surface in front of him, he meticulously rolled the foot flat. He was very much like a panther padding through the night toward its prey.
When he reached the proper range, he stopped, still shrouded in darkness. He withdrew one of the two Voron-3 blades he carried from its sheath. Though he could not see it, he knew the Russian-made 55-58 HRC stainless steel metal tapered to a deadly spear point in his grip.
He moved to the left a pace so that he wouldn't be in the path of William's knife, in case the other operative missed his planned throw. He double-checked his own range with Doug, who confirmed that Ethan stood exactly five meters away from the closest man. That was the trick with knife throwing: the muscle memory was trained to a certain distance, which was why even famous marksmen always threw from the same range.
Ethan and William had experience with actual throwing knives, but the Vorons were weighted and balanced differently, so the two of them had to practice extensively earlier, updating their neural pathways until they were confident they would not miss. Doug and the resistance fighters were ready to snipe the tangos if they did, of course, though at the cost of the element of surprise.
Knife in hand, Ethan waited. The seconds ticked past tensely. The waiting was always the worst part. When he was in the thick of the action, under fire and giving it as good as he got, he was completely fine. But waiting, that really tested the nerves. He thought of all the things that could go wrong, all the problems that could send the mission spiraling into failure. The holes in the plan piled up in his mind. He was going to miss the throw. He knew it.
What the hell am I doing?
He took a silent, deep breath, and called upon his sniper's discipline to steady his mind. Calmness returned. He could do this. He would do it.
The two men at the entrance were shielded from the rooftop and second floor by the fern-like leaves of date palms that grew along the service road inside the wall. The pair were visible to the ground patrol, however, though only for a short span of time. Ethan and the others had timed that patrol: the mujahadeen made a complete circuit of the grounds every seven minutes. The trick was to attack shortly after the guards had passed by.
The phone gently vibrated in his pocket as the countdown went off.
"Clear," Doug sent from his position on the rooftop.
Without conscious thought, Ethan extended his free hand, drew back his weapon arm, took aim, and launched the knife. The throw was spot-on, and the pure black, six and half inch long blade buried itself to the hilt in the closest militant's throat.
The man grabbed at his neck, gargling sickly.
The second guard spun toward his comrade; a soft thud, like a dart hitting a cork board, floated through the night. The second guard staggered, falling to his knees, the dark hilt of another Voron protruding from the back of his neck, courtesy of William.
Ethan emerged from the shadows; William did as well, from the other direction. The two of them caught their respective militants before the men hit the ground and dragged the bodies away into the darkness, to opposite sides of the entrance.
Doug raced past. "Let's go."
Ethan lowered the body to the ground and removed the knife from the militant's neck. He wiped the blade in the grass and hurried to the entrance. Concertina razor wire had blocked the inner path, but it had been dragged aside.
Within, Ethan found Doug and William waiting in the darkness beside three black-clad members of the resistance.
Ethan nodded to them and, alone, moved deeper into the compound. Under the moonlight he approached the three Iraqi Army Humvees that had been parked in the courtyard; he remained crouched, well aware of the eyes potentially watching from above. Moving between vehicles, he reached up under the dashboards and yanked the wires off the ignition switches in turn.
He joined up with the rest of the team on the west side
When he reached the proper range, he stopped, still shrouded in darkness. He withdrew one of the two Voron-3 blades he carried from its sheath. Though he could not see it, he knew the Russian-made 55-58 HRC stainless steel metal tapered to a deadly spear point in his grip.
He moved to the left a pace so that he wouldn't be in the path of William's knife, in case the other operative missed his planned throw. He double-checked his own range with Doug, who confirmed that Ethan stood exactly five meters away from the closest man. That was the trick with knife throwing: the muscle memory was trained to a certain distance, which was why even famous marksmen always threw from the same range.
Ethan and William had experience with actual throwing knives, but the Vorons were weighted and balanced differently, so the two of them had to practice extensively earlier, updating their neural pathways until they were confident they would not miss. Doug and the resistance fighters were ready to snipe the tangos if they did, of course, though at the cost of the element of surprise.
Knife in hand, Ethan waited. The seconds ticked past tensely. The waiting was always the worst part. When he was in the thick of the action, under fire and giving it as good as he got, he was completely fine. But waiting, that really tested the nerves. He thought of all the things that could go wrong, all the problems that could send the mission spiraling into failure. The holes in the plan piled up in his mind. He was going to miss the throw. He knew it.
What the hell am I doing?
He took a silent, deep breath, and called upon his sniper's discipline to steady his mind. Calmness returned. He could do this. He would do it.
The two men at the entrance were shielded from the rooftop and second floor by the fern-like leaves of date palms that grew along the service road inside the wall. The pair were visible to the ground patrol, however, though only for a short span of time. Ethan and the others had timed that patrol: the mujahadeen made a complete circuit of the grounds every seven minutes. The trick was to attack shortly after the guards had passed by.
The phone gently vibrated in his pocket as the countdown went off.
"Clear," Doug sent from his position on the rooftop.
Without conscious thought, Ethan extended his free hand, drew back his weapon arm, took aim, and launched the knife. The throw was spot-on, and the pure black, six and half inch long blade buried itself to the hilt in the closest militant's throat.
The man grabbed at his neck, gargling sickly.
The second guard spun toward his comrade; a soft thud, like a dart hitting a cork board, floated through the night. The second guard staggered, falling to his knees, the dark hilt of another Voron protruding from the back of his neck, courtesy of William.
Ethan emerged from the shadows; William did as well, from the other direction. The two of them caught their respective militants before the men hit the ground and dragged the bodies away into the darkness, to opposite sides of the entrance.
Doug raced past. "Let's go."
Ethan lowered the body to the ground and removed the knife from the militant's neck. He wiped the blade in the grass and hurried to the entrance. Concertina razor wire had blocked the inner path, but it had been dragged aside.
Within, Ethan found Doug and William waiting in the darkness beside three black-clad members of the resistance.
Ethan nodded to them and, alone, moved deeper into the compound. Under the moonlight he approached the three Iraqi Army Humvees that had been parked in the courtyard; he remained crouched, well aware of the eyes potentially watching from above. Moving between vehicles, he reached up under the dashboards and yanked the wires off the ignition switches in turn.
He joined up with the rest of the team on the west side
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