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  "Yes sir,” Buto said, the relief in his grin evident. "Come on, this way."

  Draven followed his guide, his mind swimming with questions and possibilities of the way his research could go if even half of the things he had been told were true.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BAGHDAD

  IRAQ

  SEPTEMBER 6th 2013

  THE STREETS OF BAGHDAD were filled with chatter and noise. The symphony of cars as drivers honked horns and shouted at each other was complimented by the swarming density of the population as market traders sold their goods and citizens tried to go about their business in the hope it would be a day of peace. Despite the ongoing unrest, the local populous had learned to adapt in the best way they could despite the heavy military presence and the ever-present threat of another terrorist attack. Eleven year old Akhtar Mahmood kicked his tattered football against the whitewashed wall without enthusiasm as his disabled younger brother, Youness, watched from his wheelchair, drooling and whooping from the shade.

  "Do you want me to do some kick-ups?" Akhtar said to his brother as he pointed to the white Real Madrid football shirt he wore.

  Youness gargled and flexed his hands, laughing as Akhtar kicked the ball into the air, showing deft skill at keeping it up with a series of knees or kicks before it could touch the ground. Across the street from the alleyway where the boys played, the American soldiers watched him, appreciative of both his skills and the distraction from the monotony of the day. Making the most of his audience, Akhtar performed some more complex tricks, ducking and catching the ball between his shoulder blades then flicking it back up into the air. Unlike many of the other citizens of Baghdad, Akhtar didn’t mind the Americans. Their presence made him and his family feel safe in a world filled with hostility and uncertainty. His father had told him that having them to protect the city was good, and could only lead to a better future for everyone.

  Distracted, he lost concentration and miss kicked the ball, slicing it towards the alleyway entrance. He glanced at the soldiers as he jogged after it, scooping it up from the floor, but they had lost interest in him now and were staring down the street. Akhtar followed the direction of their gaze, watching as a beaten up red Ford rolled towards the checkpoint they were manning, leaving a plume of dust in its wake. He squinted against the sun as he watched the car come to a stop thirty feet away from the checkpoint. Akhtar could feel the change in atmosphere. The soldiers who had been calm and relaxed were now tense and readying their weapons, falling effortlessly into formation as they watched the car. One of them, an olive-skinned man with a carroty beard took a step towards the checkpoint barricade and waved the car forward. The car remained in situ, engine idling, its occupants impossible to see through the dusty windshield which was reflecting the blazing sun.

  "Come forward," another of the soldiers shouted in rough Arabic, flashing a quick glance towards his carrot bearded colleague who flicked off the safety on his weapon.

  Still, the vehicle didn’t move. The soldiers had seen enough. They split into two separate groups of two, one approaching the driver’s side, the other towards the passenger side, all four men training their weapons on the vehicle. Akhtar watched, the football and even his brother temporarily forgotten.

  "Out of the car," one of the soldiers said, first in Arabic then in English.

  The car door opened, and the driver slowly exited, hands raised.

  "On the ground," He ordered.

  The driver - a stocky Arabic man, smiled and watched the soldiers approach him without showing the slightest hint of fear. Akhtar could feel the tension, and noticed that people all around the checkpoint station had stopped what they were doing and were now watching events unfold, hoping for a peaceful resolution but expecting the worst. Some, who had seen situations like this and the usual outcome, fled, distancing themselves from the scene, abandoning purchases and vehicles alike. It was at this point, as Akhtar was about to go back to his brother and get him to safety when the driver of the car activated his suicide vest, which in turn detonated the explosives packed into the rear of the car.

  Akhtar was on the ground before he even heard the explosion, thrown by the devastating concussion wave back into the relative safety of the alleyway.

  Debris rained down, glass shimmering like diamonds on the ground where it had been ejected from the windows of surrounding buildings. Behind the intense ringing in his ear, Akhtar could hear the dull sound of gunfire and the crackle of flame. Even above all the carnage, he could hear the screams. He scrambled to his knees, coughing dust and smoke which hung heavy in the air. At the mouth of the alleyway, he could see the remains of the checkpoint. Of the four soldiers who had approached the car, only two now remained, hunkered down and returning fire against unseen assailants from the rooftops, the second part of what was obviously a planned attack. Akhtar saw one of the soldiers who had been watching him play football splayed out on the ground, his body terminating in a pulpy mass of entrails where his legs should have been, dead eyes staring at the ground. With ears still ringing, Akhtar turned to check on his brother, who was wailing in his wheelchair, his chin slick with drool. Deciding he was safe enough towards the rear of the alley, Akhtar turned back to the gunfight happening just twenty feet away from him, mesmerised and horrified in equal measure. The violence of the situation surrounded him now, filling his nostrils with the stench of acrid smoke and charred flesh, his ears ringing from the explosion and the roar of the fire from the blackened remains of the car in the middle of the street, which billowed black smoke into the air. Another of the soldiers, the one with the carrot beard, was hit, bullets striking him in the chest and ejecting a thin mist of blood out of the back. Akhtar always thought seeing death would be like in the movies, with an exciting musical score and a hero who seemed impervious to things such as bullets or explosions. The reality, however, was proving to be quite different. The soldier who was shot simply crumpled against the sandbags he was using for cover and then failed to move again. His solitary colleague ducked for cover as another barrage of gunfire slammed into the checkpoint, kicking up great gouts from the sandbags he hid behind. He was directly across from where Akhtar cowered, and the two locked eyes, boy and soldier. Individuals from separate worlds who were experiencing the exact same thing at the same time. The frightened soldier screamed words at Akhtar which he could neither hear nor understand amid the relentless zing of gunfire which rained down on the checkpoint. Akhtar was about to flee when his eye was caught by another soldier approaching the firefight from further down the street. He was noticeable not because of his intimidating appearance, but because he was walking towards the skirmish with absolutely no sign of fear. He was tall and broad with heavily muscled forearms. Unlike the other soldiers who were at the checkpoint, he didn't wear armour or protective clothing, just a pale mustard coloured shirt and army trousers. The shirt bore an insignia on the shoulder, a red skull on a black background with the letters P and A at either side of it in white. The man also wore what looked to be yellow paint on his arms and neck, the stripes standing out in stark contrast against his cocoa coloured skin. Without pausing, he picked up the weapon of his deceased colleague who slumped on the sandbags and walked towards the carnage. Akhtar felt his stomach tighten. He was certain the man was about to die from sheer stupidity. Seconds later, a hail of bullets tore through the soldier’s body, puffing his shirt open and sending a fine cloud of claret out behind him. As impossible as it was, the soldier didn't fall, nor did he slow his pace. With absolute calm he aimed the weapon towards the rooftops and fired a single shot, hitting one of the rooftop shooters in the head, then swung the rifle to the opposite side and repeated the process, again hitting his target in the head, blood and brains spraying out of the back of his skull. The soldier didn’t break stride as he walked further into the street and out of Akhtar line of sight.

  The gunfire had almost died out now, and Akhtar couldn't resist scrambling to the edge of the alleyway on his hands and knees
to watch what happened next. Akhtar could see him now, standing beside the roaring inferno within the blackened shell of the car. He was scanning the rooftops, seemingly unaware the skin on his arm nearest the flame was starting to blacken and burn. From Akhtar's vantage point, he could see the distended skin on the man's back where the bullets had hit him and pushed insides towards the outside, tearing away his shirt in the process. Despite all the horror and violence around him, Akhtar was infinitely more afraid of this man than the constant threats of violence which had plagued his country for as long as he could remember. Another crackle of gunfire came from one of the rooftops, the soldier staggering back as the projectiles hit their target, once in the leg, and another through the stomach, the bullet going straight through the soldier and sending a great chunk of dusty concrete up from the street just a few feet from Akhtar. In a single fluid motion and showing no physical reaction to the wounds, the soldier swung his weapon towards his assailant and fired once. Akhtar saw a figure tumble from a roof down the street, landing hard in the dust.

  Silence.

  The soldier tossed aside his weapon and strode towards the man he had shot, somehow able to walk despite a shaft of bone jutting out of the leg where the bullet had entered. He grabbed the prone man by the shirt where he lay moaning and started to drag him back towards the burning car.

  The soldier who had been cowering behind the sandbags stood and checked on his friends, even though it was clear to see that none of them had survived the attack.

  "You need some help?" the soldier said as he approached the burning car. The wounded soldier with the insignia on his shirt didn't respond.

  "What unit are you with?"

  Again, the wounded soldier didn't respond. Instead, he dragged his prisoner to his feet, ignoring the pained howl as he was forced to stand on what was clearly a broken leg.

  "Hey, I'm talking to you, buddy. What unit are you from?" The checkpoint soldier asked again, frowning at what should have been debilitating wounds on the man walking towards him.

  "Apex team." The soldier grunted.

  "You look pretty messed up there. You need some help."

  "I'm fine."

  "You're shot."

  "It's fine."

  "You don't look fine. I see an exit hole on your back I could fit my fist through, let me -"

  The soldier was silenced by a single gunshot as the wounded Apex team soldier calmly unholstered the pistol on his belt and shot him in the head. He watched for a moment as the soldier fell against the sandbags, his helmet rolling off into the gutter, the back of his skull a ragged mess. Satisfied, that the intrusion was over, the Apex soldier turned back to the man who had fallen from the roof. Akhtar recognised him. His name was Abu, and always seemed to be quiet and polite. He owned a market stall selling grains and vegetables from which Akhtar would on occasion buy groceries for his mother. Abu was skinny and posed little threat, especially now with a broken leg and a bullet wound to the shoulder, which was staining his white shirt a vivid maroon colour. In contrast, the soldier’s wounds which should have been infinitely worse to the point of being disabling or even fatal were now barely bleeding at all, and certainly weren't doing anything to stop him functioning normally.

  "Who sent you?" the Apex soldier said in perfect Arabic to his frightened prisoner.

  Abu pursed his lips and didn't answer, staring with defiance at the Apex soldier.

  "Who sent you?" the soldier repeated.

  "You can interrogate me all you like. I will not speak." Abu said, his voice trembling.

  "I don't have any intention of interrogating you," The soldier said.

  Akhtar stared in disbelief as the soldier grabbed Abu by the throat and shoved him back into the burning wreckage of the car. Abu began to scream and thrash as the flames ate his flesh, and yet the soldier didn't flinch or deviate, even as the flames did the very same thing to his own arms. He held them in the flames until Abu stopped screaming, and then dropped the hissing, foul-smelling corpse into the fire to let the flames finish the job. He stepped back from the burning wreckage, arms burned black, great cracks exposing the fleshy raw muscles beneath. Akhtar looked on as the soldier approached, whistling and unaffected by the wounds which should have killed him. The Apex soldier stopped by the entrance to the alley and looked at Akhtar, who cowered away in fear. Now that he was in close proximity, Akhtar could see the yellow markings on the soldier’s skin weren’t paint, but veins running under his skin. The ones on his arms were lost in the devastating burns, but the ones in the soldier’s neck and face pulsed in stark relief against his skin. The soldier reached down with a blackened hand and picked up Akhtar's football and held it out to Akhtar, eyebrows raised. Too afraid to reach out for it, the young boy could do nothing but stare, wondering if he too was about to be killed. The soldier shrugged and rolled the ball into the alleyway, where it came to a stop against Akhtar's leg. There was a bloody black handprint on the leather where the ball rolled to a halt.

  "Keep practicing with that, boy. You have some skill." The soldier said calmly and in flawless Arabic, then walked away, soon lost into the cloud of thick smoke that had enveloped the street.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CAMP BLANDING JOINT

  TRAINING CENTER

  CLAY COUNTY,

  FLORIDA

  SITTING ON THE EDGE of Kingsley Lake, Camp Blanding served as the primary training centre for both the Florida National Guard and the Florida Army National Guard. Located just thirty-six miles from Jacksonville, the camp was a hive of activity for recruits as they prepared for combat either in simulated situations or on one of the onsite live firing ranges. Acting as something of a revolving door for those looking to sharpen their skills, Camp Blanding often housed a mixture of both Special Forces units and regular army personnel. As was typical of the region, it was a gloriously hot day with blue skies as far as the eye could see.

  Due to the lack of external stimulation between training sessions, it was often left to the personnel on site to find ways to keep themselves entertained. As a result, a five on five basketball game had started out in the yard and was now being cheered on by a good sized crowd of soldiers and staff who were enjoying a rare day off.

  Thirty-six year old Steve Denton hesitated, bouncing the ball in situ as he tried to spot a teammate, his muscular body slick with sweat. Before joining the National Guard he had almost turned pro, and for as much as the opposition were putting up a good fight, it was obvious to see they lacked his level of skill, that was, with one obvious exception. Denton eyed the player in question who stood eight feet away, watching Denton with sharp eyes. Unlike the others, he seemed both tireless and in possession of the skills Denton himself lacked which stopped him stepping up into the big leagues. He was tall, his shoulders broad and tapering into a thin waistline. His hair was long for a soldier and touched the nape of his neck. The man was now shirtless, however before he had removed it, Denton had caught his name which was embroidered onto the breast pocket. J. COOK. Denton didn't recognise the insignia on the shirt - the red skull on black with the letters P and A at either side, although it didn't surprise him. So many different units were on site at any one time that it wasn’t unusual for different squads to mingle and merge. Even so, pride meant a lot especially in the army, and he wasn't prepared to lose to a rival squad, even someone who seemed to tick all the boxes skill wise. With dismay, Denton noted that Cook, whoever he was, hadn't even broken a sweat despite the intense heat as they neared the middle of the day. Denton saw his buddy, Smithson unmarked and open. He feinted to the right, then passed left, watching as Smithson duly scored to draw the teams’ level. Cook looked furious. Denton tipped him a wink and a cheeky grin.

  Game on motherfucker.

  II

  Commander James Robbins had spent the last three hours trying to chip away at the mountain of paperwork on his desk without success. He gave the stack of files and documents a sour glare as he leaned back in his office chair and rubbed his
temples, trying to coax away the persistent headache which he had woken with earlier that morning. A month shy of his fortieth birthday, he felt he was too young to be spending his days behind a desk, not that he had any say in the matter. Although as physically fit as a man twenty years his junior and a skilled combat veteran who had seen action in Iraq (twice), his superiors had seen fit to promote him into a position which was strictly off the field of battle. Rumour upon rumour did the rounds that he had been pulled off active duty because of an attitude problem, something which was entirely unfounded. Sure enough, he was harsh and direct with his words, but, no more than necessary to get the job done. His father, who was also a military man had instilled a philosophy into Robbins which had stuck with him as long as he could remember.

  Don't go to work to make friends, boy. Go there to do what you have to, even if it means making the tough decisions nobody else will.

  The advice had been followed to the letter, and Robbins quickly ascended the ranks of the military system, enjoying the rigid, ordered lifestyle. He had never married or had children. Not because he didn't want to, but simply because he had so devoted his life to the army. He knew, of course, he wasn't well liked. His short fuse and lack of tolerance for anything other than absolute perfection made him a man who most of those below him wanted to avoid wherever possible. His eyes had a natural glare, which perfectly suited his perfectly bald head which was kept that way through choice rather than necessity. Turning his attention back to his reports, Robbins tried to focus. Try as he might, he couldn’t concentrate, the words on the page may as well have been written in a foreign language for all the sense they made. He heard the dull sound of a cheer erupt from outside and cast an envious glance towards the window. He could see the basketball game in progress, and decided a little fresh air might do him the world of good and at least, let them clear his head a little before he went back to his reams of paper. He found it odd that when he first envisioned a career in the military, pen pushing wasn’t one of the things he expected to be spending his time doing. Tossing his pen on the desk, Robbins stood and stretched. The benefit of being his own boss meant he could make such decisions as leaving his reports until later. He reasoned he would stand a better chance of blasting through them with a clear head anyway. Besides, it was a Sunday, and even commanders deserved a little break from the daily grind sometimes.