell faint, men started to throw off jackets and roll up sleeves, hurrying for the entrance to the building. The smoke and flames kept them back.

Water! somebody screamed.

Vehicles started up as those who had survived with minor injuries realized how much they wanted to not be there. Debris was scattered everywhere, but cars maneuvered through, blaring horns, carrying their valuable human and material cargo. Without warning, a few reporters remembered their jobs and hurried their crews towards the heart of the chaos.

Where the hell is the fire truck?

As though in response, a distant siren could now be heard, harsh and persistent, growing louder with each passing second.

Help me, please! Somebody help!

It was a middle-aged woman, whose formal grey skirt was torn and matted with blood and dirt. The blood was from a cut on her forehead and from somewhere on the body of the unconscious man whose head she cradled in her lap.

A black man stumbled blindly out of the billowing smoke at the hotel entrance, coughing and retching violently. A reporter ran up to him and caught him before he fell to his knees. Ignoring his cameraman, the reporter yelled at no one in particular.

Somebody get an ambulance!

As though hearing him, two more people stumbled out of the burning building, heaving and gasping. The smoke was everywhere.

Where the hell is that fire truck? the reporter bellowed as he helplessly watched the flames grow from within and begin to envelope the magnificent structure.

A red fire truck thundered down the street and tried to beat the traffic at the entrance to the hotel grounds just as the first ambulance appeared in the distance.

As though tired of waiting, the building seemed to heave one last heavy sigh and then collapsed upon itself.

CHAPTER TWO

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T he mood in the room was somber. All three men wore scowls which accurately expressed their displeasure at the necessity of the proceedings, and when they spoke, their voices were low and their words burdened with meaning.

President John Robert Armstrong of the United States of America was the angriest he had been since that time many years ago when, after a successful mission into the heart of the Gulf, he and his team had been court-martialed for some unfortunate civilian casualties in an act which a clueless politician in Washington had referred to as conduct unbecoming.

A Navy SEALs lieutenant at the time¸ Armstrong had considered Desert Storm his own personal war and pride. He had a hand in much of the planning and execution of virtually all covert missions that took place back then. To think that in spite of the victory that had been won with the blood of young American soldiers who had fought and died by his side, one ill-mannered and uninformed elected official who didn’t know the first thing about warfare, its risks, costs and consequences, or its gory realities, would demand the prosecution of accomplished men of war for crimes committed at war. At war!

It was unthinkable!

Armstrong and his men had been exonerated were eventually regarded as heroes. Armstrong himself received commendations for bravery, his second purple heart, and a promotion to the rank of captain. He swore to himself then that one day he would be President and fight for the rights of soldiers and the true American people, not the self-righteous politicians who dictated how people should run their lives.

Now decades later, he was on the verge of leading them home to the American dream, consolidating his ideals in the Constitution. Republican to the bone, President Armstrong staunchly believed that what had to be done absolutely must be done, and without compromise.

He deeply regretted having waited this long before taking decisive action against the ibn Facquard threat. Years of living soft in the White House and becoming accustomed to political bureaucracy could do that to a man, even the toughest soldier. But that was about to change. He’d had enough of the terrorism that left Americans looking over their