Chapter 37
As Koebler left the storage facility, the blast behind him had rolled through the neighborhood like thunder, shattering windows and setting off car alarms. Every dog for blocks had been barking.
He had only looked back once—just long enough to see the roiling column of fire spiraling up into the night sky. After that, there’d been nothing left worth watching. The storage unit and anything that could implicate him had been destroyed.
The rest of the city was still asleep, the roads quiet. Even so, he hadn’t driven any farther than was necessary.
Soon enough, he had come to a service road that ran along the rear of a long-haul bus depot. Rows of idle coaches sat nose to tail beneath dim lighting, their dark windows reflecting the faint glow of Bangkok’s skyline.
He eased the Fortuner toward the far end of the lot where several buses were parked close together. Like circled wagons, their bulk created a pocket of shadow that enveloped his SUV and made it nearly impossible to be seen from the street.
There, he killed the engine and listened.
No voices. No footsteps. No approaching vehicles.
For the first time since leaving the storage facility, he had been able to feel himself exhale.
After taking a moment to allow some of the knotted tension to leave his neck and shoulders, he stepped out of the Fortuner and opened the rear hatch.
The night air had continued to be thick with humidity.
His shirt clung to his back, soaked from the hours he had spent working inside the storage unit.
From his pack, he removed a package of wipes and methodically cleaned his hands, forearms, and face, removing the last traces of solder debris and bombmaking residue.
Next, he stripped off his clothes and replaced them with the uniform his client had provided. First, the tactical fatigues. Then the plate carrier. He left the helmet and balaclava inside the Fortuner for the time being, turning his attention to the vehicle itself.
Donning a pair of latex gloves and armed with nothing more than a utility knife, he got to work.
Sliding the blade under the edge of the vehicle’s vinyl wrap, he lifted the material and pulled. Having been pre-scored, the outer skin pulled away in long strips, revealing Thai lettering along the doors, followed by the insignia of the Internal Security Operations Command. ISOC.
Panel by panel, the SUV’s civilian disguise vanished. Within minutes, it became something entirely different.
From the cargo area, he removed a light bar and mounted it to the roof, the magnets snapping it into place with a sharp, metallic click. Seconds later, he connected it to a thin cable that fed beneath the weather stripping and disappeared into the cabin.
Next, he attached the laminated placard behind the windshield, positioned so anyone approaching the vehicle would immediately see the ISOC unit identification.
By the time he finished, the Fortuner looked exactly like what it was supposed to be—a Thai internal security vehicle. A vehicle that, in Bangkok, was rarely ever stopped, much less questioned. Once more, his client had indeed thought of everything.
Koebler removed the gloves and tossed them into the cargo area before climbing back into the driver’s seat. For a moment, he just sat there, examining the vehicle through the windshield.
Under the dim depot lights, the Fortuner looked indistinguishable from any of the ever-present security vehicles pulsing through Bangkok’s streets in the aftermath of Friday’s bombings. Everything about it was correct.
Satisfied, he reached back into his pack, pulled out his burner phone, and activated the encrypted communications app he used with his handler.
Matías answered on the second ring. “Go ahead.”
“The storage unit was compromised.”
There was a brief pause. “Police?”
“No. Two men. Same type that hit the meeting at Teens. They came straight to the door. It wasn’t an accident. They knew exactly what they were looking for,” Koebler said.
“Did they make entry?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“They’re dead.”
“Are you damaged?” Matías asked.
“Negative.”
Silence settled briefly over the line. “What about the unit?”
“Destroyed,” Koebler replied. “Along with everything left inside.”
“And the device?”
“Fully assembled. In my possession.”
Another pause.
“That’s twice now,” Koebler continued. “Two locations. Both com-promised.”
“Operations sometimes encounter friction,” Matías replied.
“Both locations were provided by the client.”
More silence.
“I don’t want the third time to be the charm,” Koebler said.
Matías drew deep breath and let it out slowly. “Your window remains unchanged.”
“And after the mission?”
“After,” Matías replied, “we will no longer be working with this client.”
“Understood,” said Koebler, pausing. “What about my pistol?”
“Still in Thai custody. Neither Special Branch nor ISOC have been able to make a positive ID on the fingerprints.”
“Good.”
“Do not miss the window,” Matías instructed.
Then the line went dead.
Koebler powered down the phone and returned it to his pack. Around him, the depot remained still. The buses sat motionless, their engines cold, their drivers hours away from returning.
Pulling the balaclava over his head in case anyone happened upon him, he set the alarm on his watch and tilted his seat back. He cracked the window slightly, then reached up and nudged the rearview mirror so it framed the narrow lane between the buses.
Nothing moved.
Satisfied, he placed his pistol under his thigh and closed his eyes. He knew how important sleep was, especially in his line of work. He couldn’t afford to be one millimeter off his game. Professionals slept whenever the opportunity presented itself.
When he opened his eyes again, the sky over Bangkok had begun to lighten.
For a moment he remained still, letting his bearings settle. The faint gray light filtering between the buses told him it was just after dawn. He checked his watch: 6:17 a.m. Right on schedule.
The depot was no longer as quiet as it had been during the night.
Somewhere near the front gate, the low rumble of a diesel engine could be heard coming to life, followed by the sharp hiss of air brakes releasing.
Soon after, another engine turned over as a driver’s voice carried across the lot, calling to someone Koebler couldn’t see.
Sitting up, he rolled his shoulders beneath his plate carrier, holstered his pistol, and reached for the helmet resting on the passenger seat. He put it on, adjusted the chin strap, and started the engine.
Easing the Fortuner between the parked buses, he rolled out toward the service road.
Within minutes, he had merged with morning traffic and was heading toward the city center.
He flicked on the light bar, and its blue strobes, along with the vehicle’s ISOC markings, did exactly what they were intended to do. Instantly, the cars in front of him cleared a path.
His next test, however, would be the real one. Up ahead, the first checkpoint was coming into view.