[i]"This is as far as we'll take you, agent. Insurgent presence here's too great. You find your man and take him out, call for evac and we'll be here."[/i]

[color=lightblue]"Got it. Stay safe, lieutenant."[/color]

[i]"You too, agent. Good hunting."[/i]

[hr]

The city was in ruins. Ravaged. Tapped of all life. Torn apart by the very forces that were its supposed saviours. Bodies littered the streets like trash, forgotten and uncared for. It disgusted him to his core. How could a coalition reduce a thriving city to a mass grave in such a short time? All the warnings had gone unheeded; he'd heard from a friend in the CIA that the higher ups had wanted it that way. Sacrificing the lives of the few for the sake of the many.

They could cover their asses, of course. Plausible deniability. "Oh we didn't know there were [i]actual[/i] civilians in the city", "the civilian casualty numbers of the Keshkaril campaign were within projected ranges", "we merely responded to provocation on the ground, by the time we realised what was going on it was too late." All bullshit, but it had to be done. Public relations. Politics. All the under-the-table shit that kept the world turning. Dirty, filthy shit that forever corrupted the men and women that dared dip their hands into the cesspit. Shit like his mission. 

A certain warlord was holed up in the city. One of the leaders of the insurgency. For days the concentrated bombings had yet to touch him. But here he was, with intelligence suggesting a safe house in the slums. Only now had the DOD suggested a ground approach and minimal contact. An outside contractor was needed. So they found him. He'd been in this hellhole a week now, scavenging whatever he could, making contact with the locals and slowly tracking his target down. He'd adapted the dress of the locals refugees, donning ragtag clothes and pants. The only things that gave away any sense of true identity were his crisp, almost-clean sneakers and the grey pixelised camoflage cap he wore. From afar, he'd look like a lost scavenger. Nothing more.

Daniel lowered the brim of his cap and advanced across the street. The slum district was just the next block down. Bombing activity here was harsh; the craters in the streets and holes in buildings told the whole story. Decomposed bodies laid in some of those holes, left behind by the fleeing. The stench... Overpowering. The whole district was abandoned. Mostly. Yet he plugged his nose, held his breath and moved on.

He was close. Above the smell of death, blood and cordite, he smelled his target. A scent he'd been given as per request. For hours he'd studied it, memorised it, and now it was paying off. His nose knew the way, his legs followed it.

He stopped at the exit of the alley. Another wide open street awaited him, littered with debris, craters and burned shells of vehicles. Daniel looked around for cover, found it at a wrecked, burned truck, and readied himself. No doubt this guy knew he was coming. His lackeys would be watching. 

He drew his 1911 from its holster and held it ready. The pistol, from an age gone by, shone in what sunlight there was. He gathered his strength, counted down from three, and then broke into a run across the street. Once across he ducked behind the wreck and caught his breath.

Nothing. Lucky break.

With pistol in hand he shifted to the other end of the wreck and peeked out. Nothing. 

Hopefully on the journey up his luck would hold.