Covert Kill: A David Rivers Thriller



I was flat on my belly, able to ignore—somewhat, after the Sambisa thorns—the shrubbery looming overhead as I awaited Cancer’s confirmation that the Bentley was passing his lookout position two blocks away. Reilly and Ian lay in wait beside me, the three of us utilizing Keyamo’s abundant landscaping to conceal ourselves along the walkway stretching from the driveway to his front door. Just getting onto his property had been an achievement unto itself.

It wasn’t that the neighborhood was particularly secure, although judging from the lack of anyone but my team negotiating the tall brick fence and crossing the patch of woods leading to our target’s house, I could only assume that the neighborhood’s security force and frequent police patrols had made a practice of cracking skulls known well enough that local incursions were sufficiently discouraged.

That wasn’t to say that we were completely safe, per se. After infiltrating the residential area, we’d still had to scale another fence just to attain our current position on Keyamo’s property. Still, I thought, this should be easy. Keyamo wasn’t known to be armed, and the element of surprise—which we currently held in spades, thank you very much—went a long way in ensuring a successful outcome.

Cancer transmitted, “I’ve got eyes-on the Bentley, approaching my lookout position now.”

His next message took a full ten seconds to arrive. Judging by the wait, he must have had a considerably long line of sight down the residential street.

“He’s passing my location at this time, thirty seconds out from arrival.”

“Copy,” I replied, releasing my transmit switch to roll a balaclava down over my face. There was a slight rustle in the bushes beside me as Reilly and Ian did the same. With Keyamo arriving in the next 30 seconds, this was our final opportunity to conceal our identities—with any luck, he’d assume the night’s events to be the work of local bandits. Still, our current situation was a distant consolation prize from any semblance of a preferred scenario. Ideally we’d surveil the site for two or three days before striking, examining Keyamo’s dismount procedures and ensuring there’d be no surprises before we committed our small force.

But Duchess had been adamant: the clock was ticking, and both the US and Nigerian governments would play ball at the first prospect of a clean hostage exchange. The Nigerians would shoulder the blame for negotiating with terrorists, to be sure: they’d done as much before as a modus operandi. And if Duchess was even half correct in her assumptions, tonight could easily be our one and only shot to advance the ball before being recalled stateside for reassignment.

I caught sight of a bright glow in the cul-de-sac at the far edge of the yard, rising in intensity until glaring headlights turned into the short driveway. As the Bentley approached its stopping point before the looming residence that rose three brick stories to a peaked series of rooftops, I transmitted my last call.

“Bentley is stopping now. Stand by.”

After the tremendous idling of the twelve-cylinder engine fell silent at last, I forced myself into a steady, consistent breathing cycle until I heard a vehicle door slam and the loud chirp of the car locking as a man’s rhythmic footfalls approached.

But the sound of Keyamo’s march was broken by a new transmission: Cancer, his tone as urgent as it was frustrated.

“Cop car inbound, no sirens—decide fast.”

And that was all the notice I had to make a split-second choice forced upon me at the worst possible time. The lack of sirens meant the police were probably conducting a routine neighborhood patrol, and while that shouldn’t have been concerning, the fact that Keyamo lived on a cul-de-sac was. Those cops would make a counterclockwise turn in that circle of pavement, casting their headlights directly upon the house. Even if we managed to tackle Keyamo and try to hide him in the bushes, there was no guarantee we wouldn’t be spotted; to the contrary, it was hard to imagine them failing to notice three masked men holding down a neighborhood resident, particularly when their eyes would naturally be drawn to one of the most expensive cars in Nigeria parked a few meters away.

With no time to roll the mission until the next day, I considered that we’d positioned Cancer for two reasons, and acting as a stationary lookout was just one of them. The other was diversion, and while I desperately hoped he wouldn’t be needed in that capacity, now we had no choice. The clicking footfalls of Keyamo’s leather-soled dress shoes were growing closer by the second, and I spoke my return transmission as quietly as I could—the last thing we needed now was for Keyamo to hear someone speak in an American accent.

“Hit them.”





Cancer heard David’s order with a mixture of relief and anger—relief that he’d be able to do something more than sit in the trees and crush bird-sized mosquitoes while most of his team got in on the real action, and anger that once he did, he’d have to run. If there were two things he hated, it was snakes and running.

To be fair, it hadn’t taken David long to make his decision. The Nigeria Police car was cruising slowly, still five or six seconds from crossing in front of his position. That gave Cancer ample time to execute his next move, which in terms of tactical sophistication was firmly on the caveman end of the spectrum.

He burst out of the trees, face covered in a balaclava, left hand raised as if flagging down the officers. With his right hand he drew the Glock 19 at his side and, stopping just shy of the road—after all, if they made the wise choice to try and run him over, he needed the ability to retreat into the wooded patch behind him—leveled the pistol and opened fire.

The sound of unsuppressed gunshots shattering the residential calm was startling even to Cancer, and certainly to the occupants of the patrol car. He wasn’t trying to kill them, of course, instead doing his best to present the appearance of a deranged lunatic picking a fight for no apparent reason. The first two rounds sparked between the headlights; a third punched through the hood and caused the engine to hiss and emit a low whirring sound.

And by his fourth shot, he saw that he succeeded—the patrol car screeched to a halt, both doors flinging open. Whether he’d disabled the vehicle or the cops were simply making the absurd strategic blunder of coming to a full stop while being shot at, Cancer didn’t know and didn’t have time to find out. The first muzzle flashes of return fire sparked so quickly from behind the vehicle’s open doors that Cancer’s first thought was that the officers might have been cruising with their guns in hand, which, given that this was Nigeria, might have been the case.

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