Hammer of God: Alex Hunter 5.5 (6 page)

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.