At an exact GPS location, the TAXI slowed to a crawl and went close to the ground and then into a motionless hover. They jumped out, boots crunching desert sand, and ran to some nearby clusters of trees. The contact who had alerted the Americans about the presence of Mustapha Ahmed al-Masri was waiting, and Sybelle spoke to him in Kurdish,apologetically explaining to him that she was just a merc translator for the man with her.
Satisfied that as a woman, she was still an underling, the man guided them into the village and pointed them to a flat place in a ditch. The road beside them ran straight for a while, then bent right, and at the curve was the house that was to be attacked.
Sybelle and Kyle slid into the dry gully, and Swanson un-limbered some of his gear, setting up shop. Sybelle thanked the guide profusely and told him he was now free to go and wait for the main force that would be coming in on the other end of town. The guide disappeared into the night.
“Let’s move,” she said.
Kyle was already packing. They had no intention in staying in a place known to a local. Trust went only so far. “That house on the left. We go over the wall and get some protection, and I can brace the rifle on top of it.”
They moved out quietly, and Sybelle spider-dropped over the wall and landed without a sound on the far side. Swanson turned the knob on the gate, opened it, and walked through. Sybelle raised her middle finger in response.
During the next hour, they created a hide by using material found around the yard, and Kyle placed his personal space-age sniper rifle, the Excalibur, on a solid rest. Sybelle set up a spotter’s scope. Both had a clear view of the target building. They created a range card by measuring distances to points in the target area as they waited in the early morning chill.
At five o’clock, dawn was only an hour away, and parts of the village stirred as men and women prepared for the coming day. Kyle and Sybelle received a radio alert that the assault team was on its final approach, and almost immediately, the attack began with the buzzing approach of two big troop-carrying helicopters. Lights began snapping on throughout town by the time the birds landed on a soccer field a block east of the target. As the other Marines charged for the house, one of their snipers found a high position and took out the al Qaeda guard in front. Swanson and Summers, in the rear of the house, never took their eyes off of the target area.
“I have movement at the door,” whispered Sybelle. “Tall man. Must be al-Masri’s huge bodyguard.”
“I see him,” responded Kyle. In the scope of Excalibur, strings of numbers scrolled in constant movement as the computer measured the distance and figured the trajectory. So close, wind would not be a factor. Swanson held his fire.
“Second target. I identify him as al-Masri.”
Kyle studied the figure. “I confirm. Target in sight.”
As gunfire snapped in the house, the two men ducked into a small automobile, with the bodyguard driving, and the vehicle charged into the street with its lights off. Once again, the foot soldiers of al Qaeda were left behind to become martyrs while the leader escaped.
“Not this time,” whispered Kyle. He pulled the trigger. The .50 caliber weapon fired with a jarring BOOM, and the recoil kicked his shoulder as the big bullet slammed into the engine block hard enough to make the vehicle jump. A second round then went through the windshield and shattered the head of the bodyguard as the out-of-control car swerved sharply and slammed into a parked truck with the crunch of metal and glass.
“Target down. Other one getting out.” Sybelle’s voice was perfectly calm, a monotone devoid of emotion.
“Confirm the other one is getting out.” Kyle took his time racking in a third round, giving the man a moment to open the door. Al-Masri was alone in the empty street. His men were all dead or captured, and he knew that an American sniper had him in plain view. It was time to quit. He dropped to his knees and held his hands high over his head.
Kyle shot him through the chest, and the al Qaeda officer flopped over on his side. A final shot went into his head.
“Both targets down,” said Sybelle.
Kyle grabbed his rifle and pack, and Sybelle picked up her scope and gear and called out the signal for the controller to send in the TAXI for pickup. They hustled out through the gate and back to the landing zone, where the little bird arrived two minutes later. They jumped in and were gone.
The fighting was over in the house. The nest of terrorists had been wiped out to the last man, and the Marines would secure the area.
“Was he trying to surrender?” Sybelle asked, wiping some camouflage greasepaint from her face. “Might have given up some intelligence.”
“I saw a weapon,” Kyle said.
“Yeah,” she said. “Me, too.”
Table of Contents
Cover
Other Books By This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Epilogue
Kill Zone Page 32
