Wednesday, December 11, 2013; Somewhere in Egypt
Steve Barber unlatched the trunk of the ancient Citroën and opened it an inch to hear the sounds of the night. Fresh air rushed in and he filled his lungs. He held his body frozen, legs cramped and neck stiff from eight hours in the confined space, and absorbed the village through his eyes, ears and nose. Voices were distant, the tone easy. It was pitch black, with just a wisp of lantern light coming from a mud-brick building fifty meters away. Dinner fires still offered a touch of garlic and onion mingled with the wood smoke.
Raising the lid higher, he climbed out with just the whisper of his clothing rubbing against his pack. He held a Glock equipped with a 17-round magazine—he’d attached the silencer while waiting for nightfall. He planted his left foot on the stony ground, cringing at the crunch his boot made on marble-sized pebbles scattered along the road. Slow and steady, he retrieved his pack, lowered the trunk lid, and crouched behind the right rear side of the twenty-seven-year old French car. After a 360-degree scan, he darted to the north wall of the building against which the Citroën was parked.
He had been in the trunk since being driven to the village and, even though the temperature had not exceeded 20 degrees Celsius that afternoon, sweat soaked his clothes down to his Phenix Fast Assault soft boots. But now it was a cool 9 degrees. A relief. A few quiet stretches and isometrics. Ready to move.
He had memorized the layout of the village, every detail from the bends in the streets to the depths of the wells, from the collapsed wall on the outskirts near the graveyard to the grove of broad-podded Acacia trees where the ground sloped toward a dry creek bed. Even in the dark, Steve knew this was the southwest corner.
He checked his watch—2334 hours. He drank some water from the pouch in his pack while he assessed his environment. Although there would be a full moon later, it was not yet visible. Steve didn’t use night vision goggles. He relied on his training and eyesight, and dispensed with the ten ounces of equipment. As usual in December, it had not rained in this part of Egypt for days. A layer of dust covered anything that had not been recently touched or didn’t move—like the ancient headstones in the graveyard, the names and dates obscured. Steve didn’t think about death. No point. What will be will be.
He pondered the operational plan, the one he’d gone over twenty times before. The intel briefing just before he climbed into the Citroën for the long ride indicated his targets would be found in or near the village town hall. He’d find that building on a street thirty meters from its intersecting with the west side of the village square. He’d recognize it from the other battered buildings around—it had two stories and glass windows, the only such building in this tiny village. He had ninety-six minutes to make the kills.
Steve removed his short-barreled Micro Tavor assault rifle from his pack and slipped the strap over his shoulder, fixing the weapon to his lightweight combat vest. The Tavor was fitted with a 30-cartridge magazine and, like the 9mm, a silencer. He moved furtively through the village, avoiding a local police station that would be easy to take, but which would certainly alert the village—and the targets. Two or three times he pressed his back against the wall of a building, frozen in shadow as someone passed nearby, the rippled camouflage paint on his face and hands blending with the mottled brick. He carried two knives to silence potential alarm-givers, the new KABAR Marine combat knife and a Gerber TAC 2, but he would only take that action when absolutely necessary. He was not a killer. He was a warrior.
Moonlight broke over the horizon as Steve reached the street where the village town hall stood fifty meters away in crumbling disorder, its roof tiles chipped, panes of glass in the arched windows cracked and gray with grime. It was as though the building reflected the cruel minds of those inside. That building might be a deathtrap. Avoid the debris by the front door so you don’t alert those inside. Steve’s habit of talking to himself was annoying, even to him. Sometimes he said the words aloud. But he wouldn’t make that mistake here.
