One of the terrorists got up from the fire and walked into the center of the camp. Tim could barely make out the silhouette of the man as he reared back his leg and kicked something. He heard a grunt, followed by the sound of the man laughing. It took a second for Tim to process that he must be staring at Nate or Shane.
“That’s got to be them,” he said. Tim’s blood was boiling.
“Easy, mate.” Wally laid a hand on his arm.
“I’m good,” Tim said, steel in his voice. “I’ve got a plan.”
“I’m all ears.”
“You pull up a little closer and watch from this direction. You’ve got overwatch. If things go south, you unload on that campfire and eliminate those bastards.”
“Right. And you?”
“I’m going to creep around to the east. I’ll take out the sentry and then go free our boys. These fuckers should all be high on khat and nice and dopey by now. Hopefully we can get in and out without being seen. If not, go loud.”
“Good luck,” Wally said.
“I’ve got all the luck I need right here,” he said, pulling Nate’s Yarborough knife from its scabbard.
“You’d better,” Wally said. “If you cock this up and I’ve got to come and rescue you too, I’m gonna be pissed,” he said, with a grin.
“That’s nothing,” Tim said. “Imagine how mad Ana’s gonna be when she has to come rescue all four of us.” The two men bumped fists and Tim set off.
He slowly crept around to the east of the camp, taking fifteen minutes to get in place. As he did, he used the sling to maneuver the AK-47 onto his back. He wouldn’t need it unless things went wrong, and then he would need it immediately. He gripped the knife in his hand. Stealth would be key on this one, and it gave him an advantage. The terrorists probably never dreamed he would come right into their own camp to kill them.
The other advantage he had was khat. A flowering plant that was common in Africa and the Arabian Peninsula, khat was a drug that, when the leaves were chewed, produced euphoria and hyperalertness. At least initially, but after a long evening of chewing the stuff, the users would crash and become lethargic. This was the edge he was counting on. Everyone but the guards would be on the stuff, and perhaps even them.
Tim watched the sentry go around twice more to get a feel for his routine, and then he placed himself in a narrow, dried streambed and covered himself with dirt. He was certain the man wouldn’t be able to see him anyway, but he took the extra precaution. Like clockwork, the sentry came back around, lazily doing his rounds. As soon as he passed his position, Tim slowly got to his feet and silently closed the distance. From behind he put his hand over the man’s mouth and plunged Nate’s knife deep into his trachea. The guard began to spasm wildly while his killer twisted the knife and ripped it out to one side, simultaneously dropping with him to the ground. When the man stopped twitching, Tim dragged his lifeless body over to a ditch and unceremoniously deposited the still-warm corpse in it.
He stopped to listen for signs that the commotion had raised any alarms. It hadn’t, so he continued between two tents toward the dark center of the camp. As he was passing one of the tents, the flap flew open and a very surprised man came face-to-face with him, dick in hand and ready to urinate. He must have just awoken and did not seem to fully process the big man with the red beard covered in blood, or otherwise he thought he was having a nightmare. Either way, he made no movement or sound, he simply stared, eyes wide in shock.
Wasting no time, Tim plunged the knife up and into the man’s jaw, effectively pinning his mouth shut. The man made a low, guttural moan and sputtered blood in Tim’s face. Tim jerked him backward toward the exterior of the camp and removed the knife before rapidly plunging it into the terrorist’s throat several times. He deposited him with his deceased buddy, slightly amused that he was starting his own personal terrorist corpse collection.
This time he paused before passing the tents, once again intent on making sure no one had heard the noise, as well as not wanting to run into any more terrorists with tiny bladders. He skulked toward thecenter of the camp and saw a metal pole with two men tied to it. As he got closer, he recognized the shapes of his friends.
“Nate,” he said in a hushed tone as he ran up, and Nate stirred, his eyes opening. He looked long and hard at his friend and then smiled.
“Took you long enough,” Nate said, though the relief on his face was obvious. Now it was Tim’s turn to smile.
“Sorry, traffic.” He set about cutting their restraints, and the jostling woke up Shane.
“What’s up, man?” he said, groggily coming to. “What brings you out to the desert?”
“The sunrises mostly. Speaking of which, we need to get the fuck out of here before Nate’s girlfriend leaves with our wheels.”
Tim helped both his friends to their feet and led them back the way he had come. A terrorist exited the tent opposite the one Tim’s second victim had been sleeping in. He did not appear tired, and seemed to have an air of authority about him. He looked stunned to see the prisoners escaping with a third man whose face was splattered with blood, but unlike his underling, he didn’t flinch. He opened his mouth to yell while simultaneously reaching for a pistol in his belt.
He was closest to Shane who, despite his head injury, reached out with lightning-quick reflexes and punched the man square in the jaw, instantly knocking him out. Nate reached out and caught his slumping body as Shane reached down and picked up the pistol. Then they moved to deposit him with the other guards.
“Son of a bitch,” Shane said, staring at the pistol as Nate and Tim laid the unconscious man in the ditch.
“What?” Nate asked. In response, Shane held up the pistol.
“Glock 19.”
“Cool,” Tim said. “I’ve seen one before.”
“No, the serial number. I know it.”
