With a knife strapped to his side and an AK-47 in his hands, he walked the perimeter of the safe house recalling the moments when he informed his parents of his future. His father was proud and often puffed his chest out with pride. His mother, however, balked, believing that Ali could better serve life instead of taking it.
But his dreams appeared to be on the slow road since he joined the group believing that happiness came from getting one’s hands slick with blood, perhaps up to the elbows. All he performed was the constant ritual of walking the perimeter of an abandoned building in the middle of nowhere. Lately, he found that his dreams did not have the quality of blood lust to them, only disappointment.
When the sun set, Ali grabbed his rifle and performed the required rounds by circling the safe house. Everything was quiet, the silence having a calming effect. And because he was a man-child, Ali did not take life as serious as he should. His mind continued to envision a different life, a different way, with his path to Allah—
Suddenly, a bullet hole appeared magically at the center of his forehead, the kill shot driving and exiting through the rear with the exit wound as large as a plum. Gore and gray matter erupted from his skull to create a macabre looking splash against the sandstone wall, something that was star shaped. And then Ali fell to the ground, the man-child dreaming no more.
As Ali stared skyward with his eyes at half-mast, looming shapes stood over him that were blacker than black. And then two more muted shots were fired off into Ali’s center mass with the fabric surrounding the puncture holes of his shirt suddenly blooming like the petals of red roses.
And then they were gone, the Metsada once again on the move.
* * *
Efrayim Leibowitz was sitting as still as a Roman statue inside the truck, the man as cool as the stone he emulated. When he received word from the Metsada field commander that the perimeter had been cleared, he told his team to storm the premise as planned.
They did.
* * *
The first order was to take control of the two towers, so that the Metsada snipers could commandeer these vantage points to provide cover for the ground team. With the aid of grappling hooks and lines, the snipers scaled the walls to the towers and established themselves within the nest that gave a full view of the courtyard. After setting up their sniper rifles and tripods, they set their scopes to magnify the distances within the quad. Each Metsada commando confirmed four individuals from their perches: two at the northside, one to the east, and the last one to the south. The sentries were walking the area with a lack of attentiveness as though they were taking a leisurely stroll through a park.
Sniper One, from his roost, set his sight on the two at the northside of the courtyard. “I’ve got two hostiles to the north. You copy Two?”
“Yeah. Got’em.”
“I’ll take the one on the left. You take the one on the right. On my count. From three . . . Two . . . One.”
Double shots that were dampened by suppressors went off in unison. And both men went down quickly, the two neutralized.
“Two tangos down,” said One. “Now drawing on the target to the east.”
“Copy that,” returned Two. “Now drawing on the target to the south.”
Sniper One put the center of the crosshairs to the target’s temple, controlled his breathing, then pulled the trigger. The target’s head rocked and exploded like a melon, the hostile disappearing from view almost immediately as he fell behind some wild brush. At the same time from the second tower, there was a burst of light from the point of a sniper rifle, a muzzle flash, and then the sentry to the south fell.
Sniper One spoke evenly into his lip mic. “The courtyard’s clear,” he said. “All tangos neutralized.”
That was when the entry door exploded from a Semtex pad. A moment later, the Metsada unit raided the courtyard with the tips of their assault weapons raised. The team was now in full-attack mode.
* * *
Everyone had heard the explosion, and everyone inside the safe house responded by grabbing their weapons in reflex. These men were not battle tested or proven warriors who had served in the field. These were the chest-thumping wannabes who had envisioned themselves as great fighters and the soldiers of Allah. But lessons were often taught in the field of battle. And for Baghdadi’s team, it would be a hard lesson learned.
In the eyes of Baghdadi’s operatives, the barbarians had breached the gates. They were cloaked in garments as black as night to become one with the shadows, which they used to their advantage. The only thing that gave away their positions were the muzzle flashes from their assault rifles.
Bullets struck Baghdadi’s teammates with the shots striking with surgical precision. Head shots, shots to center mass, every round had found its mark without a single bullet being wasted as the Metsada team drove through Baghdadi’s unit with little contest.
Men had been lifted off their feet and carried through space from the impacts, with most of Baghdadi’s men dead before they hit the ground. Others got off a few errant shots in panic, the bullets pocking and pitting the walls and smashing glass windows that hadn’t already been broken.
People cried out, screamed, only for their shouts of pain to die off instantly when a well-placed round stole away their lives. The courtyard, the hallways, the rooms—all lit up with flashes and staccato bursts as the Metsada pushed
