Courtesy of Tactical Life
The chiseled gun-writer-turned-CIA asset stood noiselessly and alone in the frosty rain of an Afghan midnight. The sensations of cold and fatigue were gone, banished to that distant place where he sent things for which he had no need. He melded motionlessly with the darkness—invisible, silent, lethal.
His package was a lonely Swedish supermodel. Her career had represented the coveted trifecta of Victoria’s Secret, Sports Illustrated and the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders before her recent abduction. Lamentably, her preternatural beauty, genius-level IQ and facility with firearms had intimidated prospective suitors.
Her captors were terrorists, and their leader was an astonishingly bad person. He extorted money from his own grandmother. He judged people based on physical attributes of which they had no control, and despised, as a matter of principle, puppies and Santa Claus. The man disliked children—even the little cute ones—and eschewed personal hygiene.
The asset slid his suppressed Kimber 1911 from its shoulder holster and thumbed off the safety as he breached the cave, the shadows and sleeting rain surreal in his night-vision goggles. The startled guard looked up from his book, and the silenced handgun coughed twice in rapid cadence. The terrorist pitched out of the mouth of the cave motionless, his lifeless eyes glossing over in the pelting rain. The asset pivoted and pumped two more rounds into the man’s companion, looking incredibly cool while doing so.
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