16
Michael Cunningham chuckled quietly to himself. He was pleased. The satellite phone was in pieces. One shot from close to four hundred metres out; a great shot by anyone’s standards. With the satellite phone down, he had destroyed all hope of any further communication with their backup.
He lowered the Barrett, resting the barrel on the small rocky outcrop he used to support his forearms when aiming. He breathed deeply. The lingering smell of cordite hanging in the hot, still, air was not unpleasant. Now he had to make a decision; did he stay put and hope for the opportunity to pick them off one by one, or move in closer and look for a chance to take them by surprise.
He took a few minutes to study the ground to his front, and determine his next move. His instinct was to covertly make
