Open Season by Cameron Curtis (great novels TXT) 📕

that lead onto Kagur-Ghar. A goat trail rises toward the tree line. The mountainside is so steep, the steps and trails are cut in dizzy switchbacks.

I sweep my gaze back to the target. A sentry squats to one side of the big wooden door. His back and AK47 rest against the wall of the house. Ten feet away, a second man stands with his rifle over his shoulder. I signal Takigawa to take the standing man.

We turn on our AN/PVS-30 photomultipliers. At a hundred and fifty yards, I dial the scope to 5x and zoom in on the squatting figure. His chin has been lowered to his knees. He’s asleep, trusting his friend to keep him safe. In the magic spell cast by the scope, the stone wall glows green. The man’s turban is washed white.

I dial back to 3.6x magnification. A wider field of view, improved situational awareness. The rounds in my magazine are subsonic loads. They will drop faster than standard 7.62 ammunition, so I hold the crosshairs above my normal zero. My breathing normalizes, and I take up the slack in the trigger. At the moment of my natural respiratory pause, I break the shot.

There’s a soft snap. The only sounds are the cycling of the rifle’s action, and a soft tinkle as the spent shell casing rattles on stone. The muzzle flash is a brief flicker. Smaller than the flick of a cigarette lighter, it dies in a heartbeat.

Simultaneously, Takigawa fires.

My bullet drills the crown of the squatting man’s head. He jerks, and a black flower blossoms against the wall behind him. The standing man crumples like a sack of grain.

Not a sound from the village. I sweep the scope over the darkened houses. The structures climb higher and higher on the mountain. Narrow footpaths crisscross the slope. Each path is at the level of a doorway on one side and a rooftop on the other. No other sentries reveal themselves.

I turn off the photomultiplier, sling the rifle across my back, and lower my NODs. Together, Takigawa and I draw our Heckler & Koch Mark 23s, clip silencers onto their muzzles, and get to our feet.

Koenig and Lopez step close.

Without a word, I turn and cross the bridge.

I stride across the escarpment to the front of the house.

Long front windows have been shuttered. There is no electricity in Badakhshan. Interiors are lit by open windows during the day, lanterns at night. Not a glimmer of light shows through cracks around the sills.

The door is Indian cedar, intricately carved by Pashtun woodworkers. I can’t see the hinges, the door must open inwards. HK416s presented, Koenig and Lopez drop to kneeling positions on the escarpment. Koenig nods to me.

No doorknob, no lock. It is a small village, and the Wahabi penalty for theft is an effective deterrent. I push the door open and enter the main room. Hold the Mark 23 at compressed high ready. Two-handed grip, close to my chest, thumbs parallel. Slightly hunched, I step forward.

There’s a man lying on a mat at one side of the room. He raises himself on one elbow and stares at me. Reaches for an AK47 propped against the wall. I thrust the Mark 23 forward, thumbs pointed at him, and fire twice. In the green light of the NODs, his face explodes in a black stain.

NODs are terrible. They restrict your peripheral vision. I swing my head and pistol right. There is a cold fireplace against the other wall. Wooden shelves with household supplies. Clear. Swing my head left. Another doorway, wide open. No door, only a long curtain of woven cloth. In the corner, a hole in the floor. An open staircase to the house’s lower chamber. Animals are kept there in the winter.

I retract the Mark 23 to my chest, tuck my elbows. Move toward the second room. I sense Takigawa moving in behind me. The first man inside is always right, the second man follows his lead. Takigawa will cover the hole in the floor to make sure no one comes upstairs.

Gunfire erupts from outside. The sharp crack of HK416s, the drumbeat of AK47s.

Fuck.

I sweep the curtain aside, thrust myself into the next room. A wide bedroom, mud and stone walls. Shuttered windows on my left. Glass. A luxury in the mountains. Mats on the floor, boxes against the walls. A bearded man in Pashtun clothing tries to rise from the floor, swinging a rifle towards me. I present the Mark 23. Engage. Double-tap, two in the chest. The man collapses, and I fire a third shot into his head. The action cycles with a snap, the spent brass rattles on the floor.

More gunfire outside. Shouts.

Two figures sitting on mats, leaning against the wall. Sleeping?

I swing the NODs for a close look, cover them with the Mark 23.

“Let me see your hands.”

“We can’t.” A girl’s voice.

The figures stare at me. A man, and a strange, shrouded figure. Hands behind their backs, speaking English.

Grissom and Trainor.

“Breed.” Takigawa remains in the main room, covering the stairs. “We have to get out of here.”

I unclip the silencer, holster the Mark 23. Draw my knife from its scabbard, haul the man to his feet.

“You Grissom?”

“Yes. That’s Sergeant Trainor.”

I turn Grissom around, cut the leather cords that bind his hands. “Let’s go,” I tell him.

The colonel rushes to a large dark shape pushed against the far wall. A big wooden chest. Clothing has been piled on it. He grabs a field jacket and shrugs it on. Pulls a plate carrier over it.

I grab Trainor by the upper arm, yank her to her feet. Pull the headscarf from her head. Blond hair flares white in the NODs. I cut her bonds and sheath the knife.

Grissom throws her a field jacket, followed by a plate carrier.

“Grab that weapon.” I point to the dead man’s AK47. Unsling my M110.

The colonel holds the rifle low ready, fumbles with the safety. He’s not familiar with the AK47.

Trainor pulls on her field jacket and fastens her plate