Covert Kill: A David Rivers Thriller

Ripping open the driver’s door, Ian ducked inside a supple, diamond-quilted seat to the smell of conditioned leather inside his mask. He checked the glove compartment first, emptying the contents—which appeared to be an envelope of registration and insurance information, along with a leather-ensconced owner manual—into his open sack on the ground outside the car.

Then he checked the center console, snatching the loose cash, ChapStick, and breath mints he found while leaving the spare change behind before searching for secret compartments. He started by feeling for concealed switches on the steering column before moving to the cupholders, which he pressed for false bottoms before turning his attention to the stereo and navigation displays. These were probed with gloved fingertips before he determined Keyamo hadn’t installed a hidden switch, and then Ian pulled back the sheepskin floormats, scanning for irregularities in the bodywork below.

Then he moved to the backseats, repeating the process and finding nothing beyond English-language copies of The Economist stuffed in the seat pouches. The magazines went into his bag as well—he’d search them later for coded shorthand or slips of paper handed off in a brush pass—before he popped the trunk and searched that as well.

He’d studied the digital manual for the Bentley Flying Spur that afternoon, and knew where to direct his efforts as he pulled aside the floor mat to check the spare tire compartment. Upon finding it empty save the expected equipment, he determined his search was complete.

There were many other possible hiding places, of course; drug smugglers would code vehicles with endless combinations of dash and brake inputs to open secret compartments within the interior, or hide items within the taillights or against the underbody. That was to say nothing of replacing airbags with kilos, or intrepid human smugglers who would replace upholstery with bodies. A full inspection would require the use of partial disassembly along with sonar equipment and borescopes—but given the time available, Ian was satisfied with his search.

Besides, he thought, a more invasive search could reveal a level of sophistication beyond the average Nigerian stickup crew, and that could result in attention they didn’t need.

He turned his gaze to David and Reilly, who were now dragging Keyamo’s gagged and bound form into the bushes. Approaching his team leader at a jog, he grabbed David’s shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Get his belt.”

David did so in record time, delivering a kick to Keyamo’s ribs before flipping him sideways. Then he stripped the belt from his waist and handed it to Ian, who stuffed it in the sack, then zipped it shut and threw it over his shoulder as police sirens wailed at the entrance to the neighborhood.





I followed Reilly at a sprint as he led the way across the front lawn. He was first to clamber over the fence at the edge of Keyamo’s property, and after landing on the far side, he turned to receive the sack of intel that Ian hurled over before starting to climb.

I was atop the fence as Reilly caught the package, then leapt down to the edge of the cul-de-sac. Ian made landfall a few seconds after me, and the three of us darted into the edge of the wooded area ringing the neighborhood’s southern boundary.

Stripping off my mask, I transmitted in a whisper.

“Cancer, we’re in the woods—what’s your status?”

It took the sniper a moment to reply, and while he was panting, his tone now held enough composure to assure me he’d transitioned to night vision and was in the process of stealthily bypassing whatever pursuers he’d gained.

“Think I lost them, but there’s plenty more on the way. I’m probably ten minutes out from alternate exfil.”

Keyamo’s wife would locate him any minute now—while the gunshots had been distant, easily missed by someone cooking inside the massive house, the police sirens now flooding into the neighborhood would surely draw her attention. As soon as she looked out a front window, she’d notice her husband’s Bentley in the driveway, and the first step outside would reveal his muffled cries from the bushes. Not exactly a story for the grandkids, but fuck him—he was facilitating payments to a major regional terrorist group, letting others bear the brunt of their kidnappings and suicide bombings while he padded his personal accounts in Abuja. Had Duchess given us the legal authority to kill him, he’d have considerably more to complain about.

A more pressing consideration at present was the imminent police response. I could hear their sirens tearing through the neighborhood’s central street, which was precisely why we’d chosen to cross the woods to an adjoining road instead.

Reilly was on point with Ian picking up the rear, and we used our night vision sparingly to make our way through the darkening woods. Aside from our radios and concealed handguns—plus, of course, the spoils we’d just stolen from Keyamo—the movement was swift without rucksacks.

I checked my GPS and transmitted, “Racegun, we’re a hundred meters out.”

Worthy’s response was immediate.

“Ready when you are, boss.”

We covered the remaining distance in record time, reaching a tall brick perimeter fence as I transmitted, “Need pickup in thirty seconds.”

“Roger,” Worthy answered.

We used a two-man technique to negotiate the wall, with me bracing my back against the brick fence as Reilly clambered over me to reach the top with the intel sack in hand. Ian repeated the process, and the two extended their arms from the top as I jumped, walking up the brick wall as they hoisted me from above.

Now with all three of us awkwardly straddling the fence, all that remained was to examine the far side—no pedestrian foot traffic on the sidewalk, just a few cars passing on the road. Reilly tossed the sack down and we lowered ourselves to the far side, making landfall as a van turned on its four-way flashers and slowed beside us.

Reilly pulled open the cargo doors, and the three of us piled inside as Tolu killed the flashers and accelerated forward. “Cancer, we made linkup,” I transmitted. “Where are you?”

“One minute out from alternate exfil.”

“Got it, we’ll meet you there.”

Worthy turned from the passenger seat and asked, “How’d that go, boys?”

“We had an easier time than Cancer,” Ian answered, beginning to unpack his large bag. He was in the process of stuffing the digital devices into a Faraday case to block any tracking signals as Tolu turned down a side street and began a circuitous route back the way we’d come. A cop car sped toward us, its light bar glaring red and blue as it roared past before I allowed myself a sigh of relief.

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