Covert Kill: A David Rivers Thriller

Reilly transmitted, “Cameras Two and Three are in position.”

Ian consulted the computer to his right, seeing the live feed from the first camera Reilly had set up. After a brief delay, two additional feeds came into view—the wireless connections to both were weak but stable, and Ian could make out the angled image of two new corridors between rows of shipping containers, one looking south and the other eastward.

He transmitted back, “Cameras Two and Three are good. You’re clear to proceed.”

“Beginning movement on Route White.”

David relayed the development to Duchess, and Ian saw their figures onscreen a moment later, jogging swiftly down the corridor under the watchful eye of one of the cameras they’d just emplaced. The other was in position purely to detect incoming traffic along an intersecting corridor, and despite the obvious challenges involved in pulling this off, Ian felt satisfied with his setup so far.

He’d acquired the wireless cameras in Abuja, using his travel time to Lagos to configure them in a single network. Together with staging portable routers alongside the cameras to leapfrog a signal on their way in, the entry team was slowly building the network of visual angles inside the Gradsek facility. Once it was time to exfil, Ian would be able to tell them when to move—and, perhaps more importantly, when not to.

The setup was far from perfect, of course. Ian had suggested to Duchess that the ISA team accompany them or at least provide some suitable equipment, only to be told that he was severely mistaken about what the men and women of the Activity did for a living. So he’d done the best he could, but retrofitting components from a commercial security system to assemble real-time surveillance during a clandestine penetration was like playing flag football with a brick: doable as a last resort, but with a much higher potential for disastrous consequences than the alternative. It was, however, sufficient for a temporary solution to the problem.

At least, Ian hoped.

He gave another scan to the perimeter CCTV cameras, ensuring no new personnel were inbound through the main gate before checking the wireless cameras for new activity. Other than a forklift sweeping past Camera One, everything was clear.

Next he turned his attention to the laminated imagery attached to the side of the van: a detailed overhead view of the objective and surrounding area, overlaid with angles of visibility from the CCTV cameras, accurate to within two degrees. Then there were the three legs of their infil, comprising rows between stacked shipping containers: Routes Red, White, and Blue. That much had all come courtesy of the CIA—oh, how Ian wished they received this level of direct support on a regular basis—and the team had added the numbered angles of coverage for their own wireless cameras.

He checked that reference graphic frequently, keeping himself oriented to the overall mission schematic. David was doing the same beside him, for largely the same reason—if there was suddenly some security response or unexpected movement of Gradsek personnel, they’d have precious little time to relay instructions for the entry team to avoid being seen.

Reilly had positioned an additional two cameras within the next few minutes, checking their effectiveness with Ian before continuing their infiltration along the final leg, Route Blue.

Ian’s gaze flicked between the camera feeds and the objective graphic with increasing frequency, his heart rate quickening with each passing second. Any moment now the entry team would arrive at their stopping point, and that would put them at the literal and figurative back door to the Gradsek office that the Permanent Secretary for Nigeria’s Federal Ministry of Petroleum Resources had personally called after the banker shakedown in Abuja. What intel that would yield, Ian couldn’t begin to speculate. But the chances of compromise had gone up with each leg of the infil, and once they reached the threshold of a Gradsek office known to be continually manned, those odds would be catastrophically high.

The moment arrived sooner than he expected, Cancer’s voice coming over the radio with an almost uncanny degree of control.

“Doc is prepping Cameras Four and Five, staging for lookout. Confirm security alarms disabled in Building 13.”

David answered, “Affirmative, I confirm Building 13 security has been disabled.”

“Copy,” Cancer whispered. “Me and Racegun are preparing to make entry.”





Worthy stood ready with his suppressed Glock 19 pistol, covering Cancer’s actions at the door behind him.

Aside from a rolling service door that would be far too noisy to penetrate, the office building had two entrances: one on the northeast corner and another at the center of the south wall. All else being equal, they’d planned on avoiding the center door—despite a lack of blueprints to work from, that entrance’s orientation spelled a greater likelihood of opening into a central hallway with multiple doorways.

But a partial sweep of the building exterior revealed lit windows along the north side, the view obscured by lowered blinds. That eliminated the corner door from consideration, forcing the trio to converge at the south wall for their surreptitious breach.

As Reilly stood by as a lookout with Worthy pulling local security, Cancer used two tools for the task: a tension wrench, and an electric pick gun designed for covert entries. That latter device functioned the same as most others on the market, save the small detail that it was extremely quiet. While Cancer unlocked the door handle and transitioned to the deadbolt, Worthy could hear little more than a faint whirring sound.

Everyone on the team had practiced the craft back in the States, though no one was as proficient as Cancer, who’d begun his lockpicking career with B&Es in high school. The crusty old bastard could generally pop a lock cylinder in half the time it took anyone else, and was the obvious choice for breaching the building’s outer door.

After that, the immediate danger would fall to Worthy.

In truth, a physical entry like this was an absolute last-ditch option, the highest risk and therefore least preferred method of gathering intelligence. It was reserved for extreme cases where all other options had been exhausted—which, regrettably for Worthy, had already occurred.

He heard the flat click of the deadbolt a moment later, turning in time to see Cancer slide the tools into his drop pouch and pull open the door for him to enter.

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