~ ~ ~
The guard never knew what hit him – a throwing knife penetrated his ribcage from behind, piercing his heart, the neurotoxin on the blade instantly paralyzing him even as life ebbed from his body. Jet knew there were four sentries outside and two inside, and her strategy was to take out the exterior guards silently.
She moved like a wraith, nearly invisible in the shadows. The second guard would be rounding the building within one minute – the Mossad watchers had confirmed the security detail was on a tight timetable with its patrols, a throwback to the highly disciplined training the men had received in the Russian special forces – Spetsnaz GRU, the most elite of the elite.
The little PSS pistol popped, driving a 7.62mm bullet through the second guard’s throat. He crumpled to the ground, his weapon dropping soundlessly on the grass beneath him.
Jet crouched by his motionless form, confirming he was dead before dragging him behind a hedge so the other guards wouldn’t be alerted.
Only two more to go outside.
The third was in the process of spinning around to identify the odd noise he’d heard when Jet’s second throwing knife punctured a lung. He joined his colleague behind the hedge – then Jet’s blood froze when his radio emitted a burst of static at low volume and a voice demanded a status update in Russian.
She opted to let the call go unanswered. Her Russian was excellent, but these men knew each other, and even if she faked a garbled response in a low voice, they’d instantly know it wasn’t one of them. Now she would need to neutralize the fourth exterior guard before he made it from the rear of the compound, where she knew he spent most of his nights doing nothing.