Covert Kill: A David Rivers Thriller

The downside for us, of course, was that Okafor International filled that shortfall with armed security men, and a lot of them.

Our timing on this mission was no accident—at this hour of the night, the facility was abandoned save for the guard force. And if they were all occupied combating what they thought was a major attack on the facility, the office building would be ripe for penetration. At that point, it would be a matter of keeping the security men occupied for as long as possible, a task I would thoroughly enjoy.

While this piece of cover was our final assault position, it wasn’t the limit of advance—at least, not for me.

That distinction belonged to the hulking Isuzu box truck parked ahead, just outside the southernmost buildings. Its cargo box was over twenty feet in length, and the fact that it was unattended meant it was surely empty. I had no intentions of searching inside it either way, only instigating a fight with every member of the security force on duty that night.

And to that end, the comforting weight of the small parcel in my drop pouch would be more than adequate.

I transmitted, “Me and Doc are at the final assault position. Racegun, how are you looking?”

Worthy replied, “Angel and I are set at our final concealment, ready to make entry on your mark.”

“Cancer?”

“Still set,” he answered. “No movement outside the buildings—better get to that truck while you still can.”

“Copy, I’m moving. Stand by.”

Rising from behind my cover, I took off at a run toward the enormous box truck, making a beeline for the cab. Slowing as I approached, I knelt beside the driver’s door, glancing next to the running board to locate the metal cylinder punctuated by a fuel cap.

Then I dipped a hand into my drop pouch to recover the demolition charge, a full block of C4 consisting of a flat brick that weighed in at 1.25 pounds.

It was prepped with an adhesive panel to ensure it didn’t slip off before the job was done. I peeled the plastic backing off the C4 charge, and made a move to pocket it before catching myself. In the eyes of Nigerian law I was already a trespasser and a soon-to-be arsonist—what did it matter if I littered as well?

As the scrap fluttered to the ground, I applied the adhesive side of the charge over the truck’s exposed section of fuel tank, giving it a firm push to ensure it stayed in place. Then I inserted a cylindrical blasting cap into the C4 and unrolled the attached wire, taking hold of the fuse igniter and idly wondering how much gas was in the truck.

A partially empty fuel tank would have far better effects than a full one—it was the vapor, not the liquid fuel itself, that would explode. But any dispersed gasoline would spread fire wherever it landed, a good thing for the massive diversion effort I was putting into play now.

Grasping the metal ring, I pushed the firing pin forward and gave it a quarter turn clockwise. Then I yanked it outward as I heard the snick of activation, watching closely for the plume of smoke that appeared a moment later. A tiny flame was now traveling through the black powder core of the time fuse, a plastic-wrapped cord that I straightened before setting the fuse igniter on the ground.

Then I turned and darted back to Reilly, keying my radio to transmit one word as I ran.

“Burning.”

It was important to clock the elapsed time, but I wasn’t about to do it—my only goal in life at present was to retreat to the final assault position and take cover before the blast. Demolition time fuse had a small but not insignificant margin of error, and while I’d cut it precisely to achieve a sixty-second burn time, the last thing I wanted was to tempt fate.

The toe of my boot caught the edge of a hard object—stone, trash, who knew—and I sprawled forward, smashing into the dirt to the sound of my two slung weapons clattering together. I grunted with the impact, considering the possibility of a broken leg before realizing the only damage was to my ego. Pushing myself upright, I charged the remaining distance to the cinderblock wall, rounding the left side and resuming my position next to Reilly, who transmitted for the benefit of the team.

“Forty seconds.”

Cancer came over the net, asking, “You all right there, Suicide?”

“You didn’t see shit,” I replied, considering that the sniper was sure to bring up my fall at every opportunity for the rest of my natural life.

True to form, Cancer’s next transmission was a humiliating reference to our previous mission in China.

“Relax, boss—at least you didn’t go off the side of a cliff this time.”

Bastard, I thought, leaving his comment unanswered.

Reilly continued his countdown. “Twenty seconds.”

Both he and I slid our Agency rifles to our backs, tightening the slings before bringing our respective AK-47s into a firing position.

“Ten seconds,” Reilly transmitted.

The spark of flame that had been working its way up the length of time fuse was about to reach its end, where the final segment was crimped by the blasting cap now embedded inside the block of C4. That narrow metal tube contained its own small charge of explosives, which would detonate to trigger the entire charge—and I could barely wait to see the outcome.

Reilly continued, “Five, four, three, two, one...mark.”

Maybe I’d made a mistake in measuring the time fuse, I thought.

Or maybe the entire charge had failed to detonate.

He began counting up. “One, two, three—”

The subsequent explosion was a seismic shockwave of noise and light; the view through my night vision became a blinding glare as the vehicle disappeared amidst the scorching flash. I felt the air being sucked from my lungs, followed immediately by a searing wave of heat blasting over me. A twisted shard of metal clanged to the ground to my right, followed by a rain of small debris that clattered across the compound. Echoes of the blast reverberated as I raised my night vision on its mount, peering through the flickering light to get a closer look at the truck or, more accurately, what was left of it.

A great pillar of flame receded to the sight of a greasy cloud of black smoke as the vehicle chassis became engulfed in a roaring fire. Whatever fuel had been in the tank was now spread in an oblong lake of fire burning fiercely on all sides, the heat so intense even at this distance that I wondered if the security people would come out to play at all—after the sound of that explosion, half of them were probably deaf.

I was so taken aback by the blast’s sheer violence that when two men appeared with rifles, it took me a moment to bring my AK-47 into a firing position. When I did, both of the security men responded in unison, wielding their rifles toward me—the downside of the ongoing fire, I realized, was that these people could see Reilly and me plain as day.

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