Running straight at Nur, I throw the guard’s body in his face. He stumbles backward, tripping over a footstool and landing hard on the luxurious Moroccan carpet spread across his stone floor.

I kick the gun out of his hand, then step aside so Bomber can shoot him. Bomber is right behind me, with a silencer screwed on to his SIG Sauer. He shoots Nur twice in the chest and once in the head.

Nur wasn’t wearing a vest. Just a loose white linen top, on which the bloodstains bloom like flowers. I can hear his last breath of air whistle out through a hole in his lung.

I’m always surprised how very human these warlords are. Nur is about six feet tall, soft-shouldered, with a belly. He’s bald on top, the patches of hair around his ears streaked with gray. The whites of his eyes are yellowed, and so are his teeth. I can smell his oniony sweat.

There’s nothing special or majestic about this man. He’s murdered thousands of people and terrorized many more. But right now he’s dying in a dull way, without any last words. Without even putting up much of a fight.

Bomber and I wait until he’s fully dead. I check for a pulse with my fingers, even though I can already see from his glassy eyes that he’s gone.

Then Bomber and I latch on to the window ledge and rappel down the side of the building.

We’re planning to go out through the drainage chute, where the kitchen staff dumps the dirty water and other refuse.

It wasn’t my first choice of exit, but Bomber and I have had all our shots, so hopefully we won’t catch anything too nasty.

As we creep through the dark yard, the guards are beginning to swap shifts. In about ten minutes, they’ll find Nur’s body. They’re sure to check in on their boss.

Bomber and I are passing through a narrow stone hallway to the kitchen when he hisses, “Long Shot, take a look.”

I scowl back at him, annoyed that he’s slowed down. There’s no time to look at whatever caught his attention.

Still, I backtrack to the locked door. Peering through the tiny window, I see five small girls huddled on a bare floor. They’re still wearing their school uniforms of plaid jumpers and white cotton socks and blouses. Their clothing is remarkably clean—they can’t have been here long.

“Shit,” I murmur.

“What do we do?” Bomber says.

“We better get them out.”

Bomber is about to shoot the lock, but I stop him. I can feel something weighing down the pocket of the pants I stole from the guard upstairs. Fishing around, I find a set of keys.

I try each one in the lock, succeeding with the third. The door screeches open. The girls look up, terrified.

“Stay quiet, please!” I tell them in English.

I don’t speak Hausa, Yoruba, Igbo, or any of the other Nigerian languages. I only memorized a few words of Kanuri for this job. So I’m just praying these girls learned English at school.