PROLOGUE

Jules Washington, reeking of whiskey, bursts into the oil terminal control room. A young woman trails him through the doorway; her laughter echoes in the tense silence of the room. As she steps into the dimly lit room, the laughter fades, her gaze captured by the pulsating lights from the computer consoles.

Jules Washington looks disheveled, evidence of a tumultuous evening. His formal black tie, once neatly tucked under the collar of a crisply ironed white shirt, is now absent. Beads of sweat are rolling down his glistening ebony face. Looking at the girl in anticipation, he runs the back of his shaky hand across his lips.

    The sweet sound of the young woman’s laughter rouses a slumbering man nestled in an oversized reclining swivel chair in the heart of the room. Startled, Kuno lifts the baseball hat off his nose, revealing a youthful face on the edge of manhood. Kuno is accustomed to his American supervisor’s fondness for entertaining the local prostitutes, inviting girls to the control room for a nightly rendezvous. As was his habit, Kuno first ignores the laughing woman but then takes a closer look at her.

 Compared to other female visitors Washington has brought back to the control room, this girl’s beauty is striking. Her flawless, light olive skin is set off by strands of blonde hair, giving her a very European look. She is wearing form-fitting black pants and a sparkling top that reveals her cleavage. Staring at her, Kuno is reminded of pictures of women depicted in high-end fashion magazines.

Spying Kuno, a sudden scowl crosses the girl's face, diminishing her beauty. Compared to Washington, she now appears sober and in control, her eyes sharp and alert.

Washington lets go of the girl’s hand and swaggers toward Kuno. “This is my man, Kuno, fresh out of the jungle,” he tells the girl. “I’m teaching him how to load oil onto these big ships,” he boasts with slurred words, pointing out the window at the outline of a massive ship tied up alongside the pier. “We’re loading these boats with Nigerian oil, which is being sent all over the world.”

“Ahh,” the girl nods, making the appropriate “I’m impressed” response.

 “I’m going to go lay down for a few minutes,” announces Washington to no one in particular. His words hang awkwardly in the air. Licking his lips, he gives Kuno a knowing wink. “Wake me when it’s time to switch to the forward hold.”

Washington staggers toward the back room, pulling the girl behind him. He closes the back-room door without so much as a glance at the monitoring gauges.

Kuno sighs and settles back in the captain’s chair, where he can get a panoramic view of the computer screens. An array of gauges and dials measure the flow of the Nigerian black gold pouring into the colossal holding tanks of the oil tanker Desert Rose. He tries to ignore the sounds from the break room.

 A fog bank is rolling in, cooling the otherwise hot African air. Mesmerized by the constant hum of the computer fans and the rhythmic blinking of panel lights, Kuno begins to nod off. Shivering in the air-conditioned control room, he pulls his sweatshirt around his neck and snuggles into the captain’s chair. The flickering green lights on the computer panels indicate the oil is flowing as it should be. With a final glance at the blinking gauges, he closes his eyes. The back room is silent. Through the fog, he hears the hypnotic clanging sound of the rocking navigation buoys in the harbor. . . .

 As Kuno slips into the world of dreams, his mind wanders back to his village, bringing up painful memories. The dreaded disease, AIDS, swept through his tribe, claiming the lives of his family. Ultimately, only he and his brother, Fanan, remained, . . . and Busi, the love of his life.

Two years younger than Kuno, but many years wiser in the ways of the world, Busi didn’t tell Kuno she was infected until after they had slept together. At that point, it no longer mattered to Kuno. He loved her. The new European medication held promise and, according to the mission doctors, could turn the tide in the disease. The only barrier to their survival was the costly price tag of the drugs.

After their mother is buried, Fanan suggests Kuno come to Lagos to live with him. Leaving the jungle he loved and moving to Lagos had been daunting, but Kuno knew it was his only option. Fanan offered Kuno a bed in his small hovel in a Lagos shantytown, and they agreed there would be no rent until Kuno could find employment.

On his second day in the city, Fanan came home from work with good news. “You’re in luck, little brother. The American oil company I work for, Americo, is hiring. I have spoken to the office about you. They know you are smart because you speak and write English and French. You have a good chance of being hired.”

The following day Kuno applied for a job at the Lagos Oil Terminal. He was given a written test and, to his surprise and delight, offered a position working the night shift in the oil terminal control room, the strategic hub coordinating the loading of the giant oil tankers.

Although Fanan worked in a different area of the terminal complex, they both worked the night shift and shared their walks to and from work. The two brothers had begun to forge a newfound bond, chatting about their day-to-day experiences and memories of family and Kuno’s new love,  Busi.

Kuno loves his job working for the oil company. Despite being on the job for over six months, each night, as he approached the terminal, he was filled with awe and wonder at the scale of the operation. The massive tankers appearing out of the darkness, the constant hum of machinery, and the immense responsibility of the control room are in stark contrast to his previous life.

 Kuno wakes with a start. The sweet memories of Busi and the jungle disappear, replaced by the naked American looming over him like a wild beast. Washington’s bloodshot eyes are bulging with rage. Instinctively, Kuno raises his hands to defend himself, but Washington kicks the chair, sending it crashing to the deck. Kuno gasps as the back of his head slams against the floor’s hard surface, sending a jolt of pain through his body.

 “Fall asleep on watch, will you!” Washington is screaming, seething with anger and clutching his fists in fury. The veins on his sweaty neck stand out, glistening in the dim lights. He points to the flashing red light warning that the aft holding tank is overflowing. “You’re causing an oil spill, you idiot!”

 “Please, I’m sorry,” Kuno manages to say, his voice trembling. He lifts his hands to protect himself from the enraged man.

“Sorry, doesn’t cut it. You forgot to switch the loading tanks. The oil is overflowing.” The American is beyond reason. In a drunken rage, he kicks Kuno in the face, leaving a bloody jagged wound above Kuno’s right eye.

 Rubbing blood from his eye, Kuno is rolling away. He stumbles to his feet but slips, falling backward. He tries to push Washington away, but the drunken American is too strong.

Through the haze of pain and confusion, Kuno sees the silhouette of the girl standing in the back-room doorway. She is wearing only underwear, her top discarded. In her right hand, she is gripping a gun, her face expressionless.

Grabbing Kuno by the throat, Washington lifts him off the ground. “You little bastard, do you know what you’ve done?” he bellows, his rage showering Kuno’s face with putrid spittle. “I’m going to kill you for this.”

Kuno struggles to free himself, but his efforts only make Washington squeeze his throat tighter. Helpless in the rigid grip and unable to breathe, Kuno squirms like a fish caught on a hook. On the verge of blacking out, he sees the girl point the gun and fire. The flash lights up the room, but the sound is muffled, only making a dull thud when the bullet tears through flesh. Washington jerks in a spasm, releasing his grip on Kuno’s throat as fragments of Washington’s skull and brain matter splatter on Kuno’s face.

Kuno collapses to the floor, free of Washington’s suffocating grip. Washington crashes on top of him. Hot blood runs out of the American’s skull, cascading over Kuno’s face and chest, mixing with his own. Kuno stifles a gag, swallowing the bile surging in his throat. With quick, shallow gulps, he pushes the large man off him and struggles to get up, slipping on the pool of blood.

 “Get out of here.” The girl’s voice is cracking like a whip, bringing Kuno back to his senses. Her gun now points at Kuno. He nods, feeling a mixture of fear and gratitude toward the girl. Then, stumbling toward the door, he stops, eyes fixed on the flashing red emergency button on the panel.

 “Get out of here if you want to live,” she repeats. “Don’t ever come back.”

 Nodding toward the flashing red button on the control panel, Kuno coughs. His voice is hoarse, and he can only whisper. “I need to stop the pumping.”

 “Touch that, and you die,” says the girl, her ice-cold eyes bore into him. She gestures toward the door with the gun. “Go!”

Kuno coughs and rubs his throat. “What about him?” he says, nodding toward the dead American.

 She glances down at Washington’s body while pointing the gun at Kuno. “I’ll take care of that pig. Go now!”

 Kuno glances at the clock and the flashing lights on the control panel. He fights to speak without coughing, “The next shift won’t be here for over seven hours. I need to turn the valve off.” He takes a step toward the control panel.

 “You are an idiot, aren’t you? Touch those switches, and I will kill you. This is your last warning.” From her snarling, wild-eyed look, Kuno knew he would not have a next.

 Kuno’s eyes are on the dead body lying on the floor. He shakes his head in disbelief. Despite his faults, he had a grudging respect for Washington. He doesn’t deserve to die like this. He turns toward the blinking red lights, a bewildered expression on his face. The blinking means something, a warning. He’s confused. Everything is a blur. He hears movement behind him and turns toward the half-naked girl, but his eyes only focus on the gun in her hand. Now he remembers--the red lights are a warning. He needs to stop the pumping.

 “I need to shut off the valves. The oil will spill into the ocean.”

She looks at him, then shrugs. “Suit yourself.” Pointing the gun at Kuno’s head, she pulls the trigger. A lifetime of living in the jungle combines with a rush of adrenaline as he springs to his right, but not quickly enough.

 The bullet finds him, grazing his head just above his left ear. With a yelp, he whirls, throwing his body on top of her. Both fall to the ground, wrestling to get the gun. Kuno smashes his fist into her mouth while trying to twist the weapon from her grip. She is surprisingly strong and wiry, kicking at him and pounding his face and head with her free hand. She struggles to get to her knees, still clutching the gun.

 She snarls like a wounded animal. “You bastard, I will kill you.”

 Dazed from his wound, Kuno rolls away while twisting the gun in her hands. With a surge of fear, he yanks on the weapon. Her finger is still on the trigger. The gun explodes and falls to the deck.

 Kuno opens his eyes. Crimson blood spurts out of the black hole in the middle of her cheek, streaming down her once-beautiful face. Silently, she falls onto the blood-soaked deck, mixing her blood with the dead American. Her lifeless eyes are open, still staring at Kuno.

Kuno staggers to his feet, squeezing his eyes shut, hands clutching his head. His brain isn’t working. What to do? He begins to shake and tries to stand but slips on the bloody deck.

What have I done? His voice screams in his head. A wave of panic followed by nausea sweeps over him. Incapacitated by fear, he gasps, leans over the two bodies, and vomits.

Kuno grabs the chair for support, attempting to stand again. He staggers to his feet, eyes fixated on the door. He knows that, if arrested, the authorities will blame him for the death of the two foreigners. He will be executed, or worse, spend the rest of his life in a Nigerian prison.

In a panic, he stares at the gun, picks it off the deck, and shoves it into his pants pocket. With a final glance at Washington’s body, he rushes out the door into the night, all thoughts of the flashing shut-off valve forgotten.

Two men stand in the darker shadows on the loading pier, watching the oil flow over the side of the massive oil tanker, Desert Rose. Both crouch lower when they see a flash come from the control room. They back farther into the shadows when Kuno bursts out the door and dashes down the stairs. He looks up and down the pier and begins running toward the city, his feet pounding in the night.

“Track him down and kill him,” the smaller man whispers in French to the larger, nodding toward the fleeing Kuno. “I’m going to see how she is doing. Meet me at the hotel.”

At the rate of thirty thousand barrels per hour, the backbone of the Nigerian economy runs into the dark waters of Lagos Harbor. The fog becomes thicker, helping to deaden the sound. All is quiet. The course of human events is changed.