Choke Point (The Soulbound #4)

Prologue

BANGKOK, THAILAND

FRIDAY

Kevin Koebler was an exceptional bombmaker. He never built the same bomb twice. His signature was that he had no signature—at least not one that could be traced back to him—which was what his client was paying for.

The bombs for tonight were works of art—big, loud, and packed with devastating shrapnel. The body count, if everything went according to plan, would be off the charts. The only thing outstripping it would be the political fallout.

His targets, or more appropriately the neighborhoods where the bombs were to be placed, had been selected for him in advance.

How he got them there and where, specifically, they would be detonated was up to him.

His client had only one demand—that the explosions cause maximum damage.

And as luck would have it, “maximum damage” was Kevin Koebler’s forte.

From the beginning of his career as an elite United States Navy explosive ordnance disposal (EOD) technician, Koebler had been different.

He was more aggressive, more fearless, and more dominant than his colleagues or any of his superiors.

If he wasn’t poring over technical manuals, he could be found either in the gym or on the firing range.

Standing six feet tall, with a muscular two-hundred-pound frame, blond hair, a Van Dyke?style beard, and sleeves of tattoos, he looked more like a Navy SEAL than a Navy EOD tech.

His intensity was also more in keeping with the Navy’s elite tactical operators and it didn’t take long for the SEALs to recognize his potential. Putting a skilled EOD tech through Navy SEAL training was something the brass had been toying with for a while.

With the assorted bombs and explosives SEAL teams were encountering around the world in response to kinetic action against Islamic terrorists, it made sense to add personnel who were experienced and adept with anything that went boom, but only if those personnel could complete the highly selective BUD/S and SEAL Qualification Training.

Koebler did—with distinction, setting several new records in the process.

He and the other EOD techs who made it through the process were distributed among the East and West Coast SEAL teams, with Koebler being assigned to SEAL Team Two in Little Creek, Virginia.

As a member of the EOD-to-SEAL pilot program, he did very well, racking up numerous awards and commendations for his performance.

And then, on an op like so many they had conducted before—the takedown of a midlevel terrorism target in Anbar Province—the unthinkable happened.

His unit was ambushed, and three of his teammates were killed.

Whether it was his sense of justice, his loyalty to his fallen comrades, or pure bloodlust, Koebler planned, equipped, and carried out his own campaign of revenge.

When it was over, six buildings had been destroyed, multiple alleged noncombatants were dead, as well as the terrorist believed to have been the mastermind of the ambush, who was found flex-cuffed with his hands behind his back and his head blown off.

Initial reports suggested that the man had either had a grenade placed in his mouth or an explosive detonating cord wrapped around his neck.

Everyone in the unit knew Koebler had been behind it.

Those who didn’t like him—those who resented his bullying, his corner-cutting, rule-breaking, and over-aggressiveness—turned on him.

Others, who were either afraid of him or supported what he did, remained quiet.

The ensuing investigation was like a ruptured appendix, which spread toxicity throughout the unit, the platoon, and SEAL Team Two overall.

In the end, there was neither enough physical evidence nor eyewitness testimony to tie Koebler to the most serious of the crimes he was alleged to have committed.

There were, however, a series of lesser offenses, and the Navy stacked them one on top of the other to use against him in court.

He was stripped of his SEAL Trident, drummed out of the service, and dumped back into society with a poisonous grudge against his country and only the skills he’d learned in the military.

It didn’t take him long to figure out where he was wanted and how to make a decent living for himself.

He began in a small Mexican beach town, where a cartel operative spotted him in a shitty dive bar drinking dollar beers chased by fifty-cent shots.

Even at a distance, it was obvious that Koebler was a man with a past and absolutely no future.

The operative watched him for the rest of the afternoon, studying him closely, before making his move.

Like a top-tier intelligence officer, which he had been in a previous life, the man struck up a conversation with Koebler, slowly building rapport with the disagreeable and largely standoffish ex-SEAL.

By the end of the week, he had created enough trust to begin reeling the American in.

Twenty-four hours after that, he had made Koebler an offer that would change the course of his life.

His days of cartel work now seemed like a lifetime ago. He had tired of the incessant, brute-force violence. Whether he was crafting bombs or honing the skills of the cartel’s top hitters—many of them Mexican ex?Special Forces soldiers—there was no art to it, no pride taken.

Matías, the former intelligence operative who had found him in that surfside bar, had sensed the discontent in him as well.

Something had shifted. Koebler was growing bored.

He craved excitement. And as good as the cartel was paying him, he was looking to get out.

That was when Matías had made him a new proposition, one even more promising than the first. He would take Koebler’s skill set global.

The ex?intel officer would act as his handler, sourcing and vetting assignments, handling the payments, passports, travel, and all logistics.

Koebler would function as a one-man SEAL team.

All he had to do was successfully complete the jobs, which he did—over and over again, until eventually arriving in Bangkok.

He had long since grown numb to the death and misery he caused. Losing the SEAL Trident, his identity had collapsed. Violence, coupled with Matías, who validated his worldview, had restored his sense of self and purpose.

Anything that harmed the United States or one of its allies, like Thailand, was justified in his twisted mind.

To not take advantage of such an opportunity was a form of moral weakness, or, more simply put, cowardice.

It would be an admission that America had been right in going after him and that he had been wrong.

There was no way he would ever admit that.

And he would never have to. His mind didn’t work like that. He was devoid of emotions like guilt or shame. He was also blessed with a luxury few killers were able to enjoy.

As a bombmaker, he didn’t have to look into his victims’ faces. He wasn’t made to witness the lives of the men, women, and children he tore apart. He could feast upon whatever macabre justifications he fed himself.

What wasn’t up for debate, however, was that this would be the biggest bombing of Koebler’s career.

Bangkok’s most touristed neighborhoods—Banglamphu and the backpacker-clogged Khaosan Road; Rattanakosin, with the Grand Palace and the Temple of the Reclining Buddha; Thonglor, with its trendy nightclubs and restaurants; and Bangkok’s very own bustling Chinatown, were all on the target list.

For his part, Koebler had chosen a perch high above the city where he could sit, enjoy a cocktail, and watch the mayhem unfold. Sixty-four stories in the air, the luxurious Sky Bar atop the lebua Bangkok hotel was the perfect spot, and he was sparing no expense.

Dressed in a black Brunello Cucinelli suit with a matching black shirt and black Tom Ford boots, he ordered a bottle of Perrier-Jouet Champagne and a two-hundred-gram tin of beluga caviar.

Sweeping his eyes across the terrace, there was no end to the sea of attractive women—several of whom could be purchased for the evening or even just an hour. Koebler, however, was here for a different kind of fireworks.

Once his Champagne had been poured and the caviar service set up on his table, he took a moment to breathe everything in.

This was the first time he would get to enjoy one of his own bombings in such luxury.

Though it felt somewhat odd, he couldn’t help but feel that he had “made” it—that he was at the very pinnacle of his game.

And while no one would ever know his name, they would forever remember this night. It would be his legacy—an everlasting scar he would leave upon the world.

As he prepared another spoonful of caviar, he looked out across the sparkling city. Even at this height, he could hear the thrum of traffic below and feel the pulse and throb of all the unsuspecting people as they went about their evening. Lives were about to change. History was about to change.

Placing the caviar in his mouth, he chased it with a long swig of Champagne and removed a phone from his inside pocket. It was time to begin.

The app he wanted was buried beneath several layers of advanced 256-bit encryption.

With each digital portal he passed through, there were electronic tiger traps and devious self-destruct features that would be triggered if anyone attempted to hack his system or force him to open his device against his will.

When he finally arrived at the program he wanted, he was greeted by a bright yellow laughing emoji.

Pausing, he raised his glass and silently toasted himself. Then he pushed the button.

Seconds later, five and a half klicks north of the lebua Bangkok, the first bomb exploded along the Khaosan Road.