We advanced, splitting up to cover more ground.
My path took me to a gathering of tents where high-ranking officers were likely to sleep.
Approaching the first tent, I peered briefly inside to confirm the presence of a figure sleeping soundly.
Silently unzipping the flap, I entered, my knife ready.
With a swift, practiced movement, I plunged the blade into the figure's heart, the act carried out with a clinical detachment born of necessity.
I moved from tent to tent, each strike as silent as the last, leaving behind a trail of chaos yet to be discovered.
Meanwhile, other operatives were executing similar missions throughout the camp.
Suppressed shots punctuated the night where necessary, each muffled report marking the end of another enemy combatant.
These sounds were few and far between, our primary method being the knife, to avoid drawing attention.
