Then I swim for the edge of the pool, stroking with all my might, praying that I won’t feel his hand closing around my ankle as he drags me back down again.

I grab the rim of the pool and shove myself out. Not stopping to grab my phone, not even sparing a glance behind me, I sprint across the slippery tiles to the exit.

There’s two ways down from the roof — the elevator or the stairs. I take the latter, not wanting to risk a black-clad hand shoving itself between the elevator doors right as they’re about to close. Instead, I run down two flights of stairs and then I dash back out into the carpeted hallway, hammering on apartment doors until somebody opens up.

I shove my way into the stranger’s apartment, slamming his door behind me and locking it.

“Hey, what the hell!?” he shouts.

He’s a man of about sixty, overweight and bespectacled, still wearing office clothes, but with a fluffy pair of slippers on his feet instead of shoes.

He goggles at my swimsuit and the water I’m dripping on his carpet, too confused to form words.

When I look over at living room couch, I see a woman of about the same age midway through eating a bowl of ice cream, with her spoon paused at the entrance of her mouth. On the television screen, a blonde girl sobs over her chances of getting a rose, or being sent home that night.

“What—what’s happening?” the man stammers, not angry now that he’s realized something is wrong. “Should I call the police?”

“No,” I say, automatically.

The Griffins don’t call the police when we have a problem. In fact, we’ll do anything we can to avoid contact with the cops.

I’m waiting, heart pounding, too scared to even look out the peephole in case the diver has followed me, and he’s waiting outside the door. Waiting for my eye to cross the lens so he can fire a bullet right through it.

“I’m going to call my brother,” I say.

Raylan Boone

I lay very still in the false bottom of the cart. I can feel it bumping and jolting over the dirt road, then pausing outside the gates of the Boko Haram compound.

The insurgents have been holed up in here for a week, after taking control of this patch of land close to Lake Chad. We’ve got intel that Yusuf Nur drove into the compound last night. He’ll only be staying here for twelve hours, before heading out again.

I hear Kambar arguing with the guards over the wagon full of rice he’s brought. He’s dickering with them over price, demanding that they pay the full 66,000 Naira they offered, and not a kobo less.

I’d like to strangle him for making such a fuss about it, but I know it would probably look more suspicious if he didn’t haggle. Still, as the argument drags on and on, and he threatens to turn around and take his sacks of Basmati back home, I have to stop myself from giving the boards overhead a thump, to remind him that getting inside is more important than getting his money.

Finally, the guards agree to a price just a little lower than Kambar wants, and I feel the wagon lurch as we drive inside the compound.

I hate being cooped up in here. It’s hotter than hell, and I feel vulnerable, even though Bomber and I are both armed to the teeth. Somebody could douse this cart in gasoline and set it ablaze before we could shoot our way out. If Kambar betrayed us.

We’ve been working with him on and off for two years. So I’d like to think I can trust the guy. But I also know he’ll do a lot of things for the right price. He’s done a lot of things for me, when I scrounged up a good bribe.

Luckily we pass into the compound without incident. Kambar drives the cart over to what I assume is the kitchen area, then starts unloading his rice.

“I hope that smell’s the cow and not you,” Bomber hisses at me.

We’ve been crammed in here together, like two lovers in one coffin, for almost three hours now.

It’s definitely a lot more intimacy with Bomber than I ever hoped to experience.

He’s not a bad guy — a little bit stupid, a little bit sexist, and pretty fuckin’ awful at telling jokes. But he’s a hard worker, and I can count on him to follow the plan.

We’ve been hired to kill Nur, the leader of this particular cell of Boko Haram. He’s been running rampant over Northeastern Nigeria, trying to block democratic elections and install his own theocratic state. With him at the head, of course.

He’s taken hundreds of hostages, then murdered them when towns refused to open their gates to him, or pay the outrageous ransoms he demands.

Well, that ends tonight. Boko Haram is a hydra with a hundred heads, but I’m gonna hack off at least one of them.

I wish I had my normal crew with me. This job is dicey. I’d rather have Ghost by my side, or even Psycho. But the Black Knights are currently occupied in the Ukraine. Bomber was the best option I had on short notice.

“I have to pee so bad,” he mutters.

“I told you not to drink so much water.”

“It’s fuckin’ hot, though...”

“Shh,” I hiss at him.

I can hear the at least one other person helping Kambar unload the cart. The last thing I need is for the insurgents to overhear Bomber whining.

I hear Kambar chatting with somebody a dozen yards away. Then a pause. Then the three swift knocks on the side of the cart that tell us the coast is clear.

I reach beneath me, flipping up the latch that holds our little compartment in place. The doors swing open, dumping Bomber and me out in the dirt underneath the cart. I see the bullock’s hooves up by my head, and two rickety wheels on either side of me. Bomber and I roll between the wheels, hiding ourselves behind a pyramid of oil drums.

Kambar doesn’t even glance back at us. He climbs up in his cart again and flicks the reigns, whistling for the bullock to get going.

Bomber and I hide behind the oil drums for another two hours. Bomber digs a channel in the dust and releases his aching bladder, which I wish he wouldn’t do two inches from my elbow, but there aren’t any other options. I hear the cooks rattling around in the kitchen, making the dinner meal for the fifty or so soldiers inside the compound.

I smell the mouthwatering scents of sizzling lamb, and bubbling tomato sauce.

“We could sneak in and grab a bite...” Bomber whispers.

“Don’t even think about it.”

At last it’s dark, and I’m pretty sure everyone is done eating. I see the glow of lanternlight up in the window at the southwest corner of the compound. The room Nur is using.

“Let’s go,” I mutter to Bomber.

I don’t want to wait until the night watch comes on. I want to act now, while everyone is full and drowsy, while the soldiers who watched the compound all day long in the hot sun are counting down the minutes until they can go have a cigarette and a drink, play cards, or go to bed early.

We’ve been watching the compound for days. I have a fairly good idea where the guards are posted, and what their patrol pattern looks like.

Bomber and I creep up the back staircase.

The compound reminds me of a medieval castle — all big, rounded stones, and windows cut into the walls without any glass. Instead of panes, colored cloth is hung to block dust from blowing inside.

There’s no air conditioning in places like this. They rely on brick or stone, and airflow, to keep the interiors relatively cool.