Beneath a broad thumb of boulders about five hundred meters from the camp, the Tridents stopped so Kyle and Captain Newman could study the area one last time. Things remained normal and security was loose.
“One close sentry straight ahead and another on that ridge about five hundred yards away,” said Newman.
Swanson broke out his sniper rifle and peered through the PKS-07 seven-power scope to satisfy himself that the moon was providing enough light for him to see clearly. He whispered to Newman, “Take out the close sentry and I’ll drop the other one at the same time. Joe Tipp, you spot for me.”
Newman passed the word to Darren Rawls, who slithered off into the darkness, his long arms and legs propelling him forward at an astonishing pace and in total silence, with only his strong fingers and toes of his boots touching the ground.
The sentry lazily walked his position, his senses dulled by the cool night temperature and the big meal of lamb and rice he had just devoured. A dot of flame flashed from a match as he lit an opium-laced cigarette until golden ashes glowed at the tip. The fasting period also meant no smoking during the day, so he hungrily inhaled, held it in his lungs, and stared up at the moon as the drug’s pleasantness spread through his body.
In an instant, a shadow rose behind him, a big hand cupped over his mouth and yanked the head back, and then the heavy blade of a sharp Ka-Bar, an old-school combat knife, ripped through the exposed neck, sliced the jugular vein and dug for the brain. Darren Rawls eased the man to the rocky ground and knelt on him as he bled out. He clicked his radio transmitter once, breaking squelch to confirm his task was done.