Insurrection. Don Pendleton

exposed a white sink and toilet. Although he didn’t count them, it looked to Bolan as if there were roughly a dozen individuals present, and the single bathroom appeared to service them all.

      Paul stopped just outside the doorway and turned to Bolan. A moment passed during which the Christian convert took in a deep breath prior to speaking. At the same time, the people in the room suddenly noticed their presence, and all eyes in the room swept to Bolan and Galab as conversation ceased.

      In the quiet seconds that followed, the soldier heard faint crunching and swishing sounds somewhere in the distance. He could hardly be certain, but it sounded like someone digging. And it was not all that different from the sounds that issued from Paul’s congested chest.

      Bolan looked through the door at the uprooted Christians gathered. There were slightly more men than women, and a good number of them suffered from one kind of physical disability or another. Wheelchairs and crutches were prevalent, and one man wore an oxygen nose piece that was attached to a tank by clear plastic tubing.

      “I don’t see any children,” Bolan said.

      Paul’s chest rumbled when he spoke. “We have shipped the children out of Nigeria to Christian families in neighboring countries,” he said. “Much like the British sent children to the United States during World War II. These are people who have been attacked by the Bokos and escaped. Or a few who we know were targeted, but got away in time with their families. Boko Haram has a death list, and most of these people are on it.”

      Sweat had broken out on his forehead and he used his forearm to wipe it away. “I call this the congregation room. Like the congregation in a church,” he went on. “We have several such hiding places around Ibadan, and all are overcrowded like this one.” He stopped to draw in another raspy breath. “And we never know from one second to the next when one may have been compromised. We anxiously await attacks that are sure to come sooner or later.”

      Bolan looked at the faces around the room that had fixed on him. They were dirty and weary and scared. His mind drifted to the happy, playing children he had seen back at the Isaac Center. They had been too young to understand what had happened to their families, but these people were adults, and they understood the danger they were in. Their expressions showed the strain of being forced into a constant survival state of mind. When he looked into their faces, however, Bolan got at least a thin smile from each and every one of them.

      They were human, so they were worried. And they were scared. But in spite of all that there was a positive spirit that seemed to emanate from them.

      Bolan set his bags on the floor and looked back up again. This time he took note of three men standing against the walls. One leaned back against the far wall of the room, an American-made M16A2 hanging from a sling looped over his shoulder. Two more men—one with a Belgian FAL and the other bearing an AK-47—did the same against the side walls. The man with the M16 was fiddling with the safety. The one holding the FAL was trying to figure out how to adjust the collapsible stock, and the Nigerian who bore the AK-47 was simply staring down at his weapon as if he’d just seen it for the first time.