Dead Shot Read Free Page B

only an hour away, and parts of the village stirred as men and women prepared for the coming day. Kyle and Sybelle received a radio alert that the assault team was on its final approach, and almost immediately, the attack began with the buzzing approach of two big troop-carrying helicopters. Lights began snapping on throughout town by the time the birds landed on a soccer field a block east of the target. As the other Marines charged for the house, one of their snipers found a high position and took out the al Qaeda guard in front. Swanson and Summers, in the rear of the house, never took their eyes off of the target area.
    “I have movement at the door,” whispered Sybelle. “Tall man. Must be al-Masri’s huge bodyguard.”
    “I see him,” responded Kyle. In the scope of the Excalibur, strings of numbers scrolled in constant movement as the computer measured thedistance and figured the trajectory. So close, wind would not be a factor. Swanson held his fire.
    “Second target. I identify him as al-Masri.”
    Kyle studied the figure. “I confirm. Target in sight.”
    As gunfire snapped in the house, the two men ducked into a small automobile, with the bodyguard driving, and the vehicle charged into the street with its lights off. Once again, the foot soldiers of al Qaeda were left behind to become martyrs while the leader escaped.
    “Not this time,” whispered Kyle. He pulled the trigger. The .50 caliber weapon fired with a jarring BOOM, and the recoil kicked his shoulder as the big bullet slammed into the engine block hard enough to make the vehicle jump. A second round then went through the windshield and shattered the head of the bodyguard as the out-of-control car swerved sharply and slammed into a parked truck with the crunch of metal and glass.
    “Target down. Other one getting out.” Sybelle’s voice was perfectly calm, a monotone devoid of emotion.
    “Confirm the other one is getting out.” Kyle took his time racking in a third round, giving the man a moment to open the door. Al-Masri was alone in the empty street. His men were all dead or captured, and he knew that an American sniper had him in plain view. It was time to quit. He dropped to his knees and held his hands high over his head.
    Kyle shot him through the chest, and the al Qaeda officer flopped over on his side. A final shot went into his head.
    “Both targets down,” said Sybelle.
    Kyle grabbed his rifle and pack, and Sybelle picked up her scope and gear and called out the signal for the controller to send in the TAXI for pickup. They hustled out through the gate and back to the landing zone, where the little bird arrived two minutes later. They jumped in and were gone.
    The fighting was over in the house. The nest of terrorists had been wiped out to the last man, and the Marines would secure the area.
    “Was he trying to surrender?” Sybelle asked, wiping some camouflage greasepaint from her face. “Might have given up some intelligence.”
    “I saw a weapon,” Kyle said.
    “Yeah,” she said. “Me, too.”

3
    T HEY ARRIVED BACK AT Incirlik with plenty of time to shower, change clothes, and have breakfast before their next flights. With the special op done, they could mix anonymously with the crowd. Lines of soldiers and airmen and Marines talked in a garble of background noise, and silverware and china clinked a tinny chorus. The aroma of cooking eggs, sausage, and bacon rose like a cloud from the grills as cooks in stained whites kept the food moving to the steam tables. Air Force chow halls were the best, so although the flyboys wore bus driver uniforms, Kyle was always happy to share their food. He stacked a tray full of the good stuff, while Sybelle settled for bran flakes and fruit. Plenty of black coffee. They found a small table off to one side and put down their trays.
    “What are you going to do on your R-and-R, Kyle? Two weeks is a long time.”
    “Rack time. Sleep. Wake up and then go back to sleep. I’m tired.” He