Since she hadn’t slept since infiltration, going on fifty hours now, she would need that edge. But if she weren’t out in four hours, the crash would be bad. She didn’t worry about that because if she weren’t out in four hours, she’d be dead.
Her pulse quickened as the speed hit her bloodstream.
She didn’t need to check her hide site. She’d taken nothing out, so there was nothing to indicate she’d been here. Gant’s rule number four: Always pack out what you pack in. They were Neeley’s rules now, as much of her as they had been of Gant.
In fact, there was nothing on her to indicate who she was or where she was from. Well, there was DNA, but it wasn’t like the Taliban or Al Qaeda or whoever was waiting to kill her was going to run that, and even if they did, she wasn’t in any database. She didn’t exist and hadn’t for a long time.
She pressed her eye back against the rubber, the alley coming alive in heat once more. The rifle was an old one. She knew there were better models now on the market, but Gant had also impressed on her that familiar was sometimes better than newest. It was an Accuracy International L96A1. British made, it chambered the NATO standard 7.62 by 51mm round.
The rounds loaded in this rifle, though, were anything but standard.
Neeley had prepared the rounds herself, building them to be subsonic so they wouldn’t produce the distinctive crack of breaking the sound barrier. A bulky suppressor on the end of the barrel would reduce the sound of the gasses propelling the bullet as they escaped the barrel. There is no such thing as a true silencer, but her rifle was pretty damn quiet.
A new voice crackled in her ear. “On station. Target Alpha locked in. Fifty seconds.”
Of course the suppressor combined with the low-power bullets meant a greatly reduced range, but that was why Neeley was in the pile of rubbish, needing to be close to the package.
“Forty seconds.”
Neeley placed the crosshairs right between the goggled eyes of one of the men peering out of the Dumpster.
“Thirty seconds. Missile away.”
Her finger caressed the trigger. While she remained focused on target, part of her mind began to monitor her breathing and heartbeat.
“Twenty seconds. Tracking positive.”
She knew that the Global Hawk that had fired the Hellfire missile was already roaring back toward Afghanistan. The “pilot” flying it was safely ensconced in a bunker on the other side of the world at Nellis Air Force Base on the edge of Las Vegas.
“Ten seconds. Tracking positive. Eight. Seven. Six.”
Neeley slowly exhaled two-thirds of the air in her lungs to her natural respiratory pause and paused her breathing.
“Three. Two.”
Neeley fired in between heartbeats, the round ripping through the target’s NVGs and his skull, splattering the lid of the Dumpster with brain, blood, and bone matter.
The minaret blossomed in an explosive ball, and as Neeley worked the bolt, she wondered if Allah would curse her. Then she figured she’d pissed off pretty much every god on the planet if there was a higher power, so it was a little late to worry now. She fired, killing the other man in the Dumpster while he was staring to the side, trying to see what the cause of the explosion was.
She stood, garbage falling aside, and slung the sniper rifle over her shoulder. She pulled a short, stubby grenade launcher out of a sheath on the side of her pack. She’d bought it on the black market in Kabul, then spent time modifying 40mm rounds for it. She had six rounds in loops on the front of her vest and one in the chamber. The first thing she’d done to the rounds was remove the safety that only armed the round after a hundred feet. These were live as soon as they left the barrel.
As she dashed down the alley, she pressed herself against the right wall and fired the first round. Right into the window where the four men were. It exploded while she broke open the M79 and loaded another round, still
Her pulse quickened as the speed hit her bloodstream.
She didn’t need to check her hide site. She’d taken nothing out, so there was nothing to indicate she’d been here. Gant’s rule number four: Always pack out what you pack in. They were Neeley’s rules now, as much of her as they had been of Gant.
In fact, there was nothing on her to indicate who she was or where she was from. Well, there was DNA, but it wasn’t like the Taliban or Al Qaeda or whoever was waiting to kill her was going to run that, and even if they did, she wasn’t in any database. She didn’t exist and hadn’t for a long time.
She pressed her eye back against the rubber, the alley coming alive in heat once more. The rifle was an old one. She knew there were better models now on the market, but Gant had also impressed on her that familiar was sometimes better than newest. It was an Accuracy International L96A1. British made, it chambered the NATO standard 7.62 by 51mm round.
The rounds loaded in this rifle, though, were anything but standard.
Neeley had prepared the rounds herself, building them to be subsonic so they wouldn’t produce the distinctive crack of breaking the sound barrier. A bulky suppressor on the end of the barrel would reduce the sound of the gasses propelling the bullet as they escaped the barrel. There is no such thing as a true silencer, but her rifle was pretty damn quiet.
A new voice crackled in her ear. “On station. Target Alpha locked in. Fifty seconds.”
Of course the suppressor combined with the low-power bullets meant a greatly reduced range, but that was why Neeley was in the pile of rubbish, needing to be close to the package.
“Forty seconds.”
Neeley placed the crosshairs right between the goggled eyes of one of the men peering out of the Dumpster.
“Thirty seconds. Missile away.”
Her finger caressed the trigger. While she remained focused on target, part of her mind began to monitor her breathing and heartbeat.
“Twenty seconds. Tracking positive.”
She knew that the Global Hawk that had fired the Hellfire missile was already roaring back toward Afghanistan. The “pilot” flying it was safely ensconced in a bunker on the other side of the world at Nellis Air Force Base on the edge of Las Vegas.
“Ten seconds. Tracking positive. Eight. Seven. Six.”
Neeley slowly exhaled two-thirds of the air in her lungs to her natural respiratory pause and paused her breathing.
“Three. Two.”
Neeley fired in between heartbeats, the round ripping through the target’s NVGs and his skull, splattering the lid of the Dumpster with brain, blood, and bone matter.
The minaret blossomed in an explosive ball, and as Neeley worked the bolt, she wondered if Allah would curse her. Then she figured she’d pissed off pretty much every god on the planet if there was a higher power, so it was a little late to worry now. She fired, killing the other man in the Dumpster while he was staring to the side, trying to see what the cause of the explosion was.
She stood, garbage falling aside, and slung the sniper rifle over her shoulder. She pulled a short, stubby grenade launcher out of a sheath on the side of her pack. She’d bought it on the black market in Kabul, then spent time modifying 40mm rounds for it. She had six rounds in loops on the front of her vest and one in the chamber. The first thing she’d done to the rounds was remove the safety that only armed the round after a hundred feet. These were live as soon as they left the barrel.
As she dashed down the alley, she pressed herself against the right wall and fired the first round. Right into the window where the four men were. It exploded while she broke open the M79 and loaded another round, still
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