Martinez backed out of the rear entrance of the cave and ran down to the fallen targets while Swanson covered him. He opened a kit containing test tubes, snipped a hair sample from Ali, and shoved a long cotton swab to the back of the dead man’s tongue for a saliva sample. He bottled them both and locked them in the small box. The DNA would be used later for positive identification.

When he was clear, they started to hump back to a flat area about 800 meters away, where the daylight extraction could be done by a Black Hawk helicopter accompanied by a pair of Apache gunships. There was no need for secrecy now, just speed. The jig was up and the snipers had to get out of there.

Martinez turned the radio back on and gave the map coordinates to call in the birds, but a raspy and angry voice broke into his transmission. “Where have you been?” the voice demanded. “We’ve been trying to get you for the last thirty minutes! Abort the mission. Say again, abort the mission!”

Martinez stared in shock, but Swanson winked at him and grabbed the receiver. “Too damned late! Mission accomplished.”

“Fuck!” There was panic in the disembodied voice. “You gave us the wrong coordinates on that village. You were on the wrong side of the border. Fuck! Choppers are inbound. We’ll deal with this when you get back.” The transmission was terminated.

Swanson handed the receiver back to Martinez. “Let’s go home.” They set out in a trot down the ravine toward the landing zone.

“Gunny, we in trouble?”

“Eric, you just remember we took out a real bad motherfucker today. We may get some shit for it, but when they quit shouting, old Ali’s still going to be real dead, and that’s a good deal. He was a worthless piece of shit who had a lot of American and Iraqi blood on his hands. Anyway, we can’t unshoot him, can we? Can’t change a thing. I’ll take any blame, but my guess is they will just bury it. The CIA never admits mistakes.”