The mountains seemed to hold their breath in anticipation of the slaughter. The wind howled through the granite ravines with an eerie, mournful whistle, tossing plumes of dry snow from the boughs of the black spruces. The temperature was dropping so rapidly that ice formed on the barrels of the sniper rifles in the high bell towers, requiring Marcus's operators to wipe the lenses of their night-vision optics every two…
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