But Chris was a master sniper—the best of the best, they called him.
The men’s only movements had been head up, head down, even when the skies opened angrily to produce a warm rain that left the air sticky and full of godforsaken mosquitoes and tsetse flies.
“Son of bitch,” he muttered as a fly bit the shit out of his neck through the netting he wore. He was sweating, jonseing for a cigarette but keeping the rest of his mind purposely blank.
You’d go crazy if you didn’t, and he was already halfway there.
Chris checked his scope and then he froze, not from anything in his vision but from that familiar feeling that had been a part of him for as long as he could remember—some called it sixth sense, his father called it the sight and Jake called it that psychic Cajun bullshit and no matter what it was, it had saved Chris’s ass more time that he could count.
Now, it would do so again. Next to him, Saint’s head jerked up like he’d sensed the problem as well.
“Incoming,” Chris told him quietly. It wasn’t surprising—they’d learned of the Al Qaeda militant’s location from a Somalian warlord who was paid for his cooperation. Now, the warlord would no doubt start an attack so it wouldn’t look like he sold the operative out.
Everything in this part of the world was tricky, touch and go and no one could be trusted for very long. This trust lasted longer than most.
A short moment later, the series of explosions started, came from both sides of their building without actually harming it, tearing down the walls of one structure next to them and upending an old Land Rover on the other side.
It hadn’t been meant for them, but they weren’t the only ones with a bounty on the militant’s head. Still, if they didn’t pull out now, they’d be headed back to their makeshift base and command center under the line of direct fire.
If they pulled out now, Chris would lose the shot.
It took a second of eye contact between the men and the decision was made.
“Get the shot and we’re gone,” Saint said, and since it was his direct order, Chris would follow it. He settled back in behind the scope to wait for the militant to evacuate.
With the heat sensor, he could make out shapes through the covered window and the stone and mud mixed walls. But he’d prefer not to expect a bullet to go through stone. And they’d been told to get a clean shot and Chris wanted nothing less.
“He’s not coming out the front,” Saint mused.
“Front or back, doesn’t matter—I’ll still get him,” Chris muttered. His finger curled around the trigger as that hazy sense of right now shot through his brain and he fired seconds before the target turned to face the street for a brief moment. But those seconds of clarity for Chris were like an early warning system, much like the lag in a digital camera, which gave the bullet the precise path it needed.
The bullet landed cleanly, probably nearly silently, between the militant’s eyes.
Chris barely had a second to feel the satisfaction of a job well done when the explosions started, no doubt the US’s way of counteracting the warlord’s attack.
He took out two of the militant’s bodyguards cleanly while Saint, covering him, took out six more a little less so. In seconds, he and Saint were off the building that had been their home sweet home for two straight days and ran down side streets, weapons at the ready, stretching muscles screaming from hours of underuse.
His feet were all pins and needle for the first half mile but finally his entire body cooperated as the shelling and the blasts from overhead began. Caught between friendly and not so friendly fire, plus impending darkness made it imperative that they get the hell out of the danger zone.
Far more dangerous to find themselves cornered at night with barely any ammo and no supplies.
He’d done this more times than he cared to count, his body on autopilot while his brain measured every ounce of risk and danger.
Made split second decisions imperative to his and Saint’s safety. Not that Saint wasn’t doing the exact same thing. He fired a few rounds from his M-14, even as pain shot through his side, adrenaline keeping it tamped down so he could take the next shot. Took down two rebels and heard Saint firing from behind him.
They were partially surrounded with no extraction team. Running and stealth were the best options. They were getting blasted, even as they ran for cover, Saint shoving him down as they came to a low wall.
“Stay here, just a second,” Saint told him as they crouched down and let the chaos rein behind them. “How hard were you hit?”
Chris looked down at his side—the blood came through his cammy jacket, ran down his side although he was pretty sure the bullet hadn’t hit anything major. “I’ll live.”