Page 167 of The Fourth Option
The phone on Lloyd’s desk rang. Annoyed, he gestured for Stanton to stay and picked up the receiver.
“I thought I said no calls… I see… Put him through… Hey… You’ve got to be kidding me… Keep me posted.”
He hung up the phone and sank into his chair.
“That was the superintendent. The divers found the car. Detective Gormley’s dead. Drowned. Locked in the back of his Charger.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“There’s something else.”
“Oh?”
“Another bomb went off.”
“Where?”
“Horse country.”
“What?”
“A car belonging to Walt Kimbel of Genyra Pharmaceuticals. Seems someone made off with the body.”
“I’ll get out there right away.”
“Jarrett, you and J.J. watch your backs. We’ve lost enough of the good guys. Walker’s a trained killer. If there’s any doubt, put him down.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
THE MISSISSIPPI RIVERwas quiet, calm after the earlier storm.
Walker crouched beneath the camo netting draped over the Eagle, the tailgate lowered to form a makeshift workbench. Spread across it were supplies from Home Depot and Cabela’s. Under the muted glow of his headlamp, the workspace looked improvised but surgical.
Tonight’s charges would be heavier, made with more ammonium nitrate and additional powdered aluminum, mixed into three green Scepter MFC jerry cans.
He had used garage door openers at Dorado and to trigger the Kimbel ambush. But this was different. These charges were bigger and he would need to be farther away when they blew.
He remembered the lessons from his sensitive site exploitation courses at Harvey Point. Tonight, he would put them to use. This mission was aimed at destroying the enemy’s infrastructure; multiple charges, placed with precision and synchronized to detonate in sequence.
Walker checked the wiring one last time. Each jerry can was fitted with a mechanical kitchen timer wired to a nine-volt battery and an Estes-model rocket igniter. When the timer expired, the circuit would complete, igniting a match head embedded in steel wool, a homemade fuse that would light the improvised detonator and provide the molecular shock to set off the main charge. Crude, but reliable.
He packed the timers into waterproof Rubbermaid sandwich containers, sealed them with duct tape, and tucked them into the jerry cans. Then he placed all three into a dark green cooler, strapping it shut with paracord.
The Agency playbook was etched into his mind. First, find a source. The source would give up a name. The name would lead to surveillance of a broader network. Watch. Learn. Understand their tactics and note their resources. Take off the leaders’ heads, then strangle the supply linesin one coordinated strike. After that, turn on the lights and stomp cockroaches.
He slipped into his wet suit and smeared black camo paint over his exposed skin and hair. His belt held his fixed-blade knife and Staccato pistol.
He secured the jerry cans with paracord and clipped the cooler to the last can. Then he switched off the headlamp and scanned the quiet battlefield of Chalmette. Crickets chirped. A quarter moon hung low, partially veiled by clouds. Light winds. He would have preferred worse weather for a night amphibious interdiction op, but he was on the clock.
The waterproof bags were now flotation devices. He tested the water scooter and then ferried his arsenal to the water’s edge.
He muscled into his fins and pushed his gear into the river. The current caught him immediately, the river pulling at him like a living thing.
He used his fins and the angle of the water scooter to navigate. It took a while to adjust course considering the bulk of his equipment, but he would be coming back lighter. Walker kicked steadily so the scooter would not have to do all the work, his fins pulsing through the dark water. The jerry cans and cooler drifted with him, deadly flotsam drifting on the Mississippi. Tonight would put a serious dent in his enemy’s operation.
As he got closer to his target, Kimbel’s dying words echoed in his head:You have no idea what you’re up against.
Neither do they.
