Ramsland pulled the right toggle to collapse the canopy and knelt on the grass. He adjusted the NV brightness to maximum before conducting a 360-degree scan for any sign he’d been seen. All quiet. No late-night lovers. Or loose dogs. He gathered the black nylon into a ball and hustled over to a massive tree between fairways. Holding perfectly still, he surveyed his surroundings again. Nothing moved.

He shucked off his backpack, removed the ghillie suit, and put it on. Keeping his head up, he stuffed the nylon into the backpack and zipped it closed. The waxed zipper made zero noise. With adrenaline still coursing through his system, he took a moment to settle his thoughts. That high altitude tumble had rattled him more than he cared to admit. He hated being helpless. Now, back on the ground, it was the thought of being captured and tortured that concerned him. He’d long ago decided to take his own life if ever facing that nightmare—assuming he could.

He pivoted his NV goggles up, removed the thermal imager from his waist pack, and swept his position. No warm bodies registered within its range. So far, so good. The sultry ambient temperature didn’t offer the best conditions for a thermal sweep, but it was better than nothing. He switched back to NV and tracked south across the next fairway. He didn’t like being out in the open, but felt confident his insertion hadn’t been detected. He adjusted his heading to take advantage of some smaller trees between fairways. Every fifty feet or so he stopped and swept his six o’clock. Several hundred yards distant a dog barked, followed by its owner yelling something. The dog went silent. Ramsland smelled the air and detected nothing but freshly cut grass and something else, maybe a nitrogen-based fertilizer.

He looked at his watch: 0134. Less than three hours until extraction. If he failed to make the rendezvous down at Grange Bay at the precise time allocated, the SEAL special boat team would leave without him, no questions asked. He’d have to secure his target and wait twenty-four hours for a second attempt. If he missed the second attempt, his orders were to stay put until contacted. He wasn’t worried. Being African-American, he’d have no trouble blending in with the locals and English was the official language here. His backpack also contained a change of clothes, a fake ID and passport, and 2,000 dollars in cash.

He pulled his suppressed Beretta M9A1 from the waist pack, worked his way into the tree line south of the golf course, and began a slight uphill trek toward his destination. His NV goggles allowed him to avoid obstacles and objects that would make noise. Concealed in a ghillie suit at night, he was all but invisible. He advanced in slow, deliberate steps, looking left, right, and behind. He consulted his GPS and made a slight course correction to the southeast.