He broke Murphy’s second law of combat operations. Never bring a knife to a gunfight. I swung the barrel of my gun to point right between his eyes.

“Drop the knife or I kill you where you stand,” I said in what I hoped was a calm and convincing voice. He glanced down the street as he thought of his chances of running. He seemed to think better of it as the knife clattered when it fell.

“Please Sir. I have family. I…” he started to blubber.

“Shut up and move over to that wall.” I commanded and he obeyed. I had him lean against the wall and frisked him for other weapons or comm gear. He was clean. I placed the gun to the back of his head and whispered in his ear. “Do you wish to meet Allah tonight?”

“No sir, please don’t…”

“Then strip,” I said.

“What,” he asked incredulously.

“Strip. As naked as you came from your mother womb.” He hesitated until a tap on the back of his skull with the muzzle of my gun convinced him I wasn’t joking.

He ran naked into the night, and I had my disguise.