Chapter 3

Even though he had earplugs in his ears, Ed Lawrence’s ears were still ringing. The explosion on the other side of the car he was hiding behind was that close and that loud.

He rolled out from the relative safety of the passenger side rear tire and scanned the street across from him with his imitation M-5 up and ready to shoot.

One of the enemy’s men was squatting low behind a battered mailbox that had already been riddled with bullets. More and more of his baseball-capped head inched out from the falsely assumed protection.

Lawrence didn’t want to waste a shot on such a low-level man when he knew there was a much higher-ranking man somewhere over there. If he shot this peon, the higher-up would go further back into hiding and he would never get a chance to take him out.

Just then, a man Lawrence assumed was more important simply by the fact that he didn’t have a baseball cap on his head peeked out from behind a car that had its engine taken out and all four of its tires removed. As the man exposed even more of his head, a loud buzzer sounded, startling him.

“All participants stand down,” said a male voice from the speakers that were scattered all throughout the artificial town that served as a military training area. “All participants stand down.”

Lawrence imagined taking the shot… and lowered his weapon.

“John Adam Smith, report to the control room. John Adam Smith.”

Lawrence stood up and exposed his position.

When the man Lawrence had been aiming at saw him, he knew he had been two seconds away from getting drilled by a rubber bullet. And while the bullets weren’t fatal except in rare freak instances, they were quite successful in killing the ego of whoever had been shot.

Lawrence walked by some of the men on his team. They had all snickered when his name was announced. None of the men participating in the paramilitary drills had used their real names and so many had used John Smith that they had to add middle names to tell one another apart.

As Lawrence walked toward the control room in the four-story building at the far end of the dead end street, he thought back on his life and couldn’t remember ever knowing a man who had the supposedly common name of John Smith.

As a matter of fact, if he really thought about it, he had known more overall Petowskys than Smiths. But he figured that probably had more to do with Mr. and Mrs. Petowsky being Catholic and loving each other very much.

Ed Lawrence shook his head at the daydream about his across the street neighbors when he was growing up and their six kids. He needed to focus on his current situation; he was about to walk into the control room of a paramilitary training camp because the people running it from inside the room had stopped a drill halfway through to pluck him out and speak with him specifically.

While the knife at his side was real, both his rifle and sidearm had rubber bullets. There was no doubt in his mind the guards in the control room had real bullets and were exquisitely trained to use them.

As he thought it over, Lawrence came to the conclusion that whatever the situation was, it wasn’t bad enough for them to kill him over it. If they wanted him dead, they could have done it in the drill. There were certainly enough explosives being set off and it could be made to look like an accident easily enough. No, his problem, if he even had one, was at worst, something that could be squashed by lawyers. And he had the best at his disposal. For free.

The door opened before he reached it. One of the owners was waiting for him with a cell phone in his hand. “Your phone rang. The guy on the other end said a helicopter was on the way to pick you up and hung up.”

Lawrence took his phone back with a smile. “Thanks.” That had been so much easier than he had been expecting.

☣

Ed Lawrence looked down from his spot in the back seat of the helicopter as it approached the private airport.

The familiar black limousine was parked ten yards from the hangar. A few feet away, the also familiar jet was out and facing the beginning of the runway.

Lawrence didn’t like that he was about to get out of a helicopter still dressed as a commando and walk on to an airport but the chopper had arrived before he’d had a chance to change. He remembered a phrase his father had told him many times, “Son, like, ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”

Ed Lawrence stepped out of the helicopter. He walked up to the rear door on the limo’s passenger side. It opened. He got in.

Miles Devlin sat across from him in a blue suit. The fifty-five-year-old multibillionaire was smiling with a glass of Scotch in his hand.

Lawrence couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the man smile. And he’d never seen him smiling like this. “Good news?”

“I need you to go to Africa. You will pick up a package and a doctor and bring them both to me.”

“Okay.” Lawrence was quiet for a moment, then said, “Which is the most important?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if everything goes smoothly, I know to bring back both of them. But, considering the things I do for you, plus… Africa being Africa, if something goes horribly wrong, which one is my priority?”

Devlin sat in his seat and gave the question some thought. “Mr. Lawrence, I pay you a stunning amount of money so that I don’t need to compromise or be reasonable.”

When it became obvious that was all Devlin had to say about the matter, Lawrence opened the door and got out. Before he could close the door shut--

“Ed…,” Devlin said with his smile gone.

Lawrence turned around and looked his employer in the eyes.

“… the package is your priority.”

“Understood.” Lawrence slammed the door shut.

☣

It was strange that his mission file was only one page long front and back. Usually, Ed Lawrence had six or seven pieces of paper to analyze.

In return for never haggling on the price, Devlin expected his instructions to be followed to the letter. This one had to look like an accident. That one had to look like a cartel hit. The other one had to look like a car-jacking gone wrong. Whatever you do, don’t hurt the dog. Don’t hurt anyone; just make sure his wife sees the pictures. He was always very specific.

The more paper Lawrence had, the more instructions he had to follow. This time, all he had was a few names, some addresses, three contact phone numbers, and a picture of the good doctor.

What took up the most room was the summary of the political situation in the country. The national government was strong in some places with various warlords having carved out their own little kingdoms in non-government controlled territories. The warlords weren’t strong enough to expand their territory, but the government wasn’t strong enough to root them out. Typical Africa.

Lawrence memorized everything he needed to know and put the paper in the triple-tiered shredder. The first blades cut the paper in vertical strips. The second cut the strips horizontally. The third were essentially a paper grinder and turned whatever had been shredded into pulp.

Lawrence decided he would stay in his commando outfit and sleep. After that, he would take a quick shower on the plane and change into his civilian clothes. He closed his eyes knowing the fewer specific instructions there were, the more discretion he had. And there were few things a mercenary enjoyed more than having absolute discretion in a place like Sub-Saharan Africa.

☣

A government official had come aboard the plane after it landed and stamped Ed Lawrence’s fake passport before he even thought about getting his luggage. After that, Lawrence had grabbed his backpack and gotten off the jet.

He made his way down the stairs and saw the airport workers already with hoses in their hands. The jet would be refueled by the time he’d made his way to the clinic. Lawrence estimated he should be able to get the doctor and the package and make it back on the plane in less than two hours, three if things went slow.

If things went wrong, he had a Walther PPK .22 inside the belt of his pants with a full magazine in each front pocket. He also had an MK-18 sub-machine gun and six magazines under a towel and a change of clothing in the backpack in case something went very wrong.

Lawrence looked around as he stepped away from the plane’s stairs. The backpack was slung over one shoulder.

A nervous, dark-skinned man stood in front of an old compact car. He was looking around.

“Benny?” Lawrence asked.

The man turned his head. He seemed caught off guard at the sound of his name.

Lawrence walked toward him with a big smile. “You’re here to pick up John Smith, right?”

Benny smiled. “Yes, Mr. Smith. I’m sorry, I did not know what you look like.” His English was good with a Sub-Saharan accent.

“Most people say a lot like my Daddy,” Lawrence said still smiling. He had his hand out to be shaken.

Benny shook his hand with a smile. “I’m sure. Welcome to Berhanu. I will be your guide while you are in my country. May I take your luggage?”

“Great to be here. No, I’ve got this. I packed light because I won’t be able to stay to long. Just stopping through to escort the good doctor home.”

Benny nodded. “Yes, Dr. Jones is marvelous. She has helped many people. She will be very missed.”

“Oh, she’s the best,” Lawrence said of a doctor he’d never met before in his life.

“Please,” Benny said turning around, “my car is here.” He led the way to the car and opened the passenger side back door.

“Mind if I sit in the front?” Lawrence asked as he put the backpack in the back seat.

“No, not at all.”

“It’s my first time here and I’d like to get a good look around.”

“Of course.” Benny opened the front passenger door and held it as Lawrence got in.

Benny made his way around the front of the car to the driver’s side.

No matter where Lawrence was, the thing he feared most was kidnapping. If Benny wasn’t legit, Lawrence could reach across, chop him in the throat, push him out of the moving car, and hop over the gearshift into the driver’s seat. But if he was in the back seat, he would have to break his neck, yank him into the back seat, and climb over the front seat to drive. Like most people, Ed Lawrence preferred the maximum amount of reward from the minimum amount of effort. Unlike most people, his job usually involved an extraordinary amount of violence.

Benny started the car, put it in gear, and stepped on the gas. He drove past a couple of soldiers holding AK-47s, made a quick right, and was on to the only road that lead to and from the airport.

The silent white man with lean muscles sitting next to Benny was making him nervous. The way he looked around wasn’t like some tourist discovering a new city; it was more like a predator looking for signs of danger. And maybe… weakness.

“Did you have a good flight?” Benny asked.

“I’m one of those people who says, as long as the plane lands safely, it’s a good flight.”

“How long was it?”

Lawrence checked his watch. “About twenty-four hours including the stopover in Morocco.”

Benny nodded. “America is very far away. It is a great country.”

“It’s all right.”

Benny looked at him to see if he was serious, if he was being modest, or if he was an idiot. “You do not know the kind of problems we have.”

“Everyone, everywhere, has problems. Now, we may not have all the problems you’ve got, but I promise you, we’ve got a whole lot of problems.”

“Yes, I have seen. Your people are fat because they eat too much. My people do not have enough to eat. And your poor people are the fattest. Here, only rich people get fat. And they are not going on diets, no. They want everyone to see how fat they are. They are very proud of their girth.”

Ed Lawrence hadn’t come to the country of Berhanu debate the socioeconomic ramifications of people’s girths in Africa. “How long have you worked for the clinic?”

“Ever since it opened. It is my greatest honor to work for such an organization.”

“Have the warlords given you problems?”

“There have been a few times where they have intercepted shipments of medicine and sold them for weapons but for the most part, they leave us alone.”

“That’s good.”

“It is very fortunate you do not have warlords in your country.”

“Actually, we do but if our government used that particular word, people would get very upset and either make the politicians earn their money by getting rid of the warlords or vote the politicians out of office and replace them with someone who would. So, instead, the warlords are called gang leaders, mob bosses, and cartel kingpins. It’s not exactly the same but it’s also not as different as you might think.”