“The weapon was more than thirty years old, but it still shot straight and true. Dixon knew it, liked it, trusted it. The rifle had done the job for him more times than he could remember. The job was killing, of course, and few in the world were better at it than Henry Dixon. When he’d first gotten into this line of work, after a couple of tours of duty, he had let his hair grow out into an impressive Afro, a throwback to the seventies. That hadn’t lasted long because he realized it made him not...iceable, and he didn’t want people to notice him. He wanted to ease into a place, do his work, and ease out again with nothing to show he’d ever been there except for a body . . . or two or three. So he’d shaved off his mustache, cropped his hair close to his head, and he still wore it that way all these years later. It was mostly gray now. Six hundred yards away, the rebel leader who called himself Dugo stepped out of his tent into the early morning sunlight and stretched. He was a tall, lean man who wore boots and a pair of khaki trousers.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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