The rearguard moved like a pair of dancers, covering each other’s back, both aiming their rifles from shoulder-high, safeties clicked off to single-shot selection. The point man laid himself flat with the silken grace of a cat, knife drawn in his right hand while his left hand reached out for his Browning nine millimeter. The two men that formed the edge of the squad aimed their rifles outwards, as if a switch had been thrown. He decided to stand back for a little while more, and see how they could handle their approach on their own.Īll of them stopped dead in their tracks and hunched low when they heard noise, probably from the direction of the clearing up ahead. They moved fast faster than what Ethan had believed them capable of. It was a hand signal for the command to encircle the target.įive men melted away into the green humid jungle in a heartbeat, as if they had been an optical illusion. A knife blade covered in dry mud sat in his left hand, while his other hand made a rough circle in the air. Sweat ran freely down the red-haired Englishman’s temples, smearing the jungle camouflage on his clean-shaven face. Christopher Okigbo, Lament of the Lavender Mist Thanks to Minas Pergantis for editing this one (or maybe botching the job) Written and typeset with the LyX document processorĬover made with the aid of the GNU Image Manipulation programĪny likeness with events and persons living or otherwise is purely coincidental. You can reach the author at this e-mail address: Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
A story in the forgotten Land of the Rising SunĪvailable in e-book form from, the Amazon Kindle store and other online retailers.
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