The Blasphemer (26 page)
He steadied his breaths and flipped his selector switch to full automatic. Squeezing his trigger, he pivoted, firing controlled bursts. The men twitched in mid-laugh, collapsing like marionette puppets whose strings had been cut.
The water in the fountain swirled red.
With a hand signal, Haider ordered Alpha to sweep the compound’s perimeter clockwise, while Bravo would do so counter-clockwise. His plan was to catch the remaining sentries in a pincer maneuver, scissoring them as quickly as possible.
Leading Alpha, he got moving, dashing past Greek statues that stood twice his height, their nude ceramic bodies rippling with perfection.
He heard footsteps.
Approaching footsteps.
He took up position behind a statue, cautiously peeping sideways.
Three sentries came into view.
Once again, he was disgusted.
They were strolling almost leisurely with their rifles hanging from their shoulders. How could they be so incompetent?
Having faith that his men were already in position, he tapped his throat microphone twice. The crossfire came like book pages being shuffled.
The sentries jerked and heaved and collapsed.
Beautiful
, he thought with a smile.
Just beautiful
.
His men were well-oiled machines.
He ought to know. He had trained them himself.
Skipping over the bodies and linking up with Bravo, he entered a patio with potted plants, lawn chairs, and garden tables. Finding the right door, one of his men opened it with a motorised lock pick, and they slipped into the kitchen.
The smell of herbs and spices tickled Haider’s nostrils.
Even in darkness, the pots, pans, stoves, and ovens gleamed from polish. He padded slowly across the tiled floor and passed through a swiveling door.
He entered the dining room. It was magnificent. Crystal chandeliers hung from a dome ceiling and the long table had a dozen high-back chairs. The polished marble floor was so glossy he could see his own reflection.
Fine dining, indeed.
Beyond the next door, he stepped into a hallway with oil paintings of scenic landscapes. A strong woody aroma hung in the air, the type that only came from expensive furniture. Somewhere close by, a grandfather clock tick-tocked, its pendulum unaffected by the electromagnetic pulse.
Haider clucked his tongue and shook his head. Their mark lived here in opulence, enriched by cash, jewelry, and property stolen from thousands of his murdered victims. Grotesque. Disgusting.
At the end of the hallway, he located a door leading down to the basement.
He descended, the wooden steps creaking ever so slightly.
Reaching another door at the bottom, one of his men snaked a fiber optic camera under it. The camera transmitted grainy images to an LCD monitor. With a thumbs-up, he confirmed that there were no active threats on the other side.
They were good to go.
Opening the door, Haider crept in, welcoming the chill of air conditioning. His men fanned out before a row of double-level bunks containing the sleeping forms of servants who worked here in this mansion.
Haider studied their tranquil faces, their chests rising and falling.
He felt a touch of regret for what he was about to do. But the rules of engagement were quite clear—no one, absolutely no one, could be allowed to interfere with their mission.
They took aim.
Their lasers glittered.
They opened fire.
The servants convulsed from hundreds of bullet impacts, their bedsprings squeaking. Blood geysered against the walls. Stuffing from mattresses and pillows rippled and burst.
It was over in seconds.
Haider eased his finger off his trigger, the last of his spent casings clinking on the floor. His weapon continued to smoke. The air was thick with cordite, as if they had set off fireworks in here. Slowly, very slowly, two of his men prodded each bleeding body, making sure their targets were dead.
Haider heard a gasp.
He spun.
A female servant stood in the doorway to the bathroom, her hands clutching her mouth. Petite and fragile, her bulging belly told him that she was pregnant.
Pregnant?
He froze.
What the bloody hell was this?
Their intelligence had mentioned nothing about a pregnant woman.
This was wrong. There must have been some mistake—
She turned, as if breaking into a run. Before Haider could stop them, his men reacted, their guns snapping up and tracking her with gunfire. In nightmarish slow motion, he watched her crash against a sink before rolling to the floor.
His throat knotted up.
He choked.
Seconds stretched.
Good God. What have we done?
His men bowed their heads, reloading their weapons. Anger swelled up inside him, scalding like acid in his stomach. But he held it back.
They had reacted exactly like the well-oiled machines that they were.
He ought to know.
He had trained them himself, hadn’t he?
Damn it.
Chewing his lip, he moved to check the woman’s carotid artery. No pulse. Almost as an afterthought, he lowered his ear towards her belly. Nothing. They had terminated both mother and child.
He tightened his jaw, bottling up his feelings.
Now wasn’t the time to waver. He signaled his men to perform a quick sweep of the bathroom—making sure no one else was hiding—before exiting the servants’ quarters and creeping back up the stairs.
He continued navigating the mansion until he found a spiral staircase with banisters made of ivory. Touching a banister, he took in its cold smoothness, noticing how badly his hand trembled. He gripped it to stop the tremors from getting worse. He felt like... almost like... something inside him had shriveled up and gone poisonous.
Climbing to the top, he stepped onto a floor carpeted with a cushy fabric. A huge oak door lay just ahead, flanked by the masks of the gods Apollo and Mercury, their vacant eyes staring sternly at him.
His men arranged themselves around the door, their faces brimming with intensity, their hands flexing on their weapons. The fiber optic camera was used once more, and Haider squinted at the monitor, studying the image of their mark—The General—sleeping on a king-sized bed. Because of the low angle, they could only see his feet.
At last.
At last.
The irony was not lost on Haider.
They had come to put him to sleep for good.
One of them picked the lock and turned the knob.
He pushed the door in slowly.
Something clicked.
A tripwire, hidden at the top of the door.
In a heartbeat, a blinding flash engulfed them. Like multiple suns. Then came a roar, absolutely volcanic. From the bottom up, the mansion’s windows exploded outwards, glass flowering, flames surging. The shockwave smashed through the roof, sending tiles rocketing into the night.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Ling graduated from the University of Otago in 2007 and currently lives and works in Auckland, New Zealand.
He balances his day job as a television captioner with editorial duties at
Kia Kaha Press
, a publishing imprint.
Visit his website at
www.johnling.net
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