The First Casualty

63

The double clicks told Jason that Emphani and Chief were in place on the western face of the minaret, the side with the window facing away from him that he could not see. An earlier triple radio click had told him Viktor had completed one phase of his assignment and was ready for the next. It should all be over in less than three minutes, 180 seconds Jason knew would stretch into a lifetime.

There was just enough light by now for him not to need the infrared scope. Jason could see the two men ostensibly in conversation just outside the open doorway of the minaret. Four more were scattered within a few feet. None of them seemed interested in joining their fellows inside the mosque as the last of the electrically enhanced muezzin’s chanted adhan, the call to prayer, faded from the loudspeakers mounted on each corner of the mosque. Each man’s loose garments could — and most likely did — conceal an AK-47, which would be of no use to its owner this morning.

Jason placed the scope’s crosshairs on the forehead of the man to the right of the door and took a deep breath, exhaled, took another and held it, held it…

The blast of a .50-caliber rifle or machine gun was stunning in loudness, which was why, under ideal circumstances, the shooter would be wearing some sort of ear protection. So great was the reaction to such a powerful shell, without the unique recoil absorption system of the Barrett, a dislocated shoulder might have been the result.

Jason noticed none of this. A pink mist surrounded the target’s head as the plain-tipped anti-personnel round removed the top third of the man’s skull with near-surgical precision. He was dead seconds before the sound of the shot reached the mosque, and longer than that before his lifeless body hit the ground.

Before Jason could bring the sight to bear again, the remaining guard threw himself into the open doorway of the minaret, fumbling for his weapon as he disappeared behind the mud-brick wall.

Fine with Jason. He had anticipated the move. The next round he had loaded into the Barrett’s clip was silver-tipped armor-piercing incendiary. Focusing the Leupold scope on the edge of the doorway, he could make out the muzzle of an AK-47 poking past the left side. He moved the scope’s sight a few hundredths of an inch left, now seeing nothing but the mottled brown of the dirt building material.

Once again the .50 caliber fired. By the time Jason could bring the scope back, there was a hole the size of a manhole cover in the side of the mosque where a large, wet blob of red dripped down the back wall. Whether the bullet, shards of sun-baked mud, or both had done the job mattered little.

The remaining four men had scattered to what meager cover the courtyard of the mosque offered while firing in every direction, the mark of poorly trained troops. Two were cowering behind the fountain, occasionally taking a shot at imaginary targets. One or two actually hit the hotel’s facade, doing little more than chipping away crumbs of mud. Another, uncertain of the source of the fire, was pressed against the buildings wall in clear sight. The fourth had managed to gain what little shelter the shattered doorway of the minaret provided.

Jason swallowed and withdrew his finger from the trigger. He had to force himself to stop the killing, destroying those people, one man at a time. They had been responsible for 9/11 and Laurin’s death.

But he was not here today to indulge himself in the enjoyment of splattering Al Qaeda brains and intestines against the crude mud brick.

Reluctantly, he stepped away from the Barrett.