The Iscariot Agenda by Rick Jones Page B

miles away. There was no doubt that he had missed his mark; therefore, he was now in the crosshairs.
    He then lowered his NV monocular and searched the landscape.
    There was nothing but the soft swaying of sage and brush, as the wind continued to march in from the west.
    Where are you ?
    The sound of the wind soughing through the land began to pick up, the song a continuing sigh of gentle whispers.
    “You are ‘The Ghost,’” he told himself. You can do this .
    Hawk tossed the CheyTac aside and methodically removed the Bowie, the long blade sliding neatly from its sheath. Hunkering down, Hawk, ‘The Ghost,’ closed his eyes and called upon the spirits. Although it had been awhile he was confident that the skill of his people was something inborn. Taking down ‘The Ghost’ was like trying to catch a wispy comma of smoke within the clench of a hand, which is impossible. And Hawk believed himself to be that smoke. He would use stealth as his tool, locate the assassin, and drive the blade across his throat.
    After all, he was an elitist on his land and knew every nuance about it, which gave him the advantage.
    Low to the surface of the sand, using the NVG as an aid and with the Bowie in his hand casting glints of light whenever the mirror polish of the blade reflected the cold moonlight from the east, Hawk went to find his quarry.
     
    #
    The last thing the assassin saw before the impact was the canine’s long teeth. As the dog was taking flight the assassin’s world seemed to move with the slowness of a bad dream. He noted its teeth, long and dangerously keen, and the fury within its eyes.
    Just before the moment of collision the assassin heard what he thought was the waspy hum of a bullet missing wide, and then the impact that struck him like a hammer and sending him to his backside, the knife in his hand taking flight.
    The assassin held the dog at bay, at least for the moment, watching the silvery threads of drool cascading down from its jaws, snapping—could smell its fetid breath as the gnashing teeth drew closer to the assassin’s throat.
    The knife !
    Where . . . is . . . the . . . knife ?
    With one hand on the dog, the assassin reached blindly to his right, his hand scrabbling through the sand like an arachnid searching for the blade, the hilt, a stone. 
    There. In the sand. Was that a glint of steel? 
    The assassin reached out, stretched his arm, his fingers flexing for the purchase of the handle.
    Dog’s teeth were closing in on the throat—inches away now, closer, the grazing of teeth against flesh.
    The hand found something solid, the end of the knife’s hilt, his fingers grazing the tip, but just out of grasp.
    The German Shepherd’s teeth touched the assassin’s throat, the skin parting, but barely, the blood now beading, then flowing.
    Dog was now going wild with blood lust.
    The tip of the handle—the hilt—was now within his grasp.
    The dog, in frenzy, reared his head back for the final blow.
    But the assassin brought the blade out and up.
     
    #
    Hawk quickly learned that no man can fight age. Nor was the trait of skillful hunting something merely inbred, but something that must be maintained with constant practice. Since the man had aged without the benefit of rehearsal that would have kept his skills honed, the Native American could feel his confidence wane as quickly as his endurance.
    Sweat trickled down the Indian’s brow, down his cheeks, the wind doing little to cool his flesh as his heart palpitated in his chest, the rhythm threatening to misfire. And Hawk chastised himself for letting himself go.
    Lightning was beginning to flash in strobe fashion, the subsequent roll of thunder shaking the granules beneath his feet. The storm was obviously upon him; a strong wind brewing.
    As the sky flared with incredible brightness, the Indian was again blinded. In frustration he removed the NVG and tossed them, relying now on the skill of Apache stealth.
    Hunkering low, the wind buffeting him