Death's Reaper
Prologue
The Somali village sprawled beneath a sky with the final light of daylight. The sun sank into the horizon. Far to the east, the Indian Ocean's distant roar murmured. The air hung thick with dust that swirled from the wind. The wind moaned through acacias. Children's laughter had once echoed here. Now only the wind answered. Mud-brick huts huddled close. Their walls were pocked with bullet scars. Their roofs sagged beneath the sun. The ground stretched cracked, littered with shattered pots, rusted metal, and spent shell casings. A lone goat bleated near a collapsed well. Its ribs showed from thirst.
The wind carried diesel fumes from generators at the village's edge. The fumes mingled with sweat and blood. Gunfire cracked beyond the huts. Militia shouts rose and fell. In the distance, a woman's wail rose. She mourned a child claimed by the day's skirmish.
Eugene 'Mercer' Knelt behind a crumbling wall of mud. His M4 carbine was a familiar weight in his hands. He peered through the scope with focused eyes. At twenty-eight, he was a Navy SEAL forged in discipline and bloodshed. He had a broad-shouldered, lean frame from years of training. His fatigues clung to his skin from sweat. His dark hair was cropped close, matted with dust. His breath came slow. He ignored the dust. His focus narrowed to the chaos beyond the wall.
Mercer's mind was focused. The lives of his squad rested on his decisions. They hunted a warlord who had turned this settlement into a slaughterhouse. The briefing had been stark: eliminate the warlord, secure his intel, minimize civilian casualties in a village bleeding from his tyranny... more coming soon.