eyes still focused out on the dimly lit street, Jordan blindly reached for the light switch and turned it off. He knew the layout of the house without having to navigate with any light. Without the glare from the inside Jordan could see clearly out onto the street. Standing there, he waited patiently for several minutes, taking short sips of scotch and slowly feeling the tension in his muscles relax.
An ambush was a nerve wracking proposition. That’s part of what had made Fallujah so difficult for so many guys. On an open battlefield, when you saw the enemy coming, there was some natural fear. But the terrorists could strike anywhere at any time. That was their only advantage. A conventional army would wipe out a terrorist cell in a matter of minutes, but they would not meet you out in the open. The constant tension of never knowing when an attack was coming wore down on you over time. Psychological warfare was where the Islamists excelled. The Pentagon could learn a thing or two from the way they fought, and Jordan was certain that they were learning all the time.
These Russians were dramatically different, almost a 180 degree departure in tactics. There was no subtlety, no sneaking around and waiting for a choice opportunity to strike. No creeping doubts, no sleepless nights. They simply kept coming and coming and coming. Jordan admired their persistence and boldness. Even travelling in a cop car, on the Williamsburg Bridge with the entire evening rush hour crowd watching, they hit. Having an enemy to face suddenly felt good, something to look forward to, somewhere else he could direct all his inwardly turned rage. Jordan felt goose bumps popping out all over his skin. He could not wait to get started. Jordan drained the last of the scotch down his throat and got to work.
Moving in the dark, Jordan’s steps were careful but confident. Upstairs in the bedroom he changed into a black sweater and pair of jeans. In the closet he found a pair of black leather gloves and squeezed his hands into them. Just for the hell of it Jordan would have donned black face paint but that would have been theatrical, over the top. When you got cute on a night mission things invariably went wrong.
Once he was dressed Jordan arranged the pillows under the sheets and duvet to look like someone was sleeping there, curled up on their side. He had only seen it done in the movies and he honestly wondered if it would work. At the very least maybe they would waste a few rounds turning the bedroom into a snowstorm of feathers.
Jordan crept down the stairs quietly, practicing his assassin’s silent footwork. It had been years since his last stealth mission after dark, and the familiar queasy thrills were rushing through him. Jordan almost skipped down the basement stairs, whistling the tune to Mission Impossible. He kept a duffel bag filled with his old equipment in a locker next to the water heater. With a flashlight clenched in his teeth, he swung the combination lock left 19, right 42, left 19 again and it clicked open. The stale locker smelled like mold. Jordan coughed and dragged the duffel bag out, surprised by the weight. He set it down on his woodshop bench and unzipped the bag. Jordan spread his lips into a grin and wondered how demented he must look with the flashlight in his teeth like that.
“ Oh daddy,” he moaned.
Inside Jordan found three handguns, one MR-15 assault rifle, one M4, a bowie knife, a Yardborough, night vision goggles, and a pair of fragmentation grenades. Very delicately he lifted them out of the bag and kissed each one before setting them back down.
“Not tonight,” he whispered.
Working in the dark while wearing the night vision goggles, Jordan disassembled the handguns and found them all in working order, the same with the rifles. He put the .22 in an ankle holster, the .45 in one shoulder holster, the .38 in the other, sheathed the bowie knife on his hip, and slung the MR-15 over his back. Corporal Ross was
An ambush was a nerve wracking proposition. That’s part of what had made Fallujah so difficult for so many guys. On an open battlefield, when you saw the enemy coming, there was some natural fear. But the terrorists could strike anywhere at any time. That was their only advantage. A conventional army would wipe out a terrorist cell in a matter of minutes, but they would not meet you out in the open. The constant tension of never knowing when an attack was coming wore down on you over time. Psychological warfare was where the Islamists excelled. The Pentagon could learn a thing or two from the way they fought, and Jordan was certain that they were learning all the time.
These Russians were dramatically different, almost a 180 degree departure in tactics. There was no subtlety, no sneaking around and waiting for a choice opportunity to strike. No creeping doubts, no sleepless nights. They simply kept coming and coming and coming. Jordan admired their persistence and boldness. Even travelling in a cop car, on the Williamsburg Bridge with the entire evening rush hour crowd watching, they hit. Having an enemy to face suddenly felt good, something to look forward to, somewhere else he could direct all his inwardly turned rage. Jordan felt goose bumps popping out all over his skin. He could not wait to get started. Jordan drained the last of the scotch down his throat and got to work.
Moving in the dark, Jordan’s steps were careful but confident. Upstairs in the bedroom he changed into a black sweater and pair of jeans. In the closet he found a pair of black leather gloves and squeezed his hands into them. Just for the hell of it Jordan would have donned black face paint but that would have been theatrical, over the top. When you got cute on a night mission things invariably went wrong.
Once he was dressed Jordan arranged the pillows under the sheets and duvet to look like someone was sleeping there, curled up on their side. He had only seen it done in the movies and he honestly wondered if it would work. At the very least maybe they would waste a few rounds turning the bedroom into a snowstorm of feathers.
Jordan crept down the stairs quietly, practicing his assassin’s silent footwork. It had been years since his last stealth mission after dark, and the familiar queasy thrills were rushing through him. Jordan almost skipped down the basement stairs, whistling the tune to Mission Impossible. He kept a duffel bag filled with his old equipment in a locker next to the water heater. With a flashlight clenched in his teeth, he swung the combination lock left 19, right 42, left 19 again and it clicked open. The stale locker smelled like mold. Jordan coughed and dragged the duffel bag out, surprised by the weight. He set it down on his woodshop bench and unzipped the bag. Jordan spread his lips into a grin and wondered how demented he must look with the flashlight in his teeth like that.
“ Oh daddy,” he moaned.
Inside Jordan found three handguns, one MR-15 assault rifle, one M4, a bowie knife, a Yardborough, night vision goggles, and a pair of fragmentation grenades. Very delicately he lifted them out of the bag and kissed each one before setting them back down.
“Not tonight,” he whispered.
Working in the dark while wearing the night vision goggles, Jordan disassembled the handguns and found them all in working order, the same with the rifles. He put the .22 in an ankle holster, the .45 in one shoulder holster, the .38 in the other, sheathed the bowie knife on his hip, and slung the MR-15 over his back. Corporal Ross was
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