BRENDA LOST SIGHT OF EJIRO in the heat of the gun battle. But she had caught a flash of one who looked like Al Mustapha dashing towards one of the buildings that surrounded the village. Against her sense of reason, she broke off from the rank and went in pursuit of him.
Reaching the uncompleted building, she paused and wielded her service weapon. Her eyes flitted about, hoping to rake in the chief militant's intimidating figure. But for an empty structure that seemed ever ominous, she caught no sign of a human.
Brenda took a step back, drew a sharp breath, and made a resolve. She'd catch the big fish. She had definitely seen him take cover in this building. She tiptoed through the doorless entrance and came upon barricades that seemed to have been moved in one of the rooms. She inched along, one step after another, pulse racing, mind scrambled.
"Three! What are you doing?" a voice fizzed through her radio earpiece. "Do you need backup, Three? Say, do you need backup?" But somehow, she wasn't just going to respond, and her heart was pounding inside her as if she were some rookie on a first mission. She had a big fish in sight, one that she thought she could catch all alone.
A sudden consciousness washed up her head. What if she didn't come out alive? She was on the tail of the most wanted terrorist—the bane of every Lagosian—all alone. No reasonable agent would dare do this! What if …? She pictured a possible situation at once. She is slinking across the dim-lit rooms, her pistol caressing the air, batting it at times. Now she senses his presence. He must be behind the doorframe of this next room, waiting. Yes, waiting for her. Waiting to trap her. She decides against a step further and pauses, takes a step back, and reaches for her radio. Her call for backup is hindered by a figure storming out through a side door, rifle aiming at her chest.
Damn it! Brenda drew a sharp breath again, shutting off her bad thoughts. Whatever the ending of this was, she was still going to take it. So she slinked on, her fingers clasped tightly to the pistol, trickles of sweat meandering down her nape.
Her eyes alive, ears keen, she sidled into another room. Mustapha wasn't there.
A sound creaked. Then footsteps so audacious that they quaked her mind. She made to turn around. But Al Mustapha's voice was like glue to her feet.
“Drop it!”
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