The next day after the money was claimed by Joisette, the story broke in the papers that Joisette Brown, daughter of jazz great and recording superstar Billy Ben Brown, had turned up in San Diego. The notary had talked to the newspapers.
Shortchops drove away from the club slowly. The cops would come hunting him. The other guys in the band had seen him go out with Joisette, and the cops must figure he shot up with her. No way did he kill her. He had never provided her with that shit, and he never would. He loved her in a strange, weird way. The 3.5 million dollars wasn’t bad either. He’d need a good lawyer who would wait for his money. Shortchops knew that before he saw a lawyer, he needed to dry out and clean up and get straight again. When the cops found him, there was gonna be hell to pay. Until then he would vanish for a while. He had more than five hundred dollars in his shoe. Hell, he could get a high-roller suite at one of the Vegas hotels and last for at least a week. Oh, yeah. He’d drive over. He’d done it before. Just as he put his foot to the throttle to dodge down to the freeway, a blinking red light zeroed in on his rear bumper and the police siren gave one small wail. Shortchops swore at the rearview mirror as he pulled over to the curb and stopped his two-year-old Cadillac. Damn. If he’d been white, the cop never would have stopped him. Here it was almost three A.M. and a black dude was driving a good-looking car. A must stop. Shortchops rolled down the window and waited for The Man to come up to him.
2
Twenty men in jungle cammies and floppy hats slid into positions near the Sierra City Central Police Station. All were armed with AK-47 rifles or H & K submachine guns. Their leader, Mojombo Washington, motioned one man ahead. A sentry walked his post outside the four-story building. He moved twenty feet beyond the main door, turned, and came back twenty feet this side of the door. As he turned on the near end of his post, a cammy-clad figure rose out of the shadows, rushed forward, and drove a fighting knife into the sentry’s back. The guard didn’t have time to scream before he died. The attacker caught him as he fell and pulled the AK-47 from his shoulder. Two more men dragged the dead policeman into deep shadows where the floodlight over the main door did not penetrate.
Six of Mojombo’s fighters raced to the police headquarters’ door from each side. Two men pulled the twin panels open and the twelve men charged inside. Mojombo led the troops, swinging his submachine gun to the left side he fired a three-round burst, dumping a police sergeant off his chair behind a desk, and then laced three rounds up the chest of a second cop who had been talking to his sergeant. The man on Mojombo’s right dispatched a policeman who had lifted a pistol. The firing inside the building billowed into a roaring sound like a dozen thunderclaps all at once. With only half their usual hearing, the men communicated with hand signals. Mojombo had briefed them before the raid and each of the men knew his job.
Mojombo sent four men up steps to the second floor. He and six attackers drove into the hallway that led to the police headquarters supply rooms. They shot locks off doors, found the armory, and soon staggered from the room loaded with new AK-47’s, boxes of ammunition, and pistols. They rushed them to the back door of the building, where a stolen truck waited. The men on the second floor fired down the hallway, keeping anyone in the rooms bottled up. Two blasts of a whistle sent those men dashing back down the stairs.
By that time some opposition had arrived. Four policemen tried to rush in the front door, but were met with a withering fire of submachine-gun rounds. The two still alive stumbled back outside and hid.
Mojombo and three of his men rushed into the central radio room and found two men on duty with earphones on. He guessed they were listening to music. Both died of multiple gunshot wounds before they knew anyone was there. Mojombo and his men searched the area until they found what they wanted: a box with six handheld radios in it, fresh from the factory. They had batteries with them and were ready to use. The attackers took the prize with them.
Down the hall in the records section, they dumped out files and tipped over desks and poured a gallon of gasoline on the pile, then threw a match into the mix and jumped out of the way of the whoosh of fire that the gas fumes ignited. They watched it burn for a moment, then rushed out. Four attackers stood guard in the hall. They were done except for one more stop. At the back of the building they found the storeroom for the kitchen. The police headquarters had a cafeteria for employees.
Mojombo and his men looted the storage area of dozens of boxes of canned food and baked bread, and from the freezer took two quarters of frozen beef. All went onto the truck that waited at the back door.
Mojombo blew the whistle again, and the nineteen men in his force charged through the first-floor hall and out the back door. They climbed on the open truck and Mojombo jumped in the cab. The driver gunned the rig down the narrow street and away.
Mojombo looked over at his driver and trusted lieutenant. “Gabu. Any casualties?”
“Two wounded, not seriously. We go to the old Army fort now?”
Mojombo smiled. Gabu had been his friend for many years, and was always eager for action, ready to strike back for the people. “Yes, Gabu. We know that half of the force there is on vacation for the holiday. Many of those left on the post will be drunk by now. We will go in the south gate, take out the guard, and charge to the supply depot on the far side. We may get there without any opposition.” He grinned. “After all, this is an Army truck.”
Mojombo Washington relaxed for a moment. This day had been a long time coming. He had gone away to school in America, and come back home to use his knowledge and skills in helping to govern his nation. But he’d found only corruption and graft and murder at almost all levels of government. He had tried to right small wrongs, and had been thrown in jail for a year. When he got out he had started his campaign to free his nation. He left his parents’ modern home in Sierra City and took to the jungle, where government troops and police couldn’t find him. Slowly he began to gain followers, men and women who thought the way he did and were willing to fight and die to make their country free from the thieves and murders who held it captive. He had made progress, but his people still had a long way to go. He called their movement the Bijimi Loyalist Party.
They drove down a street in the business section of Sierra City. Mojombo marveled at how the place had grown in the two years he’d been away. There were new buildings, owned and operated by President Kolda, no doubt financed with money he’d stolen from the federal treasury. Mojombo had heard there were more than 200,000 people living in his hometown now.
“Roadblock,” Gabu said.
“They have put up a few lately to try to control the street traffic,” Mojombo said. “I didn’t think they would be manned this late at night. Slide up to it and stop. If the guard gives you any trouble, we’ll have to shoot him and move on. Looks like he’s Army.”
The Sierra Bijimi soldier on duty at the roadblock saw the military truck coming, and quickly lifted the swing-down bar and gave a snappy salute. Then they were through.
Another five miles and they were at the edge of the city and coming up to the sprawling Sierra Bijimi Army base, Fort Sierra. It wasn’t a real fort, just a collection of buildings, training grounds, a parade ground, and about three thousand troops. They slowed as they came to the south gate. The guard there, in a clean and pressed uniform, noted the number of the Army unit painted plainly on the bumper and waved them through.