Chapter 31
MONDAY
The storage unit was stifling. The heat, the humidity, and the lack of properly circulating air were all conspiring to exhaust Kevin Koebler. He was dripping with sweat and his eyes stung—not a good situation for a bombmaker, particularly one under a particularly tight deadline.
In a job where precision and attention to detail were critical, a ticking clock was not something anyone would have voluntarily undertaken. Not unless the money was right. Which in his case, it was.
He reminded himself of that as he knocked back another large bottle of water and set it aside to urinate into later. Everything now was about discipline.
He had been inside the storage unit for hours.
The worst of the work, however, was behind him.
And as uncomfortable as his current circumstances were, he’d built bombs under worse conditions—in deserts with twice the heat and jungles just as hot, plagued by mosquitoes, venomous snakes, and fevers that swept through entire camps, leaving men delirious and too weak to even stand.
Rolling his shoulders, he stepped back from the bench. The sharp scent of burnt soldering flux and heated wire insulation pooled beneath the low ceiling.
He used his shirt to mop his brow and then assessed what he had built. It certainly wasn’t subtle.
The earlier bombs had been built for spectacle—fire, panic, shrapnel scything through crowds. This bomb was something else entirely.
It wasn’t designed to scatter bloody bodies across pavement. It was designed to move stone and steel. To hit hard enough to fracture reinforced concrete and tear through everything behind it. This was about brute force.
He walked the perimeter of his work, rechecking and finalizing each element. His clients had asked for an echo of the previous attacks—but flawed. Imperfect. A survivable signature that would suggest haste. A mistake that investigators could seize upon and would then chase.
He had given them exactly that—a narrow, deliberate trail pointing precisely where it needed to.
And while the earlier bombs had shaken Bangkok, this one would shake the balance of power.
Satisfied with the “brain” he had built for his bomb, he turned toward the far end of the unit. Beneath the grease-stained tarp loomed the real weight of the operation.
He crossed the concrete floor, gripped the edge of the canvas, and pulled it back. Underneath was a white Toyota Fortuner, its dark glass swallowing the glare from the work lights. The bulk of the device was already seated inside.
He moved to the rear hatch and lifted it. The fabricated cargo deck concealed the charge. Beneath it and forward under the seats, the weight was dispersed across the chassis. There was no visible distortion, no sag in the suspension.
Returning to the bench, he retrieved the control assembly and carried it carefully back to the vehicle. Inside the cargo space, beneath the fabricated deck, he attached the final connection.
He held it in place for a moment, confirming the lock. Then he lowered the deck into position and pressed it flush. A black duffel and a folded tarp went on top. Ordinary clutter—nothing that would raise suspicion. With the bomb complete, he closed the hatch.
Sweat ran into his eyes and he wiped it away again with his shirt. The Fortuner’s air-conditioning would be a relief.
But before he could leave, there was one final precaution. When it ignited, the unit would not survive. By the time authorities arrived, there’d be nothing left worth collecting.
He gave the space one final scan. Everything personal had remained in his backpack. Any DNA evidence like hair, skin, or the urine and saliva tied to the water bottles would be incinerated.
Picking up his pack, he was about to toss it in the Fortuner’s front passenger seat when a distinct alarm tone chimed on his phone. One of his wireless cameras had been tripped. He froze.
Pulling it out, he opened the app and brought up the feed. Two men had entered the storage compound. They didn’t look like cops. And they didn’t appear to be renters.
As they passed the facility’s CCTV cameras, they angled their bodies away. Faces turned. Chins tucked. Professional.
His next camera caught them turning down his row.
The lead man slowed just enough to study the numbers illuminated above the doors. They moved past one. Then another.
They were getting closer.
On his last camera, they stopped at his door. The lead man looked up at the number and gave a small nod. The men, who resembled the attackers at Teens, had found what they were looking for.
The lead man reached for the handle. The roll-up door didn’t move.
The lead man glanced down at the latch. There was no padlock. Stepping back, he drew his pistol. His partner removed a pry bar from his bag and went to work on the latch.
In that instant, Koebler knew this wasn’t random. These men were here for him. Without making a sound, he unzipped his pack.
The metal door shuddered as the bar bit into its seam.
Removing the claymore mine, he placed it facing the entrance, killed the lights, and retreated behind the Fortuner. As he did, the door shrieked louder and the latch began to give way.
The wrenching of metal culminated in a sharp crack as the door’s internal lock snapped off. A thin line of light appeared at the base.
Outside, the lead man used his free hand to roll the door upward. The slats rattled as it climbed and ambient light spilled into the unit.
When the door was all the way up and both men stepped forward, Koebler squeezed the claymore’s clacker.
The blast was deafening and sent a tsunami of seven hundred steel balls through the entryway of the storage unit at over thirty-nine hundred feet per second. The men standing outside never had a chance.
Koebler was already moving. He yanked open the driver’s door, tossed his pack on the passenger seat, and slid behind the wheel. The Fortuner roared to life. Throwing it into gear, he punched the accelerator and the vehicle surged forward.
He grabbed a cap from his bag and kept his head down as he steered toward the compound gate.
Though the SUV’s windows were tinted, he knew better than to rely on that feature alone.
Adjusting his seat back, he pulled the brim low, and let the A-pillar shield his face from the cameras mounted overhead.
The gate arm hesitated, and for a split second he considered ramming it. Then it began to rise. He passed through and rolled onto the street.
Fifty yards later, he removed the remote from his pocket and depressed its switch. Behind him, the storage unit erupted.
The explosion punched outward, swallowing the row in fire and debris. A rolling concussion wave chased him down the street. In his rearview mirror, he saw the flash and a rising column of flame.
Everything inside was now gone.
But twice now he had been where his clients had told him to be and twice he had come under attack.
He didn’t intend to let it happen a third time.