Page 48 of Reaper
I wipe the blade clean on his tactical vest.
One down.
His submachine gun stays in the dirt. The weapon is too loud. A single burst from that rifle guarantees the entire compound will swarm the perimeter in thirty seconds.
Tracking the second sentry takes me down the length of the wall. He reaches the corner, pausing to look for his partner. He frowns, keying the radio on his shoulder.
I throw a loose stone across the gravel path, ten yards to his left.
The sentry snaps his weapon up, aiming into the dark. He takes a cautious step toward the noise, stepping away from the wall.
Three massive strides close the distance.
He spins, the submachine gun rising.
The heel of my boot drives into his knee, shattering the joint with a sickening crack. As he drops, the heavy pommel of the combat knife swings in a brutal arc, crushing his trachea. He collapses into the dirt, clawing at his throat, suffocating in agonizing silence.
The blade sinks into his chest to finish it.
I sheathe the knife and draw the nine-millimeter sidearm.
The rough concrete wall offers deep fissures in the mortar for leverage. The razor wire at the top is thick, but there's a small gap where the coils overlap. The sharp metal tears a thin lineacross my shoulder as I slip between the barbs and drop into the inner courtyard.
My boots hit the dirt in a crouch, the sidearm already raised.
The main structure is a sprawling, single-story hacienda with thick adobe walls and barred windows. Four more men hold the perimeter of the house, standing in the harsh glare of the security lights.
There's no way to cross the open courtyard without being seen.
I aim for the closest guard. Two suppressed shots center-mass, catching him between the armor plates. The dullthwip-thwipof the suppressed fire is barely audible over the diesel generators. He drops like a stone.
The second man turns, his eyes widening as he sees the body hit the dirt.
He doesn't reach for his radio. He doesn't hesitate. He raises his rifle and squeezes the trigger.
The sharp, deafening crack of unsuppressed gunfire tears through the night, shattering the silence.
The alarm trips. A brutal, blaring siren wails across the compound.
The stealth infiltration is over.
I throw myself sideways as a hail of bullets chews through the air where I was just standing. I hit the dirt, rolling behind a heavy, concrete planter.
"Intruder! East wall!" The shout echoes across the courtyard.
The heavy, rhythmic chatter of a mounted machine gun opens up from the roof of the hacienda. The concrete planter shatters under the sustained fire, showering me in dust and jagged fragments of clay. The air instantly fills with the sharp, acidic smell of cordite and pulverized stone.
I peek around the edge of the planter. Four men are advancing from the front gate, laying down a wall of suppressionfire. A heavy gunner is entrenched on the roof, tracking my position with a massive belt-fed machine gun.
I lean out, firing three rapid shots. The lead man in the courtyard drops, clutching his throat.
A round clips my left bicep.
The impact spins me backward. The pain flares, hot and searing, tearing through the muscle like a branding iron. I hit the dirt, biting down on a curse.
A quick check of the wound confirms it's clean through the meat of the arm. Blood pours down my sleeve, warm and slick, soaking into the dirt, but the artery is intact.
My grip shifts on the sidearm as I roll to my knees. The empty magazine drops free. A fresh one slams into the grip. Thirty-one rounds left.
