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?”