“HUA,” Hartogg returned aggressively, sounding eager to avenge his SEAL buddy.

Abrams sucked in a huge breath, and looked down at the ground for a second. He said a silent prayer, and then counted down.

“Three, two, one…go.”

He burst from his position, sprinting out in a loop, zigzagging as he came. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the huge form of Hartogg doing the same, the man moving at a speed beyond his own to take on the southern nest.

The hundred yards seemed to take forever, but as he approached his target, there were no rockets or gunfire. When Abrams was within thirty feet of their enemies’ position, he saw someone dressed in dark fatigues, guns strapped down on his groin in a V-shape for fast draw, and a slim black blade in each hand.

The figure – not a big guy, but wiry as heck, and faster than any human Abrams had ever seen in action – danced, spun, and kicked, slashing and stabbing at the snipers who one after the other fell around him. The desert fighters leaped at the lone figure, or raised guns, but the soldier was too quick for all of them, and soon they had all been cut down like wheat.

Abrams slowed to a stop, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Hartogg joined him, his gun still at the ready.

“Boss, southern nest is dead – all six.” He motioned to the dead snipers before them. “And now, so is this one. Who the fuck is this one-man hurricane?” He still had his gun up.

“Don’t know yet, but I’m done with taking chances.” Abrams held his pistol in a two-handed grip. “Soldier, lower your weapons.”

The black covered figure was barely breathing hard. Dark eyes were the only feature showing in the keffiyeh headdress.

“Put…your weapons…on…the ground.” Abrams spoke through his teeth.

The twin pools of dark stared for a moment, assessing Abrams and Hartogg, and then the guy leaned forward to wipe his bloody blades on the clothing of one of the dead.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Abrams felt his patience burning away.

“Boss, maybe he doesn’t speak English,” Hartogg added.

Abrams shouted, “This is your last warning: put your hands in the air, or I will be forced to disarm you.” He felt Hartogg glance at him from the corner of his eyes. He didn’t want to shoot – just wanted the asshole to comply. What’s his problem? he wondered. “Drop…the…”

The lone figure spun the blades and then slipped them back into hidden sheaths. He then held his hands out, palms open.

“Don’t move.” Abrams advanced, followed by Hartogg from a slightly different angle. Abrams could still see little other than a pair of velvet-dark eyes. The assassin raised his arms, and stayed stock still, legs slightly apart. His eyes never left him for a second.

Abrams came in close and reached out to pull the head-covering away.

“Boss.” Hartogg’s voice carried a warning – too late.