Covert Kill: A David Rivers Thriller

“All right,” I said, “town is coming up. Let’s get into character.”

I stripped off my tactical vest and passed it back to the cargo area along with my assault rifle. Worthy took them and stashed both along with the rest in the van’s false bottom—no small task, given that much of the space was now taken up with the captured ISWAP weapons and disabled suicide vests. That left us attired in civilian clothes, just five gringos and a local driver. Everything we could use to defend ourselves was now concealed from all but the most dedicated search, and after three hours of travel under constant threat of a terrorist checkpoint, I now felt more vulnerable than I had at any point on the mission.

Gwoza was an uncanny sight—the loose sprawl of buildings nestled between forest and mountains had a population matching that of New Orleans, many of them outsiders who’d fled Boko Haram violence elsewhere in the region. Surrounded by danger on all sides, this relative outpost cast a shadow of having been the headquarters of a failed terrorist caliphate for seven long months before any response by the Nigerian military.

I could make them out on either side of the road ahead, armored personnel carriers clustered in a vehicle checkpoint with one blocking the road. Around the vehicles were fighting positions made of stacked sandbags and occupied by groups of soldiers. Pulling out my notepad, I briefly reviewed my notes for the verbal portion of this upcoming interaction and felt a bottomless uncertainty about how it would turn out. Duchess had done all she could to secure our safe passage into the town, but if any military leadership harbored connections with Boko Haram, we could easily be pulled out of the vehicle for detailed questioning or worse.

My eyes darted across the checkpoint as we approached, trying to gauge our odds. The Nigerian soldiers appeared well-organized, attired almost to a man in desert camouflage uniforms complete with flak vests and tan helmets. I told Tolu to go slow, watching for any order to stop and half-fearing they’d take us for suicide bombers despite the advance notice of our arrival.

Instead a great bear of a man strode to the front of the formation, pointing to a spot in the road with the authority of a laser-wielding state trooper pulling us over with a finger. He wore the same uniform as his comrades, though the lack of a flak jacket and helmet told me he was the man in charge. Whatever our fate in the coming proceedings, it would hinge on his decision.

Tolu slowed to a stop and I rolled down my window, casually draping an arm outside the van and waving a preliminary greeting. The enormous soldier approached my door, six-foot-five with a jagged scar running the length of his right cheek. He peered at me through dark sunglasses as I spoke.

“Good morning, sir. Tom Connelly, Garrett News.”

He didn’t respond immediately, instead continuing to stare at me, then at Tolu behind the wheel, then back at me.

Finally he replied in a deep, booming voice, his Nigerian accent so thick that I struggled to make out his words.

“Lieutenant Colonel Mamman of the Nigerian Army. I command the 192 Battalion, tasked with all defense of Gwoza.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” I said amicably, “and thank you for allowing us—”

He cut me off.

“I have allowed nothing. It was very dangerous for you to come here. Very unwise.”

At that moment I would’ve almost felt more comfortable if he’d been an enemy fighter—at least then we would’ve been within our wheelhouse, not relying on my ability to play the part of a professional reporter.

There was a larger issue at hand as well. If Ian’s suspicion of military complicity was even half-accurate, this man may very well be the same one who accepted payment to allow the three remaining hostages to enter Gwoza. And while Duchess had hastily modified our existing cover to allow for access to the town, I couldn’t rule out the possibility that anything I said now would be reported to Boko Haram in short order.

I explained, “We coordinated our travel through the embassy. They were supposed to notify you last week.”

He shook his head gravely. “I was notified only an hour ago.”

“I’m not sure who dropped the ball on that. But I can assure you—”

“Be quiet,” he ordered, and through the windshield I could see the checkpoint soldiers shifting their positions, spreading out in a security posture around their commander and examining the exterior of our vehicle.

Then he said, “Why have you come here.”

It wasn’t a question, and I took from his tone that any answer I provided would be deemed unacceptable.

I replied, “We’re doing a piece on the IDPs, the internally displaced persons. After area orientation for my men, we’ve got meetings at all three formal camps”—I consulted my notes—“Wukani, 20 Housing, and GSS, along with the informal camp, Dangote. Between UNICEF, the International Organization for Migration, and the camp residents, we plan on being here a few days at least. Maybe up to a week.”

He frowned. “You will be here, Mr. Connelly, as long as I say so. No one is allowed to travel more than one kilometer from town without military or vigilante escort. That means you”— he jabbed a finger at my face—“will not depart Gwoza until I arrange a military escort to take you as far as Maiduguri. Is this clear?”

“Absolutely,” I said with an easy smile, “and thank you for understanding.”

“It is you who must understand. The road you just traveled is one of the most dangerous in Nigeria. Many bad things have happened to Americans recently. You would not wish to join them, would you?”

At this point I couldn’t tell if the guy was in bed with Boko Haram or not—was he actually making a veiled reference to having us taken as hostages, or issuing an all-purpose warning? After all the crazy shit we’d seen thus far in Nigeria, neither would have surprised me.

I assumed a remorseful but uncompromising tone. “Of course not. We’re happy to remain in Gwoza until an escort can be arranged.”

“You have no say in the matter, Mr. Connelly, because every single one of my men know your vehicle description and have orders not to let you out until I approve.” He unbuttoned a chest pocket and plucked out a business card, thrusting it at me with the admonition, “You will call me to request an escort. I will not hand Boko Haram any more prisoners.”

Accepting the card, I said, “Thank you. I’ll touch base in a few days.”

But Lieutenant Colonel Mamman was already done with me, striding back to the checkpoint before I’d finished my last sentence.

Oh well, I thought, at least we hadn’t been strip-searched and our media van ripped apart.

“What a dick,” Reilly murmured from the back.

And with that, the armored personnel carrier blocking the road rumbled to one side as a soldier waved us between the sandbagged fighting positions.

Gently accelerating, Tolu maneuvered the van through the checkpoint and into Gwoza.



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