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Imperfect Promises

By Elizabeth Noyes

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CHAPTER ONE

He’d landed in hell—a place of eternal waiting, fiery heat, despair, regret, and weariness.
And bugs. Lots of bugs. Both the flying kind and the creepers. Mosquitoes, ants, sandflies, roaches, no-see-ums, and tarantulas so scary-looking and lightning-fast they made nightmares seem like sweet dreams.
Jonas swiped at the perspiration pooling in the hollows under his eyes. His beard had grown long and thick over the past few months. Now, after parboiling in his own sweat for days on end, he itched like a flea-bitten mongrel and stank to high heaven. No wonder the old timers called August the dog days of summer.
What would the prim and proper Miss Townsend say if she could see him now? Worse, if she could smell him. Knowing Shea, she’d pinch her nose, make a face, and laugh.
A rough expletive erupted over the headset.
“Problem?” Jonas asked.
“Nasty little biters are eating me alive,” John Archer, his friend and long-time partner in these two-man missions growled and swore again.
Jonas couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “You’re getting soft in your old age, Arch.”
“I’m two months older than you, Ghost-man. Tougher, too.
“Riiiight.”
“Our target is way past late.” Archer changed the subject. “We’re losing daylight.”
Jonas shot a quick glance skyward where the fierce sun had passed its zenith. With each tick of the clock their hope of getting out of this accursed land tonight faded. “Patience, grasshopper. Toure will come. If not today, then tomorrow. His ego demands it.”
They’d both learned the art of patience long ago, but Sebastian Toure had proven more unpredictable than anticipated. The man never took the same route, never rode in the same vehicle, and never went anywhere without his baker’s dozen—twelve armed-to-the-teeth bodyguards plus a driver.
Jonas and Archer had spent the last nine weeks tracking Toure. Two long months they’d watched and waited in the sweltering heat, taking notes and making plans until three days ago their patience paid off. Toure’s very randomness had yielded a pattern in his movements. It seemed even the wiliest of men remained creatures of habit.
“What makes you think that narcissist has an ego?” Archer asked.
“Because according to all the dots you connected, celebrating his successes feeds his sense of self-worth. Adulation is oxygen to him.”
“I hope I connected those dots the right way.”
“I hope so, too.”
Toure, like most psychopaths, didn’t believe the rules applied to him. Instead of falling into anonymity after the Nigerian government rebuked and dismissed him for his involvement with a human trafficking organization while on a diplomatic mission to the United States, he’d thumbed his nose at them and formed his own militia.
Toure’s Mayaƙan ’yanci, his freedom fighters, worked under the radar, one more splinter group of the much larger Ansaru militants and therefore off limits to the governmental powers—at least until Toure started picking off the other leaders. To add insult to injury, he absorbed the members of the defeated factions into his band. The Mayaƙan’s numbers swelled to a significant number with no sign of slowdown which created a problem for everyone
Jonas stared at his grip on the Canadian-made McMillan TAC-50 LRSW. Calloused hands, strong, and more than capable of doing terrible, but necessary things. His skin pigment was fading. If the mission didn’t end today, tomorrow latest, he’d have no choice but to reapply the reddish-brown stain made from walnuts.
His spirits sank. A new application of dye would last at minimum four weeks, which meant another month waiting for the stain to fade enough to avoid questions from the folks back home. How much more of his life did he have to give?
An hour passed before Archer spoke again, this time with urgency. “Movement.”
Jonas snapped to attention. Every detail jumped into sharper focus. His pulse spiked with an adrenaline rush and the fierce need to finish what he’d come here to do and end this waiting game. He’d promised himself once before to never return. This time he intended to keep his pledge. “Location?”
“One o’clock. Tree line.”
Dust plumes drew his eye. He could hear the faint whine of engines.
Peering through the Schmidt & Bender telescopic sight atop his rifle, he spotted several vehicles as they rolled into the clearing. “This is it. You called it.”
“I’m always right,” Archer declared. “I count three trucks, two jeeps, and a—huh, would you look at that. Looks like Toure got himself a Benz. Wonder if it’s bulletproof?”
Jonas studied the souped-up SUV with the chrome Mercedes emblem on the front. An armored car out here in the middle of nowhere? Could Toure announce any more clearly his self-importance? “That would be my bet. You know what it means.”
“He’s on the verge of making a move. Something big.”
Jonas kept his eyes trained on the cadre of men pouring from the vehicle as they herded a group of bound captives before them. In the clearing, they surrounded the now kneeling prisoners and raised longneck bottles and aluminum cans high to salute the sky. The Mayaƙan fought like demons, but afterward they drank themselves stupid at these celebrations while shouting obscenities at the world.
“You know, for a guy who’s leery of his own shadow,” Archer said. “This part of Toure’s circus never changes.”
“Foolish, but lucky for us,” Jonas answered. “Wait for it ... wait ....”
The rear door of the SUV opened. Toure stepped out and, right on cue, the Mayaƙan flew into a frenzy. A few of the more zealous ones fired their weapons in the air.
“Target confirmed,” Archer said.
“Target acquired.”
“I count thirty armed, including Toure and his goons, plus another eight unarmed prisoners.”
“Roger.” Jonas settled a little deeper into his prone position.
Next, the Mayaƙan would issue a ceremonial invitation to the prisoners to join their ranks. Not like they had a choice. The first one to refuse got a bullet in the back of his head, which made the decision easier for the rest.
Two of Toure’s guards unloaded a couple of wooden pallets and stacked them in the center of the clearing in front of the prisoners.
“They’re setting up a stand,” Archer added.
Toure smoothed his hair and brushed at his starched fatigues.
“Distance to target?” Jonas asked.
He’d already made the calculations using a Vectronix rangefinder, estimating the distance to the center of the clearing at 7,400 feet, a cool one-and-a-quarter-mile shot. While it didn’t come close to the longest shot on record, it beat his longest attempt. So be it. They hadn’t gotten this close since arriving in country.
“Distance is 2,251 meters,” Archer answered. “I have eyes on the zone.”
A good spotter validated data and kept a constant eye on the surroundings, taking on the preponderance of situational awareness. This allowed the sniper to zero in on the target while maintaining an advantage of a wider vision field, all of which translated to greater accuracy.
Jonas slowed his breathing. With his feet splayed out, body relaxed, and finger light on the trigger, he settled the crosshairs on the target. They had one shot at success, two at most. “Wind?”
“Negligible,” Archer replied. The Kestrel mobile weather station had long been a sniper’s best friend.
“After the shot, call for evac in sixty.”
“Don’t you think that’s cutting it a little close?” Archer asked.
Jonas did the math again while keeping a bead on the target. Fifteen minutes to low-crawl to the wooded area behind them followed by a five-mile sprint to the landing zone. Maybe a little aggressive given their full packs, but he didn’t want to stick around here any longer than necessary. “What do you suggest, old man?”
“Watch it, Flash. I don’t want to get stuck here anymore than you do, but the chopper won’t wait if we don’t make the LZ at the appointed time, fahimta?”
“Yes, I understand.” When Archer tossed out Hausa words, he’d reached his limit. “You decide. Clock starts when I pull the trigger.”
The long, drawn out sigh in his ear almost brought a smile to Jonas’s face. He made up the edgier half of their team, whereas Archer erred on the safe side. The balance worked well for them and was, no doubt, the key to their success over the years.
“He’s stepping up.” Archer wouldn’t speak again until the deed was done.
Toure hopped onto the makeshift podium and made a Hollywood-worthy gesture with his hands outstretched in the air.
His followers roared with pleasure.
Jonas caressed the stock of his weapon. The McMillan’s 0.5 minute of angle would prove its worth today. He’d wanted the shoulder-launched, laser-guided Judas missile, a can’t miss weapon system with advanced bio targeting technology. The new stuff afforded much greater accuracy at longer distances, but the sheer weight of the thing in addition to the other gear he and Archer had to lug around proved the tipping point. Instead, Jonas had opted for the standard .50 caliber long range sniper system, one he knew in intimate detail.
The telescopic sight framed the group of terrorists congregated in the clearing with Toure in the middle.
Jonas’s gut clenched even as he sought the void, a place of quiet calm where nothing but the target existed. He settled the crosshairs on the target’s forehead.
Toure’s skin color fell somewhere between black and darkest brown. His blinding-white teeth made a dramatic contrast when he grinned and, of all things, he wore a huge diamond stud in his left ear lobe. The leader of the Mayaƙan stood there exposed for the longest moment before he pumped a fist in the air and threw his head back in a laugh.
The diamond flared, dazzling in the sunlight.
Jonas dipped the crosshairs lower, seeking the largest target area. This shot demanded a center mass hit. Given the vital organs in the human torso, the bullet’s caliber, the lack of a medic, and the distance from any medical center, Toure’s odds of surviving such a wound were improbable.
Jonas’s index finger curled around the trigger, his touch feather-light, steady as a neurosurgeon’s. His heart beat slowed. Time stopped. Another deep breath. Exhale and—
Toure’s head exploded.
“What—?"
“Another sniper,” Archer yelled. He’d pushed up on his elbows, head above the brush line, and scanned the area with binoculars. “There. West.”
Disbelieving, Jonas watched Toure collapse. His face—heck, most of his head was gone.
The Mayaƙan remained frozen for three ticks of the clock before bedlam erupted. A few of the men rushed to form a barricade around Toure’s fallen body. Too little, too late. Several others invoked a death blossom, spraying indiscriminate fire in all directions before they scurried for cover.
“Someone took my shot!”
“I know. The question is who?” Archer, on his knees now, still looking through the binoculars, pointed toward the west. “Got him. Eleven o’clock. He’s good.”
Jonas turned his rifle where Archer indicated. Through the scope he spotted the faint movement of swaying brush. Someone every bit as proficient in the art of concealment as them.
A quick sweep back to the Mayaƙan showed them regrouping, scanning the area. They had no idea from which direction the shot had come, but it wouldn’t stop the panicked soldiers from searching.
“No time,” Jonas said. “We gotta go. Now.”
“Already on it. Evac in sixty. Pack up.”
Jonas almost smiled. Archer had changed his earlier assessment of how much time they needed to reach the LZ. When a mission went south, you didn’t hang around. Nothing was more dangerous than unharnessed fear and chaos.
Still wearing his camouflage covering, Jonas packed up his rifle and gear, shrugged on his pack, and started a double-time crawl toward the stand of corkwood trees behind them.
Archer followed close on his heels.
Quarter of a mile later, they’d used up twelve of their precious minutes. Still, they took time to shimmy out of the straw and brush covered ghillie suits before setting off in a sprint to the rendezvous point.
Forty-two minutes later, calves burning and lungs sucking air, he turned to Archer
“Chopper ETA in six,” his pal yelled. “Almost there.”
The distinctive whup-whup-whup of the helo’s blades sliced through the air a few minutes later, announcing the aircraft’s arrival. Jonas burst into the clearing but stopped to stare at the all-black chopper coming in low over the treetops. “What in the name of Moses?” Sure wasn’t anything he’d seen in the Army. Marines either. What all did Fowler have his fingers in?
“Don’t know, don’t care as long as it flies.” Archer blew past him.
Jonas reached the helicopter a step behind Archer as the skids touched the ground.
“Looks like you boys stirred up a hornet’s nest,” one of the helicopter’s crew members said as he offered Archer a hand up.
“Go, go, go,” Jonas yelled scrambling in behind him. Time to vacate the premises. They could figure out later the puzzle of the covert blackbird without markings and the identity of the sniper who’d stolen their thunder.

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