moments of enjoyment.”
“You feel guilty about taking such simple pleasures. Well, my friend, in just a little while, we will be surrounded by admiring students at the madrasah, and we will leave them spellbound with stories of how we have carried the banner.”
The dour, tall man actually laughed a little and passed his hand over the bowls and dishes between them. “I think we ate better than they did tonight.”
The final flare of the late afternoon gleamed like gold through the open French doors. “It is almost time for prayers,” he said. “Let’s go outside.”
STAFF SERGEANT TRAVIS STONE was at the wheel of a black Land Rover Defender parked three blocks away, with the strong engine idling. Darren Rawls was in the passenger seat, giving a final check to the equipment they had taken from the U.S. Embassy: day- and night-vision gear, pistols, walkie-talkies and secure phones, and three of the little A-3s, the renovated M-16s with little scopes. A few bottles of water were in the SUV, but no food had been brought.
This trip was to be short and sweet. Both had small buds in their ears and were waiting for Kyle Swanson to take the shot, then to call them, using the code phrase “Dunkin’ Donuts.” By the time Swanson reached the pickup point, Stone and Rawls would be there. Maybe sixty seconds at the most.
About twenty miles beyond the city limits, a special operations heavy-lift CH-53E Super Stallion was circling over a safe area. The Marines would call for it to come get them as they raced out of Islamabad.
“Sun’s going down,” said Rawls.
Stone cocked the wheel to one side and eased out of his parking space. “Let’s go get our boy.”
KYLE SWANSON STUDIED THE faces of the men through his scope. Those were the faces in the photographs. “Shooter Two. Confirming these are the targets. Are you on scope?”
“Roger.” The voice of Jim Hall came back over the headset. Hall had his big rifle resting on its bipod, tilted down. He also could see the targets plainly. At first, he thought the taller man was wearing a bulletproof vest, but on closer examination, he saw it was just a woolen vest beneath the buttoned suit coat. “I have them,” he said.
Around the city, the big sun was going down in a blaze, and Muslims were ready for the evening prayer. The two men on the balcony shifted over to a pair of beautiful mats that had been laid out for them and went to their knees, side by side, solemn and lost in their own thoughts of how much God had blessed their lives.
“Target One in position,” said Kyle. “Shooter One on target.”
“Target Two is in positon. Shooter Two on target,” answered Hall.
“Roger.” It was exactly as they had rehearsed. Kyle would take the target on the right, Hall the target on the left. “Stand by for my count,” Swanson said. He was waiting to hear the start of the call, so the targets would bend forward and become immobile. Any shot before that might be affected by their sudden movement forward.
The loudspeakers that were placed throughout the city began the song for the faithful-
“Four,” Kyle said. “Three… Two… One… Fire.”
Their rifles barked at exactly the same time, and the bullets slammed into the unsuspecting Taliban fighters. The cheerful Mohammad Sial and the reserved Makhdoom Ragiq were hurled forward on the balcony by the twin impacts, their heads destroyed, but their hearts still pumping blood.
Kyle pulled a cell phone from his vest and punched a speed-dial number.
“Dunkin’ Donuts,” answered Staff Sergeant Darren Rawls.
“Mission accomplished. Need a pickup,” Kyle said.
Rawls snapped a button on the side of his big wristwatch and logged in the exact time of the call-19:19:14 hours. “On the way. Black Land Rover Defender coming up on your three o’clock.”
20
JIM HALL HAD PLANTED small blocks of C-4 explosive along the edge of the roof where he had been hiding, and as soon as he took the shot, he pressed a button on a small box that he had placed beside him. A digital screen came to life, activating a countdown. He had two minutes.
Hall raced down the long emergency staircase in his building, with his right hand gripping the descending metal railing to help him sail around the tight corners. He hit the ground floor at full speed and rammed out through a fire door, where the promised SUV with the gold flag on its fender was waiting. A huge man with bowling-ball muscles held open the rear door. There was no expression on his face.
Hall dove inside, and the big vehicle surged away from the curb with Hall flat on his back in the rear seat, hidden behind the tinted windows. “Get us out of here! Go!” he yelled.
They had not traveled more than a block when the explosives detonated in a series of sudden booms. Fire flashed, and a rising cloud of dirty smoke spread across the roof and curled upward as the entire upper corner of the building blew out with a crashing roar.
KYLE SWANSON HAD NO intention of following any escape route the Taliban had helped plan. When Hall had left him earlier, Kyle had spent some time pushing and pulling furniture and appliances across the only doorway into the apartment. The refrigerator, the dresser, the sofa, a toppled bookcase, and other heavy items were barricaded against the inward- opening door.
His hide was far back in the shadows of the living room, and as soon as he saw his target collapse, Swanson bolted down a narrow hallway and into the bedroom, which had a terrace of its own. The gathering darkness worked in his favor. He jumped lightly over the rail and stepped easily to the steel fire-escape ladder that stretched from the ground floor to the roof and was painted the same shade as the cream-colored building. Kyle headed for the roof.
Behind him, he heard thudding against the barricaded door to the living room, followed by shouts and finally by three short bursts of automatic weapons fire. Bullets might damage the refrigerator, but they would not get the pursuers through that door.
He reached the roof and spider-dropped to a crouch. Clear. They had expected him to go out through the front door. Instead, he was heading across the rooftops of two adjoining buildings and would take the fire ladder down
