“Okay, the camera is good,” Lahav said. “Listen, guys, I want to apologize if I’m coming across as a little abrasive. It’s just that I’ve never—”

“Term 6, shut it. No one is interested in your feelings,” Nir said.

“Uh, root.”

“Term 2, ready for you.”

“Root,” Yaron replied.

Nir helped Imri ease out of the back seat. Both were dressed like they belonged in rural Iran, wearing light jackets, dark cotton pants, and off-brand sneakers. Nir was wearing a black wig because he normally kept his hair cut tight to his scalp. Yaron and Doron had joined him in that particular disguise. Imri had glued a beard to his normally smooth face.

A blue Nissan Zamyad pickup pulled onto the shoulder. Covering its bed was a large, dark-blue tarpaulin. Yaron nodded from the front seat. Nir lifted the tire he’d removed from the car and set it in the passenger seat of the truck. Then he followed Imri into the bed, where Doron was already waiting. Once inside, Doron slapped the rear window, and Yaron pulled out. Immediately, he made a U-turn around the center median. Ten seconds later, he turned right.

“Is it staying stable?” Nir asked Doron, nodding to the truck’s cargo.

“Holding tight. Been a little bouncy but not bad.”

“Bouncy?” came Lahav’s voice. “How bouncy? We can’t have bouncy.”

“Relax, Term 6,” Nir said, trying to keep Lahav from getting wound up again.

After the truck had traveled three-quarters of a mile, it slowed and stopped. Then they all jolted back and forth as the pickup eased up and over a high curb. It went forward a few more meters and repositioned itself on a small rise parallel to the curb and a low barbed wire fence. The front door opened and closed, and Nir heard Yaron slap the side of the truck.

That was their okay signal, and the three of them got to work while Yaron walked away.

Bolted to the bed of the pickup was a metal tripod. Fastened to that stand was a FN MAG machine gun. Belgian-made, it fired 600 7.62×51mm NATO rounds a minute and was known for its accuracy and reliability. The person who got in its path didn’t stand a chance, as this Mossad Kidon team was hoping to prove this afternoon.

The problem was that this target field was in Iran, an hour east of Tehran. Anyone whose finger was on the trigger of the gun had no chance of escape—unless the trigger of the gun was hours away.

Designed 2,000 kilometers from this location in Herzliya, in the heart of Israel’s Silicon Wadi, this killing machine was fully automated. Not only could it be directed and engaged remotely, but the artificial intelligence incorporated into its computerized brain meant it could shoot a fly off the backside of a cow without even eliciting a moo.