Covert Kill: A David Rivers Thriller

The interior boasted high ceilings and tall windows overlooking a crystalline blue pool that was lined with palm trees and outdoor seating areas. Inside tables were well-spaced between potted ferns and leather couches, exuding a nightclub setting, and the white-aproned wait staff delivered trays overflowing with food.

As soon as they entered, Tolu made a move to leave. “Where are you going?” David asked. “Have lunch with us.”

The driver slapped David on the shoulder and said, “You men have things to discuss, brother. Besides this, drivers eat together at the bar. This is custom.”

Then Tolu departed, making his way to the bar as a hostess led the team to an open table overlooking the pool.

They took their seats, and Worthy found himself sitting across from an enormous framed painting of what appeared to be a rounded hill of dirt. He squinted at it, then asked, “Why’s there artwork of a termite mound?”

Ian glanced over his shoulder to see what Worthy was looking at, then raised his eyebrows and replied, “That’s Zuma Rock, just west of the city. Nigeria’s most iconic landmark. It’s a thousand feet high and takes five hours to climb—not exactly a ‘termite mound.’”

Reilly was oblivious to the proceedings, his eyes fixed on the menu as he asked Cancer, “What’s good here?”

David replied, “If the Niger River was any indication, I’d stay away from the seafood.”

Before Cancer could respond, a waiter appeared and, without taking his eyes off the notepad in his hand, asked gruffly, “What do you want to drink?”

Worthy was somewhat alarmed by this rude introduction, and to his surprise, Cancer of all people took the comment in stride, smiling at the waiter and replying, “We’re Americans.”

The waiter’s expression brightened. “Of course. For a party of your size, may I recommend our off-menu chef’s special: a platter of Nigerian specialties including Garri, Gala sausage rolls, Suya, Isi Ewu, and fufu with plantain and crushed cassava. More meat and vegetables than six people could eat, along with a selection of four traditional soups and Jollof rice.”

“Sold.” Reilly slapped his menu shut. “Let’s do that. And a round of beers, please. Your best local brew.”

The waiter collected their menus and left, and Worthy waited until he was out of earshot before asking, “Why was that guy a dick until he found out we were American?”

Ian explained, “He assumed we were British, and Nigerians aren’t big on colonialism. They even switched to driving on the right side of the road after gaining their independence.”

“Good for them,” Reilly remarked. “Limey bastards.”

The beer arrived in record time, delivered by a female server balancing the uncapped green bottles on a tray. She set one before each man, and with a word of thanks, Worthy lifted his to find that it was ice cold, the blue label bearing a gold star and a lager designation.

After the server left, he hoisted his bottle over the center of the table and said, “Gents.”

The team clanked their beers against his, then took the first sip in unison.

David was brooding, looking sullen as he took a second long pull from his bottle.

Worthy asked,“What’s eating you, boss?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” David said. “Maybe the fact that we’re getting sent home after losing Usman.”

Cancer offered a rare comment of consolation, waving his hand dismissively. “Don’t beat yourself up too bad. We’re five guys; the entire Nigerian government wasn’t able to catch Usman when Duchess handed them his convoy on a silver platter.”

“Yeah,” Reilly muttered. “And now a lot of Nigerians are probably going to die because of that.”

Worthy frowned, the aftertaste of beer turning bitter in his mouth. “I’m not disagreeing with you, but Usman was never the real issue—whoever conducted the July 4th attack was. The money trail led to Nigeria, so Duchess picked the only target here she could in the hopes that we’d find some intel along the way.”

Ian raised his eyebrows at the point man and set down his beer. “What makes you think Usman isn’t tied to the big picture?”

“How could he be?”

“I’m not sure,” Ian allowed, “but if you think Duchess is telling us everything she knows, you’re out of your mind. I wouldn’t be surprised if her target selection wasn’t as random as she’d have us believe.”

For once, the presence of alcohol didn’t improve David’s mood in the slightest. He replied, “But her decisions are only as good as the intel she’s getting, and we have no idea what 99 percent of that consists of. Where’s she getting it from, and how accurate is it?”

Ian gave a sigh of resignation. “Hell if I know.”

“What about you?” Worthy asked Cancer. “You seem to be way too comfortable about cutting slingload on Usman.”

The sniper considered the comment, then answered, “I’m not any happier about it than the rest of you.”

Reilly noted, “You don’t seem to be bothered, either.”

Cancer rolled his eyes. “Let’s not pretend this is any different than the military. Doesn’t matter who we’re working for; we’re soldiers. That means we go where they tell us to go, and do what they tell us to do. You guys are overthinking this.”

Ian took on an accusatory tone as he said, “You’re underthinking it. Everything we’ve done so far has taken us one step closer to a larger terrorist conspiracy—the real people behind the July 4th attack. Nigeria was the only lead we had left, and make no mistake, now that the mission’s aborted we’ve lost it for good.”

“Not for good,” Worthy corrected him. “Erik Weisz will rear his ugly head again. But when he does, it might be another attack on US soil. I’d say that’s pretty good reason for us to be concerned about pulling out of here tomorrow.”

“Heads up,” David said quietly, cutting his eyes to the door.

Both the team leader’s tone and subtlety matched what most men reserved for the sudden appearance of an attractive woman, or several attractive women; but that had never been at the forefront of David’s agenda, and Worthy glanced over to find his explanation.

A group of white men were entering the restaurant—they wore suits, though that was the only commonality linking two otherwise distinct subgroups in their party.

Two of them were slight of build, moving within the perimeter of four bulky men who Worthy could identify at a glance as bodyguards—earpieces, suit jackets unbuttoned and clearly worn over sidearms, scanning the crowd as they moved. He momentarily wondered if his team had somehow had the ill fate to end up sitting beside some VIPs from the US Embassy.

But he quickly dismissed the notion as a waitress approached the empty table before they were even seated, delivering a pair of shot glasses and filling them from a bottle of vodka that she took with her as she left.

Worthy looked back to the men, seeing the bodyguards moving in a four-man wedge formation: one man in the lead, and two spread out in the rear. The two principals were within that triangle, flanked by the remaining bodyguard—the shift leader, Worthy knew, who was the most senior and in charge of the security detail.

Reilly observed, “Not half bad.”

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