Hammer of God

CHAPTER 7

Alex and Adira followed the line of Hezar-Jihadi who continued to jog, dragging their captives across the sharp stones on the outskirts of the city. They drew with them a few resident stragglers, caught in the tail of the brutal comet, as they were morbidly interested in the promised spectacle.

From a corner, Sam appeared, followed by Moshe. The big HAWC nodded imperceptibly to Alex, and they too followed the procession as it made its way to a large languid river.

“Of course, the Tigris,” Adira said. “They will execute them here, let their blood flow into the river. It is symbolic, as it will then flow all the way to Baghdad, and other areas not yet under their control.”

“Yes, a symbol and a message to Baghdad,” Alex said. “The blood of your people comes first, then we will follow.”

The Hezar-Jihadi came to the riverbank, and forced the line of captives to their knees. A man set about digging a deep hole, and then dropped a stout pole around ten feet in length into it, which he then covered in, so just five feet of it remained above ground. The French pilot was lashed to this pole, and a small metal drum of liquid was put beside him. It was clear what his fate was to be.

The cameraman set up his tripod, and then arranged a dish to transmit their gruesome display directly to the satellite.

Adira snorted angrily. “There will be waiting fans right across the world. Also some news services all too willing to give them a platform. It is a barbaric time.”

The twenty kneeling captives had twenty Hezar-Jihadi in black balaclavas line up behind them. Each had been filmed taking a shiny new blade from a bin, and stood ready for their performance. Alex saw that the captives’ expressions were a mix of abject fear and resignation, right through to anger and defiance.

A crowd was gathering now, some calling out their support to the terrorists. Many of the curious were looking for excitement, or others to satisfy a bloodlust, and thank whoever they prayed to that it was being inflicted on someone else for a change. Alex, Sam, Moshe, and Adira were able to blend in and move closer.

Alex kept his eyes on the line of men. “Sam, you and I will take the butchers. Moshe, any man that lifts a gun is to be taken down. Adira, you free the pilot.”

“What about the camera? Will we knock that out first?” Sam asked.

“No,” Adira said fiercely. “Let it run. Nothing would insult them more than to see their brave warriors smashed, and their captives set free. We will send our own message today.”

Alex smiled grimly. “I doubt this episode is going to feature in their next recruitment drive.”

A single older man with a heavy silver-streaked beard cleared his throat, as two of the terrorists kept the crowd back and out of camera shot. The cameraman grinned as he adjusted his focus, and then held a hand up with one thumb raised. He set the camera to run on auto and stepped back, arms folded.

The silver-bearded man started to intone, calling to their faithful, and issuing dire warnings to any who would oppose them. He listed the sins of the captives, and then began to call for death to…

There was coughing from the assembled crowd, and silver beard waved his hands, probably yelling: cut, cut.

Sam snorted. “Just like Hollywood, isn’t it?”

“Damned amateurs.” Alex laughed softly. “Let’s not wait until they get it right.” He turned. “Adira, you’re up.”

The Mossad woman nodded. “Wait for my signal.” She walked calmly toward the French soldier, her dark niqab concealing her entire body and face. She was the only woman, and even though garbed, she caused heads to turn — women, even fighters, were not allowed to witness executions. Unless of course they were on the hit list that day.

The pilot watched her with trepidation. Sometimes individuals from the crowd would take it upon themselves to inflict some sort of minor torment on the prisoners, ensuring that their last few minutes before execution were as loathsome as possible.

Adira spoke to the man, who seemed shocked at first, but then nodded jerkily. He hung his head. The silver bearded man came forward to take Adira roughly by the arm. His face registered shock, probably because the arm he clasped was more muscular than his own.

Adira turned, wrenching her arm free, and lifted a hand to her face-covering, pulling it from her head. She grinned like a death’s head into his stunned face, then turned to the group, all now watching open-mouthed as she sucked in a deep breath.

“Am Yisrael Chai!” It was one of the battle cries of the Israeli forces, simply meaning, “Israel lives on!”

The silence on the riverbank was like a physical weight. The cameraman swung the lens toward her, and the bearded one grabbed for the AK47 slung over his shoulder.

Adira’s arm came out of the folds of her niqab holding one of her Baraks, which she fired point blank into his face. He was kicked backwards off his feet by the powerful handgun. She spun, picking up the barrel of fluid and heaved it toward the crowd, who had been cheering for the death of the captives only seconds before. Before it even landed among them, she fired several shots into the barrel. A single spark of a bullet piercing the steel ignited it like a firebomb, covering many of the audience, and sending them scuttling away like flaming roaches.

“Enjoy the show,” she yelled in Arabic.

Shock and confusion rooted the terrorists to the spot for only second, but by then Alex and Sam were already in among the butchers, smashing heads together and twisting necks so violently that the terrorists fell, still holding tightly to their brand-new knives that would never taste blood.

The cameraman had turned to film the chaos, but after a second or two had decided to run for his life, leaving the camera on auto to shoot scenes from a madhouse. Adira took him down before he made a dozen paces.

The screams of the terrorists were now those of fury and confusion. They had seen their leader shot dead, and now from nowhere, huge men were tearing them limb from limb. Whether it was two or two dozen, they couldn’t know as it felt like they were in a storm of pain, and too late they realized that lions were now loose among sheep.

Sam had smashed down two of the men, kicking a third with his MECH suit leg hard enough to send him spinning fifty feet out into the Tigris. Suddenly, there was an oasis of calm around the big HAWC, as the fighting had been drawn away from him. He looked up in time to see Alex gripping two men, flinging them around like they were bags of meat. Broken bodies flew through the air, and only the terrorists’ wild-eyed fanaticism still drove them on in their fight to the death.

Sam was frozen, watching, as Alex’s face registered insane enjoyment. His shawl was thrown back, and a huge gash had been opened across his forehead. Blood ran down his face, making his eyes seem to glow through the bloody visage. The HAWC leader’s movements became faster and faster, until they became a blur, and the screams of the men he fought were mixed now with the sound of breaking bone and rending flesh.

Sam pushed forward, but Alex was already before him. The rest of the Hezar-Jihadi fighters were just crushed remnants at their feet, with Alex raining blows on the last, the sound a sickening wet crunch.

Sam lunged to grab at him, trying to restrain him, but Alex spun to grip Sam’s forearm. Though Sam was taller and outweighed him by fifty pounds, Sam felt the bones in his forearm begin to grind together. He immediately realized that the person that grabbed him wasn’t Alex anymore.

“Boss!”

Sam grimaced from the pain, and used his other hand to try and reduce the pressure. “Ease it back, boss. We’re done here.” Sam gritted his teeth, waiting for the bones in his arm to snap. He ground his jaw, groaning.

Alex blinked. He looked down at his hand on Sam’s arm, and then into the big HAWC’s face. He immediately released his grip.

“Job’s done. We need to go.” Sam rubbed his forearm, knowing that if he hadn’t been wearing the HAWC armor underneath his shawl, he might have ended up with only one arm.

“Job’s done,” Alex repeated, looking around at the obliterated bodies. He nodded. “Done.”

They turned at the sound of gunfire to see Moshe and Adira, legs planted, putting bullets into the few fleeing terrorists. Adira’s powerful Barak was blowing apart balaclava-clad heads, and she never missed. It was brutal, but with Alex’s returning clarity, he realized she was tidying up the chaos he had started — there could be none left alive to come after them or call the dog pack onto their heels, when their mission was not yet over.

After a moment, there was no more movement, no more terrorists, no cheering crowd, no Mosul film crew. Only the four of them were left standing, and a nervous-looking French pilot. The other captives still huddled on the ground, hands over their heads. In the sky above, large birds had begun to circle.

Moshe looked up. “Vultures. They find plenty to eat in the days of the Hezar-Jihadi.”

Alex nodded, watching the birds. “Death always draws a crowd.”

Adira slit the bonds of the French pilot, and said a few soft words to him. She then walked calmly toward the camera, and when she was close enough, smiled into the lens. She pulled off a glove, and held up her hand. There was a small blue Star of David tattooed in the meat between her thumb and forefinger. She showed it to the camera and then kissed it.

She spoke clearly in English. “Lions eat Jakals.” Then almost faster than the eye could follow she drew both her guns and fired point black into the lens.

Adira walked over to where Alex, Sam, and Moshe were freeing the kneeling captives, and helping the shocked men to their feet. The pilot followed, staggering, and watched as Adira walked along the line of them, speaking to many in their own dialects. One man in a tattered blue shirt hugged her and shook her hand, thanking her.

She turned. “They’re mostly locals. Seems their crime was to fall foul of these creeps — wrong religion, wrong words, basically wrong anything.”

“Send them home,” Alex said.

The pilot came and stood before Alex. “Merci, thank you.” He looked around at the decimation. “Are you part of a larger force? A rescue mission?”

Alex half smiled, his gray-green eyes staring through the blood still running down his face, but then the blood suddenly slowed and then stopped. “No, we’re alone. And we’re not here to rescue you. So until our mission is complete, you’re a passenger; understand?”

The young man’s face was still bleached of color, except for the bruises and tears to his flesh, evidence of his treatment while in captivity. “Oui, er, yes, I understand. I am Lieutenant Jon-Pierre Duval, at your service.” He saluted, still looking unsteady on his feet.

Sam slapped him on the upper arm, making him stagger. “Well, Jon, it looks like it’s your lucky day.”

The pilot’s eyes were on Alex. The wound on his forehead bubbled for a second or two, and then began to knit closed like a red zipper. Jon-Pierre’s eyes rolled back, and he fell into Sam’s arms.

Alex looked at the big HAWC and shrugged. “Well, you hit him, he’s yours.”

Sam groaned and threw the pilot over his shoulder.

The group assembled again at midnight. They’d rested and then had a quick meal of dried beef. Jon-Pierre even looked refreshed, but his eyes were still haunted and his pallor was that of mortuary wax. From mission go-time, there would be no sleep or even rest until they made their way to a rendezvous point twenty miles out in the western desert.

They had pooled their information. Alex stared at Casey Franks, whose shawl had traces of blood all over it. He gave her a hard look, but she simply shrugged and pointed at his own thawb. Alex looked down and grunted; it was now more like a butcher’s apron. He ripped it from himself — the time for hiding was over.

They had decided on entering a building two doors down that bordered an alley. They would find an accessible door or window and break in, making their way to the roof, and then scaling across to their target building. If things went bad, there’d be no cavalry, so the backup plan was to make it to the Tigris and steal a boat. Luckily the dam was upstream, but the smaller river blockages could be worked around.

“What can I do?” Jon-Pierre asked.

“Just stay alive, sucker,” Casey said, checking her weapons. She looked up at him, her hands still running over her gun tech. “And stay out of the way. If things go well, we all go home whistling. If they don’t, you might just wish you were back lashed to that fucking post.”

“That’s not needed.” Adira glared at Casey, who scar-sneered back. Adira turned to the pilot. “You just keep up, say nothing, do nothing, other than what you’re told to do. Understand?”

Jon-Pierre nodded. Adira and her men had on night dark combat fatigues and faces streaked with blackout paint. Alex and the HAWCs were back in their adaptive camouflage suits, that were now as dark as their surroundings. Sam extended the armored hood up and over his face, and began to check and then calibrate the eye lenses’ thermal to night-vision technology.

Each person had fitted silencers to their weapons, and Alex checked his watch one last time. “Time.”

They moved out; all would use the path that Alex and Adira had taken earlier that day — it was the shortest route, and time mattered now.

At the late hour, the streets were near empty. Major roadblocks would be manned and stolen radar equipment would also be watching the skies, but down in the dirt, there was nothing except the odd lonesome dog or fleeing roach.

Casey continually swapped between thermal and night-vision lenses, and Sam sent pulses down the long streets as he checked his motion scanners. Both teams used the sprint and cover approach — each pair sprinting forward to the next place of concealment only when clear, then the next pair would do the same. Each moved fast, silent, and near invisibly within the night-shadows.

Alex was first into the side alley two buildings down from their target. He came to a locked steel grate. Sam appeared beside him, braced and readied himself to launch a mechanical assisted kick to the framework. Alex held up a hand.

“Opens outward,” he whispered. “You’ll wake up half of Mosul.” He reached forward and took the handle, bracing his other hand against the metal frame, and began to pull. After a few seconds, there came a popping sound and then the screech of complaining steel, before the metal locking plate flicked out of the frame and clattered to the ground.

Alex turned and winked at Sam. “Brought my own key.”

Eli looked at Moshe and pointed at the fallen grate, raising his eyebrows. Adira nudged him. “Must have been rusted. Focus, gentlemen.”

Alex entered; inside it was tomb-dark and they switched to night vision. Jon-Pierre placed a hand on the shoulder of Moshe and stumbled after them.

Alex went first up a set of decrepit steps, sensing the sleeping bodies behind each door. On a landing there was a threadbare cat, watching the huge human beings with indifferent eyes, as if it had seen the same thing a thousand times before.

The door to the roof opened with a squeal of rusted hinges, and Alex held up a hand to the group. He went out a few paces and crouched. There was no one on the roof, or any movement close by. He called them out.

Each Special Forces soldier stayed low and took a position up at the small rampart at the building’s edge. They used sensors and scopes to scan the other rooftops, looking for snipers. In the distance they could see a few anti gun batteries, but there was no one manning them. They would only fly into action if their radar picked up an approaching solid object. Alex doubted they’d be focused on their own rooftops even if they were awake.

He motioned with a flat hand toward the target building, and they moved quickly, but carefully — the ancient rooftops were scoured by years of harsh weather. One wrong footfall and they could end up in someone’s bedroom.

Alex leaped across the first divide between the buildings, then the second, and then ran over to their target building. This one had a new roof, and looked to have been recently reinforced. He called Adira over and pointed to some marks on the concrete.

“What do you think? Looks like the skids of a chopper, wide, possibly a SeaCobra.”

She bobbed her head from side to side. “Close; but I think it is more likely to be a Toufan. They’re direct copies of your SeaCobra but are developed by the Iranian Aviation Industries.”

“Iran? What are they doing here?”

“Why not? It makes perfect sense. They want the world to believe that, like the rest of us, they are fighting the Hezar-Jihadi. But they will covertly back anyone who makes life difficult for the west.” She looked around. “We need to be cautious. The Toufan helicopters are used primarily by the Army of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution, or Sepāh.” She turned to Alex. “You know them as the Iranian Revolutionary Guards.”

“Great.” Alex exhaled, and called the team in close. “Heads up; we might have IRG on the ground.”

“Here? I thought those guys were really only active inside Iran, and just used more as financial muscle outside their borders,” Sam said.

Adira shook her head. “You underestimate them, Sam Reid. The Sepāh now have over a hundred twenty thousand military personnel in all type of forces — land, sea and air. They also control the paramilitary Basij militia, which has another ninety thousand active personnel. And you’re right, they do use their financial muscle, because they have a lot of it — they are now a multibillion-dollar business empire.”

Alex knew she was right. During his own research he’d found that the Iranian IRG were like a state within a state, and had a finger in everything. These days they were already a more dominant force then even the Shia clerical system.

“Damned nightmare,” he said. “Iran and Hezar-Jihadi cuddling up. But it would sure answer a lot of questions about how these militia jihadis get their funding, intelligence, and advanced weaponry.” Alex grunted. “Hammerson is going to be real interested in this.” He looked around, seeking his egress, but there was no visible door or skylight. “Franks, those guys from the chopper must have got in somewhere, find me where. Sam, take some readings. Let’s see if there’s more heavy particle trace below us.”

Casey moved off like a bloodhound, searching the rooftop, looking at the smallest edge or crack until she eventually stopped and crouched. She raised a hand, and clicked her fingers once. Alex joined her. There was a three-foot square cut into the roof, flush with its surroundings — a trapdoor. Alex ran a hand over it.

“Steel, solid.” A single tiny hole was near one end. There’d be no breaking this door or its lock without alerting everyone within a mile.

Sam finished his reading. “Traces of HRE, higher than background normal, but non lethal… as long as we don’t spend the night down there.” He looked up. “This is the place.”

“Good.” Alex pointed. “That’s a locking mech. Cut us in.”

Sam immediately kneeled at the trapdoor. He pulled something like a thick pen from a pouch on his leg, which he then pointed at the lock. A wire-thin red beam shot out, and the smell of burning steel and oil filled the air. Something popped from inside the lock, and then the door sprang up half an inch, still dripping molten steel.

Sam gripped it with his armored glove and lifted. He stuck his head inside, and then eased back. “Clear.”

They moved in fast. The stairs were metal and new, but the rest of the building was mired in dust and the grease from a thousand cigarettes. There were footprints everywhere, proving recent high activity. Alex motioned with one hand.

“Spread.”

The group sprinted off, searched the rooms, and then came back quickly. There was nothing to report.

“Let’s head down to the ground floor.” Alex led them on.

“Down where all the crazy squiggles are,” Casey whispered.

“Ancient Arabic, and I’m betting it’s incantations.” Sam responded.

Casey snorted. “Yeah, and maybe this is Hogwarts.”

Alex turned to glare, and the silence returned. As they eased down an older flight of stairs, staying close to the wall, Alex felt the tingle of a warning on his neck. He couldn’t sense life, or the feeling he got when there was an enemy combatant concealed close by. This time it was more a sensation of something not being right.

“Stay alert. Something’s down there.”

They came off the stairs on the ground floor, and found themselves in a single large room. It seemed most of the inside walls had been knocked down, and save for a few support pylons, it was a dark, warehouse-type open space. Even the windows were bordered over.

“There was someone in here; we saw movement. Be ready,” Alex spoke quietly as he turned. The huge room was strewn with debris, building materials like stacked cinder blocks and flat iron girders were piled everywhere, indicating ongoing construction work. Against one wall stood a small forklift truck. Other than that the room would have been completely empty if not for the line of five long crates — each around ten feet in length — pushed up against a wall. All were open except for one. There was a table near the long boxes, strewn with paper.

“Give me a count.” Alex swung to Sam, nodding to the crates. He wasn’t sure if there was any form of high energy particle waves coming off the boxes, but he could sense something strange had been in them as keenly as if there was light showing at their edges.

Sam finished at the boxes, and moved around the floor, stopping at the forklift. “This thing is registering a spike — it sure lifted something contaminated.” He half turned. “The nukes?”

“Maybe,” Alex said. “Franks, Moshe, Eli, do a perimeter search.” The three took off in different directions. “Sam, Adira, Jon-Pierre, let’s take a look at what they left us.”

Sam and Jon-Pierre headed toward the crates, and Alex and Adira approached the table. There were scraps of paper, strips of cloth, and maps strewn everywhere. Alex took the maps and Adira lifted the papers, frowning as she tried to read the ancient words.

“Doesn’t make sense. It’s all jumbled phrases and lists of items.” She shook her head. “It looks like a recipe.” She lifted a strip of cloth with more of the ancient Arabic calligraphy on it in red. “Al-Rûm.” She frowned, looking up at Alex. “That’s the ancient name for Rome. Is that where this came from?”

“No,” Alex said, spreading out some of the maps. “Soran, Baghdad, Israel — the Sea of Galilee.”

“What?” Adira came over and looked at the map. Her jaw clenched. “So, this is what they were attempting to do — cross the Gaza Strip and explode their bomb near the Sea of Galilee. It is the largest freshwater lake in Israel — sixty-five square miles of water that Israel needs to survive.”

“I think these are targets, destinations. Look.” Alex turned one of the maps to her. It showed both the northern edge of Libya, and the southern tip of Italy. “Misrata.” Alex pointed. “Seems they start here, and travel here.” The map circled Pachino, in southern Italy.

Adira exhaled, her eyes narrowing. “The Hezar-Jihadi are almost in total control of Libya, then it’s just a few hundred miles of uninterrupted Mediterranean Sea to Italy. Takes less than a day by boat. Pachino was ruled by the Arabs a thousand years ago — they never forget.”

Alex grunted. “Seems they’re expanding out of the Middle East.” Alex looked at the crate, still feeling the tingle down his spine. “Wait.” He held up a hand to stop Sam, who was just bending toward the unopened box. “Let’s all see what’s behind door number one.”

Jon-Pierre stood back as Alex went to one end of the crate and Sam the other. The rest of the team stood watching, curious but alert, guns ready. Both the HAWCs drew K-Bar blades and jammed their chisel ends in to lever up the nails holding the top down tight.

The lid lifted with the sound of groaning wood as it tried to hang onto the metal spikes. It popped free, and they slid it to the side.

“Mon dieu!” Jon-Pierre grimaced, walking backwards.

“Jesus Christ; that is fucking gross.” Casey eased her gun around, her eyes wide.

There was a body lying inside the box, dressed in a flowing shawl. But the figure was far from normal. It was enormous — even spread flat they could see it would have been over seven feet tall.

“What the hell did they do to this guy?” Sam moved slightly to the side of the crate and leaned closer.

The body was heavily scarified, with swirls and script carved straight into the flesh. The wounds were still open.

“Fresh cuts, but no blood.” Adira said. “I think this mutilation was done after death.” She touched the skin and pulled her hand back, rubbing thumb and forefinger together. “Feels like wax.”

“A Traveler,” Alex said. “Just like the thing that strolled into the International Zone.”

“Big fucker. This one must have died before it got its orders.” Casey grimaced as Alex reached into the crate, turning the massive head one way, then the next. Then he grabbed the shawl and ripped it away.

The flowing script was covering its body, but that wasn’t what riveted them. Zippering the body were masses of surgical scars knitting together a patchwork of different skin types. There was darker olive skin sewn to fair, and one huge hairy pectoral, not matching the smooth dark one on the other side of the chest, and a third in the center.

“Notice anything missing?”

“Besides my sanity?” Casey immediately responded. She pointed with her gun. “No belly button.”

“Keep going,” Adira said.

Casey scoffed. “Holy shit, where’s the freaking cock?” She craned her head. “There’s nothing down there. Hey, maybe its not a man after all.”

“What the hell is going on here?” Sam couldn’t hide the disgust in his voice.

Alex reached into the crate to turn the head again. “It’s not a man, not a woman, not an anything. Mary Shelley, eat your heart out.” He felt an odd sensation under his fingertips. “No pulse, but there’s… something.”

Adira held up a strip of material she had kept from the table. “This cloth, I believe it’s a headband. Terrorists carry a prayer, or a plea to enter paradise when about to go into battle. Perhaps this, this thing, was meant to carry the name of its target — Al-Rûm.”

“Giant pack mules. The damned Iranians are loading them up here, and then setting them loose. But…” Sam rubbed a hand up through his hair. “But this one is dead, if it ever was alive.”

Adira turned the strip of material over. “More words.” She frowned, trying to make sense of the ancient script. She spoke them softly, halting and starting again until she had the translation right.

Alex felt a tingle run up his spine to his scalp, as if static electricity had filled the room. “Jesus.” The lump of flesh beneath his hand quivered, and the thing’s eyes opened. Alex went to jump back, but one huge hand shot up to grab him by the throat.

Alex gagged as the large hand compressed. He used both his own hands to tear at the huge fingers, but he had never felt such power from another human being in his life. As the fingers started to close together, the thing sat up, its expression as slack and indifferent as if it were waking up, simply rising from bed.

Sam and Jon-Pierre rushed forward, grabbing at the hand, then forearm, without any effect.

“Feels — like — iron—get back!” Sam let go of the thing’s arm as it started to rise up. He then raised one huge boot, intending to use the MECH assisted framework to stomp down on it with pile-driver force.

In one rapid movement, the being swung Alex’s body like a baseball bat into Sam and Jon-Pierre, knocking them both to the ground, and then flung Alex into a far wall with enough force that some of the bricks shifted in their mortar.

Alex looked broken, and the French pilot and Sam lay still.

The thing then rose to its full height, and towered over all of them, its face slack. As it went to step from the crate, Casey braced her legs.

“Fuck you — fire!”

Casey, Adira, Eli, and Moshe opened up, dozens of silenced rounds smacking into the dead flesh with a sound more like that of a paddle on a side of beef.

Where the flesh was exposed, they could see holes puncturing the flesh, but no blood flowed. The being reached down to grab the ten-foot crate it had risen from and flung it at Casey, who had to dive fast to avoid the massive projectile.

“Do not let it leave,” Adira shouted, holding a handgun in each hand, and firing up into its face. Holes opened in the skull and chips of bone were blasted away, but if the thing registered pain, it gave no sign.

The patchwork being then moved fast, grabbing a reloading Moshe Levy, who managed to yell a curse before it took him in both hands and lifted. Moshe pulled free a dark blade and slashed at the hands and wrists of the thing, but he might as well have been trying to cut steel cables. In one quick movement, the huge thing’s hands came together, twisting and screwing Moshe’s body like an old rag. Gurgled pain was now overlaid with the sound of bones crunching and flesh and tendons popping as the Mossad agent was mangled together.

“No-ooo!” Adira yelled, running in and side kicking the thing. But she bounced off as ineffectively as if she had kicked a wall.

“Form up,” Casey screamed. “Concentrate firepower on…”

The thing opened its mouth but no words came. Its totally white orbs seemed to fix on her, and she sensed it tense, coiling for an attack. She knew what was coming. Bullets were useless and she dropped her gun. She then pulled out two of her longest blades, holding one in each hand.

“Then come and get it, motherfucker.”

Ignoring the bullets Eli and Adira still pumped into it, the being opened huge arms, and just as it began to accelerate the few dozen feet across the floor to Casey, there was a flicker of movement from behind it. One of the large flat girders that had been stacked near the wall chopped down and across in a blur.

One moment, the thing’s deformed face was glaring down at Casey, and the next, its head was rolling across the ground. The huge being then collapsed like a giant sack of meat.

Alex stood behind it, the girder in his hand. There was silence for several seconds as they all continued to stare at the thing.

Casey still gripped her blades tight. “What the fuck was that thing?” She jammed her knives forcefully back into their scabbards.

Adira shook her head, her lips working in a silent prayer. “Takwin.”

“What did you say?” Casey asked.

“Franks.” Casey turned at the sound of Alex’s voice. “Get me a bag.” Alex held up the huge head by the hair and stared into its face. The thing’s lips still moved.

Sam came back to the group, helping the French pilot to stand. Jon-Pierre looked at the ghastly trophy Alex held aloft, his face chalk-white.

“Can we go home now?”

Ten miles south of Mosul, Alex and the small group moved fast, heads down and racing the approaching dawn. Alex slowed his pace, dropping back to come abreast of Adira, who seemed lost in thought.

“Hey, I’ve known you a few years now.” He looked across at her, but she didn’t look up. “Never seen you like you were back there. You were scared.” He waited, but she trudged on, head still down. “And I don’t think it was that thing that scared you, but something else… maybe what it represented.”

Sam eased up beside them and Adira looked up then, first to the big HAWC, and then Alex. Her jaw was set. “Have either of you ever heard of something called the Golem?”

“Sure, who hasn’t. Something like the Hebrew superman, wasn’t he?” Alex said.

She snorted softly. “Something like that.” She sighed. “This might sound crazy, but the story of the Golem begins with a Prague rabbi in the 16th century, called Judah Loew ben Bezalel, who created an artificial being. He named it Golem, and called upon it to defend the Jews from attacks by Rudolf II, under the Holy Roman Emperor.”

She looked up, as if checking to see if either of them was laughing. Satisfied, she went on. “The Golem was made from nothing but the clay from the banks of the Vltava River, and brought it to life through rituals and Hebrew incantations. It is said a prayer was either inscribed on his forehead, or inserted into his mouth.” She smiled weakly. “Golems are extremely powerful, but are not thinking creatures. They act on commands only — you tell them to do something, and they do it without question. And they don’t stop until that task is done, or they are destroyed.”

“This thing was certainly powerful,” Alex said. “But it was flesh and blood, not clay.”

“Yes, flesh and blood, sort of,” she said. “But there are similar legends from other cultures. The Middle East is an age-old place, with civilizations dating back thousands of years, before science, to a time of magic and alchemy. I recently had the pleasure of working with an old friend of yours, Professor Matt Kearns. You might like to ask him about ancient magic.”

“We will.” Sam grinned. “As soon as he’s out of therapy.”

She nodded, as if expecting it. “In our search for the Necronomicon, Matt and I came across many ancient texts. But there was one I remember, named the Book of Stones, that referred to something called the Takwin — the creation of artificial, or synthetic life. In the 9th century, long before the Golem was even thought of, there was a man, a great Muslim alchemist, Jābir ibn Hayyan, who believed it was possible to create this type of life.”

Adira looked up at the glow on the horizon and inhaled deeply before going on. “Jābir ibn Hayyan’s work was purely focused on Takwin, and he even had several maps or recipes for creating false creatures such as scorpions, snakes, and, it is said, even humans in a alchemical laboratory. The created beings were without thought or conscience and totally under the control of their creator.” She looked up. “Who wouldn’t want an army of warriors like that?”

“You seem to know an awful lot about this,” Alex said, his eyebrows raised. Then he slowly turned, looking back the way they had come. Sam did the same.

“Anything?” Sam asked. He lifted a scope to his eye.

“No. Just a feeling.” After another moment, Alex waved them on. Casey caught them up as the HAWC leader turned back to Adira. “What you’re telling us is all just one big weird puzzle,” he said.

She nodded. “Yes, it is like pieces of a puzzle that mean nothing by themselves, and are therefore easy to ignore. But when more start turning up, a picture starts to emerge.” She looked at him. “This is what is happening now. The picture is emerging and becoming horribly clear.”

“You know, there are recent precedents for using dark magic,” Sam said.

“Like what?” Casey asked.

“During the final stages of WW2, Hitler started to search for anything that would give him an advantage. He turned to mysticism, and began a global hunt for holy weapons. There were two items he desperately wanted. The first was the Ark of the Covenant, the final resting place of the Ten Commandments, which he never found.”

“Bullshit. That’s just a made-up story,” Casey sneered, but then her brow knitted when Sam shook his head. “Isn’t it?”

“Oh, it’s real all right,” the big HAWC said. “The second item Adolf searched for, the Spear of Destiny, sometimes known as the Holy Lance, he had more success with. This is the weapon used by the Roman soldier who pierced the side of Jesus of Nazareth as he hung dying on the Cross. Hitler obtained it, used it, and nearly conquered the world.”

Adira nodded. “Napoleon, Caesar, Mao, all megalomaniacal leaders, sought and used dark magic or second sight — mages and seers — to gain a military edge. The Iranian mullahs also seek this advantage, and perhaps they have finally found a way to translate the Book of Stones’ secrets.”

Alex exhaled, his mind whirling. Part of him wanted to scoff like Casey, but he had seen things in his life that would tear at a normal person’s sanity. And he had seen with his own eyes the thing in the room — its dead flesh, suddenly becoming reanimated. The world still had so many secrets.

Adira looked up at him. “You asked if I was scared? Yes, I was, but not for myself. There is an old Jewish prophecy that says that Israel will stand until the dead rise to wage war against it. Maybe someone has managed to find a way to get the dead to fight.”

“The rabbi stopped the Golem by erasing part of the inscription carved into it,” Sam said. “Maybe there’s something similar we can use.”

Alex shrugged. “We beat it. We proved it could be stopped.”

“We beat it?” Adira looked back at the ground. “There were five crates, four empty. You beheaded one, and we know of three more that were deployed. Two carried out their mission, and one we took down in the Golan Heights. That leaves one unaccounted for. Where is it? Whose country is it walking toward right now?”

They walked in silence for another few minutes, until Alex reached out to grab her shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll find them and figure this out — together.”

She smiled weakly, but didn’t look convinced. Alex had wanted to tell her that they’d kill them all, but he knew they hadn’t even killed the one whose head he carried. He felt the head now, still squirming, as if silently screaming in his backpack.

The Mosul captives, now free, ran from the city. They headed back to their hometowns, by stolen pushbike, by car, or on foot.

One man in a tattered blue shirt half ran and half staggered back to a small oasis he knew. With still a quarter of a mile to go, he saw a tiny figure running toward him, her ragged dress flying, her long dark hair waving behind her like a shining banner.

Leyla leaped into his arms, hugging him and sobbing into his neck. After a moment she pulled back.

“Papa.” She smiled, blinking away wet eyes. “I prayed, and you were right; they came. The angels. Did you seem them — was it them that saved you?”

He nodded. “They saved us all, and sent the bad men all to hell.”

“Good.” She nodded, satisfied, and then closed her eyes. “Please God, now bring down your hammer on Hell itself.”