Target Response by William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone
Authors: William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone
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except for sick, pain-dulled eyes and a continual moaning that escaped from his slack-jawed mouth.
He’d had information Kilroy needed and the latter hadn’t been too particular about how he got it. Thurlow had spilled his guts once Kilroy had gone to work on him. It hadn’t taken much. The bullet in his knee had ruined the rogue CIA agent. There wasn’t much of him left.
Soon there would be a whole lot less.
Kilroy had squeezed him for facts, leaving behind only the rind and the pulp. Now he had to hold Thurlow up as he propped him against the gunwale.
Thurlow swayed, pain-dulled eyes heavy lidded, almost closed.
“This is where we say good-bye,” Kilroy said, slapping Thurlow on the back.
Thurlow forced his eyes open; they went in and out of focus. “What…whaddya mean?”
“Last stop. I wasn’t fooling when I said I was going to feed you to the crocs,” Kilroy said.
Thurlow screamed, “No!”
Kilroy shoved him over the side into the water.
Thurlow hit with a splash. The rope halter pulled him up short, keeping his head and shoulders above water.
Kilroy played out the line, causing Thurlow to drift toward shore. Thurlow found new reserves of energy as he thrashed about screaming. And that was just from being in the water. His arms and legs were free, so he could splash around pretty good, making quite a stir. Blood from many cuts and scratches oozed into the turbid waters.
Thurlow swam back to the boat. He clawed at its sides, trying to pull himself up out of the water, a feat he lacked the strength to accomplish. He was babbling now, pleading, choking on river water that poured into his screaming mouth.
Kilroy used a long gaffer’s pole to push Thurlow away from the boat.
Thurlow’s thrashing agitation in the water acted like a dinner bell to the crocodiles.
Singly at first, then in pairs, then groups, they waddled down the black mud of the beach into the river. Once in the water they moved fast, converging on Thurlow.
Massive jaws gaped, closing on his arms and legs. The beasts struck and rolled, tearing him limb from limb.
Thurlow’s fancy cell phone had a built-in digital camera. Kilroy used it to make a record of the carnage.
Red clouds swirled in muddy brown water that churned and boiled from the feeding frenzy.
Even as an armless, legless trunk, Thurlow still kept on screaming. Right until a crocodile’s steaming, voracious maw clamped shut on his head.
Kilroy raised his knife to cut the line tied to what was left of Ward Thurlow but he didn’t have to. A croc’s dagger teeth had already parted the rope.
While late-coming crocodiles fought over the scraps, Kilroy raised anchor. He took the wheel, piloting the boat out of the estuary and into the open sea.
On to Lagos!
SIX
The Palace of Government in Lagos, Nigeria, was a massive pile of stucco-covered masonry painted pink with white trim. It had arched windows, a massive domed roof centered with a pointy tip, and corner turrets. Its Arabian Nights roofline was spoiled by an array of spiky antennas and satellite dishes.
The fantastic structure was fronted by a spacious courtyard. The extensive palace grounds featured elaborate gardens with rows of palm trees, hedges and shrubs, marble statuary, and a network of paved walkways.
The site was bordered by a ten-foot-high black iron spear fence and guarded by patrols of soldiers armed with small machine guns.
A boulevard lay beyond the towering, stone-pillared main gate and at right angles to it. The thoroughfare was four lanes wide. A median lined with lofty palms divided the roadway into two, two-lane strips, each strip bearing traffic in an opposite direction.
The time was late afternoon. The boulevard was clogged with traffic: trucks, taxis, beat-up old cars, motor scooters, motorbikes, pedicabs, bicycles—a teeming profusion of variety of wheeled transportation.
The air was heavy with a pall of exhaust fumes. The traffic, chaotic and noisy, was further enlivened by
He’d had information Kilroy needed and the latter hadn’t been too particular about how he got it. Thurlow had spilled his guts once Kilroy had gone to work on him. It hadn’t taken much. The bullet in his knee had ruined the rogue CIA agent. There wasn’t much of him left.
Soon there would be a whole lot less.
Kilroy had squeezed him for facts, leaving behind only the rind and the pulp. Now he had to hold Thurlow up as he propped him against the gunwale.
Thurlow swayed, pain-dulled eyes heavy lidded, almost closed.
“This is where we say good-bye,” Kilroy said, slapping Thurlow on the back.
Thurlow forced his eyes open; they went in and out of focus. “What…whaddya mean?”
“Last stop. I wasn’t fooling when I said I was going to feed you to the crocs,” Kilroy said.
Thurlow screamed, “No!”
Kilroy shoved him over the side into the water.
Thurlow hit with a splash. The rope halter pulled him up short, keeping his head and shoulders above water.
Kilroy played out the line, causing Thurlow to drift toward shore. Thurlow found new reserves of energy as he thrashed about screaming. And that was just from being in the water. His arms and legs were free, so he could splash around pretty good, making quite a stir. Blood from many cuts and scratches oozed into the turbid waters.
Thurlow swam back to the boat. He clawed at its sides, trying to pull himself up out of the water, a feat he lacked the strength to accomplish. He was babbling now, pleading, choking on river water that poured into his screaming mouth.
Kilroy used a long gaffer’s pole to push Thurlow away from the boat.
Thurlow’s thrashing agitation in the water acted like a dinner bell to the crocodiles.
Singly at first, then in pairs, then groups, they waddled down the black mud of the beach into the river. Once in the water they moved fast, converging on Thurlow.
Massive jaws gaped, closing on his arms and legs. The beasts struck and rolled, tearing him limb from limb.
Thurlow’s fancy cell phone had a built-in digital camera. Kilroy used it to make a record of the carnage.
Red clouds swirled in muddy brown water that churned and boiled from the feeding frenzy.
Even as an armless, legless trunk, Thurlow still kept on screaming. Right until a crocodile’s steaming, voracious maw clamped shut on his head.
Kilroy raised his knife to cut the line tied to what was left of Ward Thurlow but he didn’t have to. A croc’s dagger teeth had already parted the rope.
While late-coming crocodiles fought over the scraps, Kilroy raised anchor. He took the wheel, piloting the boat out of the estuary and into the open sea.
On to Lagos!
SIX
The Palace of Government in Lagos, Nigeria, was a massive pile of stucco-covered masonry painted pink with white trim. It had arched windows, a massive domed roof centered with a pointy tip, and corner turrets. Its Arabian Nights roofline was spoiled by an array of spiky antennas and satellite dishes.
The fantastic structure was fronted by a spacious courtyard. The extensive palace grounds featured elaborate gardens with rows of palm trees, hedges and shrubs, marble statuary, and a network of paved walkways.
The site was bordered by a ten-foot-high black iron spear fence and guarded by patrols of soldiers armed with small machine guns.
A boulevard lay beyond the towering, stone-pillared main gate and at right angles to it. The thoroughfare was four lanes wide. A median lined with lofty palms divided the roadway into two, two-lane strips, each strip bearing traffic in an opposite direction.
The time was late afternoon. The boulevard was clogged with traffic: trucks, taxis, beat-up old cars, motor scooters, motorbikes, pedicabs, bicycles—a teeming profusion of variety of wheeled transportation.
The air was heavy with a pall of exhaust fumes. The traffic, chaotic and noisy, was further enlivened by
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