Two men jump from a jeep into the swirling dust. The Special Forces sniper slows his breathing—a four-hundred metre shot demands steadiness.
As he looks through his sights, one of the men’s faces becomes clear. The afternoon sun is scorching and the sweat drips into his eyes, but the crosshairs remain on his target’s head.
He clicks the radio once. Preparing to fire.
Three clicks received. Abort.
His target looks around.
He clicks again. Again, three clicks in reply.
The sniper fires quickly.
“That’s for my son,” he says, as he watches the drug lord’s body crumple into the dust.