Covert Kill: A David Rivers Thriller

“One sec,” David replied, finishing his notes and receiving a nod from Ian before he continued, “All right, send it.”

“I can make out four tents. Three are A-frames, canvas material, five feet in height and seven feet in length, probably capable of sleeping three to four men. Tent one: distance 55 meters, azimuth 67 degrees, long axis oriented northeast to southwest. Tent two: distance 47 meters, azimuth 82 degrees, oriented east to west. Tent three: I can only see a partial, distance 52 meters, azimuth 200 degrees, oriented north to south.”

“Got it. What about the fourth?”

“It’s a dome tent, canvas, seven feet in height, eleven-foot diameter, probably sleeps ten people. Azimuth 62 degrees, distance 70 meters, and I can’t make out the opening from my position.”

“Copy all. What else you got?”

“Thorn bushes end one meter to my front, and the terrain descends approximately 15 degrees into a bowl-shaped clearing three meters after that. Far treeline is 85 meters to my front, looks passable for an assault force. I can’t make out the entire camp, but from my optic it looks like the clearing runs roughly northwest to southeast.”

“Got it, wait one.” David raised an eyebrow at Ian.

The intelligence operative winced, then said, “Four guys isn’t enough, and American hostages would be accompanied by some level of Boko Haram leadership. If this were legit, the security posture would be much higher. I’d also like to see some food and water provisions if nothing else; they can’t barter for ransom if their hostages have starved to death, so the camp would be fortified with more than a handful of blue-collar guys with one crew-served weapon.”

“Bottom line?” David asked.

Ian shrugged. “Based on his report, this sounds like a dime-a-dozen terrorist placeholder in the Sambisa. Boko Haram spreads their guys out, so for all we know this is a team-or squad-sized outpost no different from a few hundred others in this area.”

David looked pained, but his voice was cocky and casual as he transmitted back, “First eyes-on the target is a case of beer to you.”

Cancer replied, “Suck it, Doc and Racegun.”

Then David asked, “How’s your position? You safe, or do you need to pull out and relocate?”

The question elicited an equally confident response from the grizzled sniper.

“I’m up their asses right now, crawled through eighty meters of thorns to get here. They’re not going to make my position, and if anyone steps on me they’re already gonna be bleeding out from the thorn bushes. Advise I remain here for the duration—I could make three more approaches and not match this view.”

“Understood, just sit tight.” David hesitated, then asked, “One more thing: any sign of hostages?”

Cancer responded without hesitation.

“None whatsoever.”





Worthy slipped between two trees, peering over the bushes to his front before dropping to a knee, then the prone, and low-crawling forward on his second attempt at a cloverleaf maneuver.

Through the leaves he could make out the clearing Cancer described: oblong and dotted with tents, with four men standing at the center, puffing on cigarettes and continuing what appeared to be an animated conversation.

Pulling himself forward to achieve a better line of sight through the underbrush, Worthy appraised his surroundings to find he was in a densely packed cluster of bushes, impenetrable to foot movement without crawling or breaking brush, with sufficient screening of vegetation between him and the objective.

He transmitted in a whisper, “MSS, this is Racegun—surveillance site established.”

“Send your location,” David replied.

Worthy consulted his GPS and recited the ten-digit grid, hearing a low rustle of brush as Reilly appeared behind him, alternately dragging both rucks forward.

David said, “Copy all, send SALUTE when ready.”

Worthy barely heard him—Reilly had just grabbed his ankle and given it a shake, and a moment later the point man could make out a distant buzzing in the forest to the north.

“Stand by,” he transmitted, “I can hear a vehicle approaching.”

David didn’t answer, and didn’t need to—at that moment, everyone was holding their breath, Worthy most of all.

The fact that the hostages hadn’t been sighted yet didn’t mean the reconnaissance mission had been a wash. After all, the missing Americans had been captured on the far side of the country, in Lagos, and there was no telling how long their transport would take. The sound of a vehicle engine in the Sambisa Forest was the first indication that the hostages might be here, and Worthy only needed to wait and see if that was coming to fruition.

A motorcycle rolled into view at the north end of the camp, piloted by a single rider with a compact assault rifle slung across his back. Worthy recognized the weapon as an FB Mini-Beryl, a Polish weapon used by the Nigerian military that stood in stark contrast to the Soviet-block firearms that Cancer had already identified among the occupants.

The guards’ reactions were telling. They quickly readied their weapons, the unarmed man lifting his PK machinegun off the ground as the group formed a sort of muster line before the motorcycle pulled to a stop.

The rider dismounted, addressing a guard who stepped forward with an AK-47— must have been the camp’s top leader—and Worthy watched their brief exchange in an attempt to discern which man was being deferential to the other.

He received his answer when the motorcycle driver raised his voice, shouting something indiscernible before belting the camp leader across the face.

Then he mounted his bike, firing the engine and wheeling back the way he’d come, leaving a cloud of dust drifting across the camp as its occupants scrambled into action.

Reilly whispered, “What the hell did we just witness?”

Worthy shook his head slightly. “I have no idea.”





14





Duchess leaned forward at her desk, listening closely as her intelligence officer spoke.

Lucios was as monotone as ever—for all the man’s strengths as an intelligence officer, he was quite possibly the least compelling public speaker she’d ever encountered.

He continued, “Tech division pulled a video down from an Islamic extremist site. They’re trying to block it everywhere, but it’s already popping up across the internet and the major networks are spinning up for a breaking news report. We’ve got half an hour before it goes live worldwide.”

“Put it on the main screen,” she directed.

The central flat-screen flashed to a close-up of Usman Mokhammed, who was dressed in military fatigues and a tactical vest. He was unmasked, lips moving in what was surely a prepared statement as Lucios narrated the muted proceedings.

“There’s the usual anti-Western rhetoric, with some commentary on foreign oil companies bringing poverty to Nigeria while the politicians profit. He’s demanding the release of two senior Boko Haram leaders currently in Nigerian custody, his own predecessor included.”

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