Nearly half an hour later Don remained prone against the natural incline overlooking San Marco Villa, the wet earth pressing cold and clammy against his chest through the soaked camouflage.
The rain had not lessened; if anything it had thickened into a relentless curtain that turned every leaf into a drum and every branch into a channel for cascading water.
His focus never drifted. Binoculars rose and fell in intervals as he swept the villa's perimeter, then lowered so his enhanced senses could pick apart the jungle's constant murmur—rustling leaves, distant animal calls, the occasional snap of a water-laden limb.
He was not accustomed to this kind of role.
Every mission before had placed him at the center of the action, where some decisions belonged to him.
Sitting here while another man moved through the dark and he could only watch made a quiet restlessness coil in his gut.
He pushed the feeling aside and stayed steady, breath controlled, body still.
