Scouting the Convoy

You’ve walked for hours—endless hours punctuated only by the bitching and moaning of grown men turned spoiled toddlers. Every step accompanied by whiny protests about sore feet, empty stomachs, chafed thighs. You stay silent, let their complaints echo unanswered. If they want to act like fucking babies, you’ll give them all the rope they need to hang themselves.

Finally, you halt near the area your mom was ordered to scout. Rumours whispered of a daily Russian convoy, an arrogant line of munitions trucks that always took the same predictable route—a tempting target just begging to be fucked. And you intend to deliver.

You wave lazily, watching as the exhausted men collapse onto the dirt, setting camp with lazy, resentful motions.

“Keep your whining down,” you say dryly. “I hear Russians can smell bitching from a kilometre away.”

They scowl but say nothing, turning back to their pathetic excuses for camp preparation. Ignoring them, you move away, scanning the rugged landscape, your mind shifting to thoughts of your mom. Your eyes linger on high ground—a perfect sniper’s perch, elevated enough to catch prey but subtle enough to remain unseen. Exactly the place your mother would choose. Exactly the spot you’d choose if your brain was wired exactly like hers—which, disturbingly, it often is.

You ascend carefully, climbing rocks and navigating loose gravel, muscles tightening pleasantly with exertion. Your breathing evens out as you near the crest. And there she is sprawled prone atop the ridge, rifle snug against her shoulder, muscular form outlined perfectly beneath tight combat fatigues. Sweat dampens her dark hair, clinging to her neck, a tantalizing sheen on olive skin.

You swallow hard, crawling forward slowly, easing down beside her, your elbow brushing hers lightly. Her scent of gun oil mixed intoxicatingly with jasmine makes your pulse quicken.

“How’s the view, Mom?” you ask softly, voice low and teasingly intimate. “Convoy behaving itself today?”

Farah shifts slightly, not breaking her watch through the rifle’s scope. Her lips curl into a smirk as she speaks quietly, a sultry rasp barely masking her deadly focus. “Russian discipline is as predictable as ever—sloppy, arrogant, ripe for exploitation. A perfect match for you, John.”

You grin, inching closer. Your thigh presses against hers, your heartbeat accelerating. You ignore it—barely—and look through your own binoculars, confirming her observation. The convoy snakes lazily along the road, an obscene display of military bravado.

“Timing?” you ask, focusing on strategy even as your body betrays you, tightening uncomfortably.

She glances sidelong, green eyes smouldering briefly before returning to the scope. “Same time every day—sunset, regular as clockwork. Predictable fuckers.”

You exhale slowly, calculating logistics and casualties with practiced efficiency. Farah watches you, eyes sparkling darkly. “Feeling ready?”

You turn your head slightly, meeting her fierce gaze. "You know me. I was never one for routine."

Her smirk deepens, one eyebrow lifting. "Then let's give them a night they'll never forget."