Defender(3)

He returned his attention to the sounds of the dogs. By the noise they were making, it seemed that a pack was forming. Damn! It would only be a matter of time before one of the bastards stumbled onto his scent. Then there’d be more barking, which could draw attention to the old house. If need be, he’d shoot any dog that came too close. He started to regret his choice of firing position and took himself through the stretching routine again to ease the tension. Besides, it was too late for regrets. Reluctantly taking his right hand away from the rifle, he reached for the silenced Browning automatic that lay beside him on the floorboards, drawing it a few inches closer.

He ran through the game plan again, and with his right eye now pressed up hard against the rubber eyepiece of the scope, he traversed the barrel along the expanse of the enemy forecourt. He would make the shot as soon as he acquired the first target, before the man had time to make it to the main entrance of the house. Once that target was down, he’d have to acquire and confirm the second target with no delay. Then he would take the shot while there was still confusion in the compound. His withdrawal would have to be immediate – they’d be all over him within seconds if it wasn’t.

Again the job’s shortcomings hit him. Two targets. Christ! What the hell were they thinking back at SIS headquarters?

Headlights appeared in the distance, reflecting off the walls of buildings and lampposts as a vehicle, a Land Rover, neared the bend in the road. It slowed as it approached the rebel compound. Guards appeared from nowhere. Two men with rifles slung over their shoulders ran in unison across the compound under the glow of the lights. They dragged the large cyclone mesh gates open. The sniper’s pulse quickened immediately. A grimace split his menacing features – a tightly closed left eye, rugby-flattened nose, exposed teeth – and the contorted flesh of his right cheek rolled up hard against the laminated butt of the 700.

Control your breathing, he ordered himself.

There was a sound. Very close by. Not the dogs. Not the vehicle slowing down as it approached the compound. He sensed movement nearby and froze.

The unmistakable shriek of floorboards creaking under boots was deafening in the silence of the old house. It came from the ground floor, approaching from the back of the house where earlier he’d crept through a rut beneath the floorboards. Collins lay dead still, mouth and eyes wide open. Outside, the target’s car was at the gates, entering the killing ground of the rebel compound. Whatever was happening below him could not interfere with his mission. He could not fail.

But he couldn’t forget the immediate threat below. Was it one or two pairs of boots? Voices. Mumbling. Two men. Two guns. The skin of his face became taut. Again, he fought to control his breathing, impossible given the rapid thump of his heart resounding like a timpani in his ears. The voices were getting louder, deep, sonorous tones. His hand instinctively left the rifle and again crept toward the Browning. Self-preservation was irresistible. No! Contact now would blow everything. He had his orders. The targets, both of them, had to die tonight. Collins returned his hand to the rifle and his attention to the rebel compound. Back out on the road, the engine noise had dropped to almost nothing as the car was crunched into low gear, preparing to enter the compound. The dogs were going crazy. He had maybe a minute before the vehicle reached the entrance and the targets emerged.

The two men downstairs came into view only a few feet below. Collins could make out the pitch-black silhouettes of their heads and shoulders through the large hole in the floor. He could hear one of them fumbling through webbing pouches. What was going on? What was the man searching for? On impulse, Collins again slipped his right hand from the rifle as slowly and silently as he dared and crept his fingers toward the Browning.

Then came the rattle, scratch and flash of a match being extracted then flicked with practiced precision across the red phosphorous strike surface on the side of a box. In the total darkness, the blaze of the match as it was raised to a cigarette lit the entire area as though a distress flare had been fired. His eyes captured everything in the snapshot flash of the match’s short life. He was close enough to smell the sulfur ignite, and see every detail of their faces. The men bore the unmistakable profiles of rebel soldiers, carrying Soviet-surplus weapons and wearing camouflage fatigues. Then it was black again. Collins closed his eyes tight and counted to three to regain his night vision. His hand closed around the silenced automatic. He held his breath. His eyes darted back and forth between the immediate threat just feet below him, and the killing zone across the street.

Bathed in the orange glow of the lamps, the target Land Rover pulled to a stop. Half-a-dozen men sprang from within the rebel headquarters and surrounded the vehicle in a defensive ring of outward-facing gun barrels.