By Tom Clancy, Grant Blackwood
For years, Jack Ryan, Jr. and his colleagues on the Campus have waged an unofficial and powerful crusade opposed to the terrorists who threaten western civilization. the main risky of those is the Emir. This sadistic killer has masterminded the main vicious assaults at the west and has eluded trap by way of the world’s legislations enforcement businesses. Now the Campus is on his path. Joined by means of their newest recruits, John Clark and Ding Chavez, Jack Ryan, Jr. and his cousins, Dominick and Brian Caruso, are made up our minds to seize the Emir and they're going to deliver him in . . . lifeless or alive.
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Extra info for Dead or Alive (Jack Ryan, Book 13; Jack Ryan Jr., Book 2)
Life, he decided, was all about trade-offs. They’d been in the hills for two days, all of it on the move, sleeping two to three hours a night. He was part of the special operations team of the 75th Ranger Regiment, based permanently at Fort Benning, Georgia, where there was a nice NCO club with good beer on tap. By closing his eyes and concentrating, he imagined he could still taste the cold beer, but that moment passed quickly. He had to focus here, every second. They were fifteen thousand feet above sea level, in the Hindu Kush mountains, in that gray zone that was both Afghanistan and Pakistan, and neither—at least to the locals.
Hadn’t moved at all. Driscoll brought his M4 up, settled the sights on the nape of the man’s neck, and then tightened his finger on the trigger. Easy, easy … squeeze … Pop. Not much of a sound. Hard to hear at all at a range of more than fifty meters, but the bullet flew true and transited the target’s head, leaving a puff of green vapor behind, and he went off to see Allah, or whatever god he acknowledged; at twenty-odd years old, growing and eating and learning, and probably fighting, came to an abrupt and unwarned end.
Wrong gomer was his immediate thought, followed by Shit. The face was the embodiment of confusion and shock. He was shaking his head, trying to get his brain initialized, but young and tough as he was, he wasn’t fast enough for the necessities of the moment. Near the back wall of the chamber Driscoll saw movement, a shadow hunched over, sliding along the rock wall. Not moving toward them but somewhere else. Driscoll holstered his pistol, turned to Tait, then pointed at the gomer on the ground—Cuff ’em—then flipped on his NV and dropped the M4’s sights over the moving shadow.