Joe Tipp and Kyle Swanson had calculated the distance, elevation, and windage numbers for their target. Upon hearing the click in their earpieces, Tipp whispered, “Fire.” Swanson applied a smooth four pounds of pressure to the trigger and the SV-98 coughed once, the flash suppressor eating up the sound of the gunshot. An instant later, a 7.62 mm bullet slapped into the broad back of the distant guard and tore out his heart and chest, dropping him without a sound.

Swanson put the sniper rifle aside and turned to Newman. “You find their commo shed?”

“Um. Yeah. It’s that center building, looks like the overall headquarters. They really grouped all of those tents and buildings close together. Hooray for sloppy work.”

“Shit, why not? They aren’t worried about any air strikes on sovereign Pakistani soil, and the Paks sure as hell aren’t coming after them. We’re here to show they aren’t safe, no matter where they sleep.”

Tipp unstrapped a rocket propelled grenade launcher. “I still think cruise missiles would be a good idea.”

“Let’s go.” Swanson growled and led the way down the trail, unlimbering one of his own RPG-7s. The old weapons were notoriously inaccurate and had a short range, but had been modified and updated, and in the hands of trained commandos firing down slope, they were effective and deadly. With both sentries out of the way, the group closed on the camp until they were less than a football field away, then at Kyle’s signal, moved into a line, side-by-side, about ten yards apart.

They were in position within seconds, invisible in the darkness against the mountain backdrop, all with RPGs ready to fire. The terrorists were grouped together outside in the open area of the camp, kneeling in five lines on their prayer rugs and facing Mecca.