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  Saladin nodded to his second-in-command. "Prepare the men, we make for the next town once Brutus has...finished."

  Rashid nodded his acknowledgement. Leaving his master under the protection of two Scorpion riders, he made his way down the butte, taking a quick swig of water from his canteen as he went. The images of the butchered men were still fresh in his mind.

  Of the Riders of the Scorpion, forty of Saladin's best soldiers remained of the initial one-hundred. Upon reaching the Euphrates, Saladin had ordered the other sixty onwards to Assad controlled territory, as it was too dangerous to travel with the full cadre. The Riders needed to travel fast and fleet.

  They were only hunting one man, after all.

  One of the younger members of Saladin’s riders, a Jordanian youth named Yaseen, handed Rashid the reigns to his dappled roan. "What happened up there, my lord?"

  "Just a...test of our new tracker." Rashid took a final pull on the canteen before attaching it onto his belt.

  "Do the Olympus Black Ones not respect our skills?" Yaseen asked, barely hiding the spite he held for the PMC in his throat. "Saladin is the greatest desert fighter in a thousand years. Why must we grovel to the western Imperialists and make use of their…monster?"

  Rashid shot the youth a withering glance. "These Imperialists, as you say, are offering Saladin entrance to the head of their organization. Do you have any idea what that means? Weapons, equipment and intel the likes of which we can only dream. Do you understand?"

  Yaseen averted his eyes, cowed by Rashid's passion. "Of course, my lord. But...a man like our master to be subservient to the Black Ones...we should be in Iraq, fighting ISIL there, not searching for some worthless man for Olympus."

  The dappled roan reared nervously. Rashid put a hand to its mane, stroking the animal's fine coat. "Do you doubt our master, Yaseen?"

  The young man hesitated. "...No my lord, of course n−"

  "−Perhaps I should tell you a story about your leader. You are new and do not understand yet." Rashid cast his eyes out at the figure of Saladin, still sitting on the butte, overlooking the massacre, "When our lord was a young man, he watched as Saddam Hussein's forces encroached upon his village in the north. They dropped mustard and hydrogen cyanide gas. Do you understand what these things are?"

  Yaseen nodded. He was being scolded for speaking out and it was best he remained silent during the rebuke.

  Rashid continued his story, "He saw those he loved die by the hundreds, puking up their own insides as they breathed the fumes. More were killed by relentless bombings. The people could do nothing but flee from their homes. Those that stayed were slaughtered."

  Rashid watched his master, his heart heavy at the telling, "My lord escaped on his own into the wildlands of the Kurdish north. For days and nights he wandered. He ate scorpions and snakes to survive. It was Olympus Tribune Falco that found him. At that time, Olympus was fighting for Iran against Hussein. Falco took our lord as a foundling and sent him to Afghanistan where he trained with the Mujahedeen horsemen." Rashid paused, drawing breath. "Twenty years passed from that day. Saladin soon found many of those responsible for the attacks – men who had long thought themselves cleansed of their crimes. He bided his time, learning his enemies' weaknesses. When the time was right, he struck..."

  A whisper of a smile tugged at Rashid's face. "He hunted these men down like a force of nature. Like the horse lords of old, he chased them from their hideouts in the cities and into the deserts − them with their trucks and firepower, and he with only a few men, stout horses and AKs." Rashid's heart beat full in his chest, "Those men soon learned the price of their cruelty. Though he spared their families, the Iraqi commanders were killed to the last man. Their heads were sent to the palace of Hussein, as a warning. The desert belonged to the Scorpion. Saddam tried to find the raider his generals called Saladin, but with all of his advanced equipment and hardware, he never could. The Scorpion knew the desert too well."

  Rashid broke away, gripping the mane of his horse to pull himself onto its back.

  "So perhaps you see know, boy, that Saladin understands more than you can imagine the reckless hate of groups like ISIL. But as a commander of men, you must know when to fight and when to appease. Saladin will continue his war on those who would subvert this holy land, but we cannot succeed without Olympus's aid. Our cause, our band of the Scorpion needs Olympus to survive. So for now, we obey."

  The lesson well learned, Yaseen pulled himself onto his own black bay. Rashid saw Saladin stand up and begin making his way down the butte toward the Riders of the Scorpion.

  "When you follow a great man−" Rashid said, his eyes alive with respect, "−you must put all of your trust in him. Then and only then will victory be achieved. And think, if Saladin succeeds and becomes one of the inner members of Olympus, our strength will increase a hundredfold."

  Rashid lowered his voice as Saladin took the reins to his own horse; a majestic Arabian with a milky white coat. Sitting tall on its back, the Sand Scorpion looked at his friend. "Rashid? You look shaken, my friend."

  "I am fine, my lord. The band of the Scorpion awaits your command."

  Saladin nodded. "Good. We make for the Homs Governorate. I have received news from Falco. Olympus spies are reporting NATO airstrikes may be inbound against this region in the next few hours. The attacks may do our job for us, but I must see this man dead for myself. Brutus is scouting the area to the west now."

  Rashid raised his hand for quiet among the riders. Relaying Saladin’s commands to the cadre, he then followed his master's lead towards the next town.

  And hopefully, to the dead body of this cursed Centurion.

  Chapter 6

  Inferno

  Syrian Airspace

  July 15th, 2015

  THE CORPSES advanced on Joe, their sightless eyes staring through him. Their hands clawed at his flesh, tearing into his skin. He tried to scream, but no sound escaped his throat. As the man in shadow was about to order Joe’s death, another corpse broke through the crowd.

  Danny Callbeck.

  His friend threw the other corpses back. Before Joe could thank him, Danny grabbed Joe’s face with his hands and plunged both thumbs into his eyes. Joe screamed as they were torn from their sockets...

  You’re dreaming, Braddock!

  Joe erupted from the nightmare, his left hand clutching his M4A1 carbine rifle in shock. His copy of Ian Fleming’s From Russia with Love dropped from his nerveless right hand. The inside of his flight suit was soaked in sweat. His heart threatened to pound its way through his chest. The dream had felt so much more real this time. Seeing Danny there made it even worse.

  Joe had been lulled into a brief moment of shuteye after taking off from Turkey's Incirlik Airbase. The bulkhead of the Spirit Walker was a less than comfortable way to sleep, but the hum of the engines must have put him under for a moment. He knew he would need every bit of rest he could get.

  But lately, Joe was beginning to fear going to sleep, as all he had to look forward to were the horrible nightmares.

  Get a fucking grip!

  He needed all of his focus if he was going to survive the next few hours. He couldn’t lose it now. This mission was too important. He needed to be on the ball, one hundred percent.

  Joe reached down and picked up the book, stowing it in his on-board duffle. It was a good yarn – with terrific chases and adventure – but he’d have to finish it later.

  For the past half hour, his flight helmet had been blowing pure O2 to flush the nitrogen from his blood. Due to the high altitude and low pressure, a person performing a HALO jump risked hypoxia if he or she wasn’t suitably prepared.

  While Packrat, the Peacemaker's designated flyboy, had supervised the refueling of the aircraft for its journey to Central Syria, Joe had taken the time to get kitted up for the HALO jump he would be undertaking. He needed to stay as light as possible and had stripped his equipment to bare essentials. Underneath his flight suit, which would protect
him from the biting cold at 30,000 feet, he wore a specially designed night-infiltration suit.

  The suit had been designed by the Peacemaker's resident technical team, whose job was to provide state of the art equipment to the Unit's operators. Using CIA concepts that had been under development for years, they had been experimenting with polymers to create a new type of cloth. Bulletproof and light enough to be worn without significantly weighing down the user, what they came up with was similar to the Rynohyde Kevlar used by Olympus, but not as thick. Joe had been wary of having to be the guinea pig for such a garment, but the tech team had assured him it had been extensively tested. Reluctantly, he'd agreed.

  He reassuringly gripped his carbine, giving it a quick once over. His old standby was stripped of its grenade launcher, swapped out for an ATN night-vision scope and suppressor. The gun had served him well in Zimbala and he had made sure it remained his personal rifle ever since. It was important to him that he always had a weapon he could rely on. His rifle was, essentially, a best friend to him.

  Joe would also carry his Beretta M9, his Karambit knife and a small selection of grenades. His helmet was fixed with a set of infrared night-vision goggles. Overall, he was lightly armed and entering a pitched fight would be suicide. Stealth was his only option for this Op.

  Underneath the helmet, Joe's face was smeared with black camouflage paint, and he wore a comlink earpiece that put him in direct communication with the Spirit Walker crew, as well as the tech team back in Maryland. In the sixteen hours since leaving the USA, Jade had also been brought up to speed on the mission and would be acting once again as Joe’s mission analyst at the Operation Center of the Cottage. It did him good to have Jade on his side again, even though their last words stateside had been in anger.

  You really can be an asshole sometimes, Joe Braddock.

  Jade deserved more than he had given in the past months. Joe vowed to fix things with Jade when he returned.

  He looked up as Krieger walked through the bay area of the Spirit Walker to share a few last moments with his friend before the jump. His Russian friend was kitted up in a flight suit and oxygen mask to protect from the high altitude.

  “It is good to be together on mission again, is it not, Joe?” the Russian bellowed in his jovial accent.

  “Glad it’s you watching my ass up here.” Joe answered, finishing his weapon check. The Russian hadn’t seemed to notice Joe’s nightmare. Good. The last thing he wanted was for Krieger to be worried about him before a mission this important.

  Joe proceeded to secure his M4 in the M-1950 weapon case that would hold the gun during the drop. Finished, he looked at his only companion in the cargo area of the Spirit Walker. Krieger had been tasked as Jump Officer for the Op and would help facilitate the extraction once Joe returned with Delacroix.

  The big Russian could be mildly overbearing on a long plane ride, but Braddock was used to his constant diatribes on everything from machine-guns, curvaceous Ukrainian women and video games.

  “Seriously Joe, you should play new Call of Duty,” Krieger said as he held on to a safety strap connected to the roof of the aircraft, “This one has even more blood and gore than last. And the multiplayer…I didn’t know so many teenagers around the world have screwed my mother!” The big man grinned wide.

  “And this is a positive thing?” Joe asked sceptically, stashing his rifle into the flight bag. In between missions, the big Russian, with little else to do with his time while sequestered at the Cottage, had taken up video games as a pastime. Joe was angered at the brass’s refusal to allow the Russian some semblance of autonomy, as it often felt like they were keeping him prisoner. Krieger had more than proven his devotion to the unit. But for whatever reason, Krieger never complained. Joe got the feeling the Russian was happiest when blazing away with a machinegun and cared little for much in-between.

  “Of course it is positive! I only had Pac-man growing up. Now I can play game and shoot other people in face. What is not great about that?”

  Joe sighed and continued with his jump check.

  Packrat’s voice came over the intercom. “Ten minutes out, boys.”

  Krieger spoke into the comlink, “Copy, my friend. Our man is ready to go find the defector.”

  Joe stood up, grasping for a ceiling safety tether to steady himself. Even though the Spirit Walker was stealthily cruising at 30,000 feet, there was a surprising amount of turbulence. ‘Warm weather’ had been Packrat’s explanation for the bumps.

  “Joe, do you read me?” Jade’s voice came across the comm.

  Joe answered, “Go ahead, Halcyon Base.”

  “We’ve had an update from NATO command. Jordanian airstrikes will be hitting ISIL targets twenty-five miles west of your jump target, over.”

  Joe frowned, “What’s the skinny from Command, Corporal?”

  “Any danger posed to your mission should be non-existent, Peacemaker One. However, it’s you who is making the jump, Joe. This action may stir up ISIL forces in the region. Stanlin has given you the choice whether to go ahead with the jump or… wait for a safer time, over.”

  Joe shook his head, “Negative. This is our only chance. If we delay, Delacroix is gone and…” Joe paused as a nagging fear tugged at his gut, “…we could lose the man forever.”

  “Received, Peacemaker One,” Jade said. If Joe wasn’t mistaken, he could detect a tone of concern in her husky voice, “Command is giving you permission to continue with the jump. Good luck. Out.”

  “Thanks.” Joe signed off. He saw Krieger looking at him. “What?”

  “You like her, yes?” Krieger asked.

  “Sure.”

  “I mean, you really like her, huh?”

  “The hell business is it of yours?”

  Krieger shrugged, “None at all. She is nice girl. Skinny for my type, and a bit flat-chested, but…nice.”

  “You’re still on the comlink, Krieger.” Jade’s voice said, coming through loud and clear on the comm.

  Joe could imagine the smile behind Krieger’s breathing mask vanishing.

  “Slick, man,” Joe said, “Slick.”

  Packrat’s voice spoke through the radio, “Five minutes.”

  Depressurization of the cargo bay began immediately. Joe felt his ears pop, forcing him to swallow. Krieger proceeded to check Joe’s main and reserve chute. Joe fixed his rucksack to his harness, along with the M-1950 weapons case.

  “Looking good, my friend.” Krieger said, giving the harness a tug, “Are you ready for this?”

  Joe patted his comrade’s shoulder. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Be careful down there. If I was a betting man – which I am – I would lose money on you finding this Olympus traitor in one piece.”

  “Oh? Care to put your money where your mouth is?”

  Krieger laughed beneath his oxygen, “You are on. Fifty bucks says you come back empty-handed.”

  “You’re on.”

  Krieger nodded. “Good. All settled,” he clicked the comm unit on the side of his helmet, “Jumper at the ready, Packrat.”

  “Two minutes to drop-off. Depressurization complete, reducing speed.”

  The red pressurization light switched green. Both men felt a sudden shift in the aircraft’s momentum.

  “Opening bay door. Jumper move to position.”

  The aft bay door of the Spirit Walker slid open. Outside was nothing but darkness, with heavy clouds below them as far as the eye could see.

  Krieger held tight to the tether. He met Joe’s eyes. “Good luck, my friend.”

  Joe nodded. “See you in three hours.”

  “I’ll have bruskies and pretzels standing by.” Krieger laughed.

  Joe moved into position, placing himself directly on the jumper line designated on the deck of the aircraft.

  “Twenty seconds to jump…”

  Joe waited down the clock, staring into the void of the earth’s lower atmosphere.

  Sandor Delacroix, whoever the hell
you are, I’m going to find you, and you are going to tell me everything you know about Danny.

  Packrat began the countdown. “5…4…3…2…1…jumper away!”

  Joe leapt from the aircraft. He watched in fascination as gravity seemed to loosen its illusory grip on him. For a moment Joe felt weightless. Then, his stomach reminded him he was falling at a rate of 115 miles an hour and he had to swallow a brief dry-heave. Joe checked the altimeter connected his wrist. The night-vision goggles connected to his helmet showed he was nearing 28,000 feet. He felt his body fall through a smattering of clouds as his vision was temporarily obscured. Then, after a few seconds it cleared again and he could now see various light sources beneath him.

  The Homs Governorate…an ISIL fiefdom.

  He was falling into the mouth of the devil itself.

  “Joe, do you read me?”

  Jade.

  Joe pressed the side of his helmet, “Go ahead.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “Everything’s A-Okay on my end. Just…jonesing to get my feet on solid ground.”

  “Be careful down there.”

  Joe closed his eyes for a moment, calmed by her reassuring voice, “I’ll be fine. Keep in touch.”

  * * *

  KRIEGER REMOVED his flight mask as the pressure inside the Spirit Walker normalized. He made his way towards the cockpit. The modified jet-powered stealth Osprey was so advanced, it only required one pilot. Packrat, a native to Louisiana and a veteran pilot for the Marines, had been a coup for the Peacemakers. The guy was assured and natural at the stick and had more than proved his mettle in the past several months. Krieger liked the guy, more so for the fact that he didn’t just roll over to the Russian’s friendly ribbing and occasional nasty jokes.

  “Krieger, I’ve got new contacts on the radar.” Packrat shouted back to the Russian.

  “What is direction?” Krieger asked, moving to stand behind the young pilot.

  “Due south, flying low at 20,000 feet.”

  “Is there an ID on them yet?” Krieger asked.