North Vietnam, October 5, 1971 Nguyen Van Luc stood on the riverbank, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, watching intently as the small boat silently cut through the murky water. In the darkness, with the dense jungle at his back and a cold moon overhead, Nguyen, a notorious Vietnamese operative and black marketer, had but two things on his mind: pass along the message, and get away as quickly as possible. He didn’t care for these men. Didn’t trust them. Most of all, though, he feared them. Especially the leader, the one called Cain. All Vietnamese, North or South, friend or foe, feared him. Cain. The fuckin’ man was a legend on both sides of the DMZ. A stone-cold assassin known for killing with his bare hands. A “Cain kill” was rumored to be so quick, so perfectly executed that the victim seldom experienced pain. It was also said that Cain never killed a man he couldn’t look squarely in the eyes. Skeptics questioned whether this was the truth, or merely another fabrication of the U.S. mythmaking apparatus. Not Nguyen. He knew it was true. He’d seen the man in action, killing with precision and cold indifference. Cain’s reputation was not built on falsehoods; it was built on body count. Nguyen wanted nothing to do with a man like that. With the boat only a few yards from shore, Nguyen lit a cigarette, took two deep drags, and then tossed it into the water. Rubbing his hands together, he squinted into the darkness, silently counting the men in the boat. Five. Oh, shit. Fear stabbed at his heart. That many here this time. Even that crazy goddamned Indian, the one called Seneca. This must be big. He plucked another cigarette from the pack and tried to light it. He couldn’t. His shaking hands wouldn’t cooperate. Frustrated, he threw the cigarette into the water and watched it float away. As the boat finally slid into the bank and the men came into focus, Nguyen’s fear overwhelmed him. He felt the warm piss stream down his legs. Read more. . .