And so it was that the young Turk tentatively emerged from his hole, sniffing suspiciously at the air while half of his face was still swallowed in the shadows. Flash! He darts out! And before the eye can blink, he is hidden once more in shadow. But he is closer now, almost visible under the rock not too far from you. You could have sworn that you saw him flinch once through the blackness, but now you're not so sure that that wasn't just your imagination playing tricks on you. You must be wary; he is certainly somewhere and he wants your blood. You'd meant to off him the instant that he poked a vital part of himself through the hole, but he was too quick.

A drop of sweat meanders down your temple. You feel it, but quash your first instinct to wipe it away--if you take your hand off that gun, the Turk will almost certainly strike. It does not stop the agony, however, of feeling the moisture move nanometer by nanometer, and your eyes widen involuntarily. It grows larger and larger upon you. You become increasingly more distracted, losing the keenness of scent that the Turk is putting off, not hearing his cautious shifts as he eyes you.

Suddenly, the ocean of perspiration finds a stray bit of hair from your sideburns and latches on, spreading out and dissipating before you even knew what was happening. You let out a heavy sigh, relieved now even more than you were when you'd been handed your score and told that you were the team to beat.

The sound of dirt scratching brings you immediately back to reality. The Turk moved again! But where? You carefully remove your right eye from the scope of the rifle and squint your eyes, searching for your elusive prey, trigger finger ready to squeeze at the drop of a pin. You're no longer so certain of your advantage as you were before; the Turk is quicker than you had expected and sharper than you were ready to give him credit for.

Silence saturates the deserted desert and the hours drag past with excruciating slowness. Your arms ache dully, still holding the gun at ready without rest; there are very few that could manage to carry anything after such a long time with sixteen pounds of metal, but your time will come soon as well—this you know. Evening is coming on, and the light is failing. The Turk has a decided advantage when it is dark. You know where he is, you think, and you could take the offensive, but if you are wrong, then certain doom lies in wait. Even if you’re right, the Turk is a worthy opponent; nothing is guaranteed with him.

The ominous sense that something glorious will happen very soon has been twanging just behind your ear for many minutes now. It won’t be long before one of you is gone.

(Conclusion will come on Sunday or Monday)