Chapters (96)
- Cover
- Berkley titles by David Ricciardi
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- CHARACTER LIST
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- EIGHTY-FOUR
- EIGHTY-FIVE
- EIGHTY-SIX
- EIGHTY-SEVEN
- Children of Fallen Patriots Foundation
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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A crack of thunder rolled through the valley several seconds later. Jake had been timing the lightning and the thunder and knew that the worst of the storm was still approaching. Another flash of lightning lit the camp. This time, the southern guard was closer and the northern guard was farther away. Jake couldn’t see the other two. The lightning was turning his mission into Russian roulette. It might not be the next flash, or the one after it, but eventually one of the guards would spot Jake and sound an alarm. He might be able to kill one of the guards, or maybe two, but he’d never reach the weapon.
He would have to find another way.
SEVENTY-FOUR
JAKE SNUCK OUT of camp and climbed back to his observation post in the hills. He had a direct line of sight into camp and to the machine gun nest—but lines of sight worked both ways. With the lightning flashing and dawn not too far away, he needed to find some concealment, to find a place where his every move wouldn’t put his life at risk.
But where to go? His entire body of knowledge on scout/sniper operations consisted of a documentary he’d watched and a few war stories from the ex–Delta Force operators he’d trained with upon joining Special Activities. It wasn’t much, but he knew that if he was going to observe the camp in daylight, he needed to camouflage himself and have routes of ingress and egress that wouldn’t leave him exposed.
He crawled farther up the hill and tucked in behind a ridge, away from game trails and thickets of thorn bushes, where he could still see most of the camp but was invisible to the men in the machine gun nest. He was using his knife to cut some nearby twigs and grasses—then stuffing them into his hat, on his clothing, and on his rifle to break up his outline—when another bolt of lightning struck nearby, temporarily blinding him. The thunder was instantaneous and so loud that he felt it in his chest and in his bones.
Jake lay prone on the ground, pointed the rifle toward camp, and parted the thick grass with the tip of his suppressor.
He took a few deep breaths and settled in for the day.
It was Christmas Eve.
—
JAKE LAY THERE for hours.
Occasionally he turned on the night vision sight for a detailed scan of the camp, but for the most part, the routine was the same. The workers did their chores and the guards did their patrols—all of them slogging through the mud and looking miserable.
The rain was incessant.