Chapter 4: The Head of the Snake

June 30, 2008
Somewhere in California
4:30 PM

The remote cabin had overlooked the Sierra Nevada Mountains for nearly two centuries, its origins forgotten. With a commanding view of the valley below, the view would be breathtaking for most, but the men sitting on the deck had other things on their mind besides natural beauty. Invisible in the trees, the equivalent of a squad of elite guards protected the cabin, but their presence was never seen, not outright.

Eric Andrews nursed his beer, tapping his finger against the glass and admiring the richness of the ale. "So gentlemen, bring us up to speed?" he heard, from the head of the table. He glanced over at the figure seated there. Many had speculated on the man's age, but no one knew for sure. All he knew was that meeting his eyes was an experience he never wanted to do again. Eric shuddered, as Daniels began to speak.

"The Cuban operation netted us nearly $1 billion," Daniels started, handing out packets to everyone seated at the table. The materials were on paper that was already began to yellow with exposure to even the low levels of light on the patio. Clearly it would become illegible shortly, but they knew that was the point. "Between the contributions from our Cuban émigré friends and the stock market transactions, we did quite well. So far we've accumulated a war chest of just under $3 billion. I believe it's time to take this to the next level."

"What do you propose?" came the chilling voice.

"Well, my daddy always told me, that if you want to kill a snake, you wait until it's ready to strike, then you chop off his head..." said Daniels.

July 1, 2008
Quetta, Pakistan
2:10 AM

The dark streets of Quetta were unlit by any moonlight, and the night was silent. A bit too silent for Reza Takim, who was pacing in the unlit garden. It had been a long night and there were still many hours until sunrise. He sighed. Guard duty in Quetta was useless, he thought. Everyone knew who lived here, and no one would dare come near the house, unless he was meant to do so. That was the last thought that had gone through his head when the silenced 9mm round took him right between the eyes. Black shapes moved stealthily through the garden towards the house, but no one was there to see them.

Zawir Redat had had a long day, and was sleeping peacefully in his bed when he was roused suddenly by a hand being clamped over his mouth. He tried to kick but the last thing he saw was a man swathed in black holding an aerosol can, which sprayed a fine mist right into his face, then a black bag was pulled over his head and he sunk into nothingness as the drug took effect.

4:30 AM
Somewhere north of Quetta

Redat was roused again by a rough slap across the face. He tried to turn his head but could see nothing except the ground beneath him. Still groggy from the chemicals, he shook his head briefly, then noticed that he was strung up by his wrists and ankles, hanging about five feet above the ground. He craned his neck to look upwards and saw two men wearing black clothing. One looked Arab, and he couldn't recognize the other, because of his mask. He swore.

"Ah, you're awake," said one of the men, in fluent Arabic. Redat placed his accent as Iraqi.

"Do you know who the fuck I am?" said Redat. "You're fucking with the wrong person," he said, in the same language.

"We know exactly who you are, ZAWIR," said the man, who made a motion to someone obviously standing behind Redat. Redat nearly blacked out as the bullwhip thudded into his testicles. His entire existence was pain, and he retched onto the floor below.

"FUCK YOU!" he yelled, and another blow came, this one tearing a stripe of skin off of his penis. He screamed and nearly passed out. The beating continued for a few minutes and Redat was soon sobbing uncontrollably. The shock of the abduction and beating was far too much for him.

"Now, you've gotten a small taste of what's in store for you, Mr. Redat. Before we get started, I'm going to tell you right now that you will not live until the morning. How you pass into the next world, however, is completely up to you. If you cooperate, your death will be quick and relatively painless. If not, the next few hours will make the last ten minutes seem like the brush of a feather," said the man, and Redat believed him. "Now, tell us what we want to know," said the man, asking the question.

Redat blanched, then anger crossed his features. "I don't know, and even if I did, I'd die before I told you!" He then began cursing violently. The man's expression didn't change a bit.

"I'm afraid this is going to get ugly, then, my friend." The man beckoned, and a small child dressed in rags entered the room, thin from apparent starvation. "I'd like you to meet my friend, Tajal,"

Redat looked at the child quizzically. What possible purpose could the child serve? He wasn't going to be beaten into submission by the waif, that was for certain. He heard the movement of some machinery behind him but wasn't sure what was going on. He suddenly felt warmth below, but could not turn his head around to see what was behind him. The man began to speak again.

"You've actually met Tajal, although you probably don't remember him. You killed his father, several months ago, and he lived in the forest, subsisting off grass and weeds. We found him this morning, nearly dead from starvation," said the man. Redat didn't understand what this had to do with him. He'd killed hundreds of men, what difference did one more make, and who cared about the child?

The warmth was now a blossom of fire below his left thigh, and he couldn't see what was happening to him. It was hotter than anything he'd ever felt, and he suddenly realized that his leg was on fire. "Do you remember how his father died, Zawir?" Redat tried to think but he could do nothing except writhe as his leg got hotter yet. He could feel his skin blistering and he started to smell the sickening scent of burning flesh. "You don't, do you? Tajal's father was the head man of his tribe, and because he wouldn't shelter your people, you took him in the hills, broke his legs, and left him for the wolves," said the man. "What you didn't know, is that Tajal was watching as they ate his father."

Redat screamed out as the flames rose up higher and engulfed nearly his entire thigh. The skin on his leg began to peel away like a banana and blacken, sizzling horribly. Pain started to radiate outwards as more and more of his nerves were damaged beyond repair by the hungry flames. "We don't have any wolves here, Zawir, but we do have Tajal. Redat looked on in horror as two men sat a table, complete with tablecloth directly in his view, and the child sat. As he watched, the man sat a plate, knife, and fork in front of Tajal. The pain in his leg intensified a hundred fold, and he realized that someone had just cut a swatch of his thigh away and was cooking it in the brazier below. A few minutes later, the meat was placed in front of Tajal, and he began to eat. Redat screamed incoherently as someone cauterized the wound with a glowing hot poker, stopping the flow of blood.

"Now, are you going to talk, or should we cut the rest of you to pieces and feed you to Tajal?" said the man. Looking into his eyes, Redat realized he would do exactly what he said. He nodded vigorously and began to talk, as the man wrote notes on a pad. Thirty minutes later, apparently satisfied, the man took Tajal by the arm, and moved to lead him outside. "Goodbye, Mr. Redat. We won't be seeing each other again. Cut him down," the man said, as he left with the child and the other man in black. Redat heard a swishing sound, and his left wrist was suddenly severed from the restraint by the sword. He screamed as the process was repeated for his other wrist and both ankles. Unable to stand, he fell to his knees and tried to crawl. Unable to turn his head, he heard the final swish but could do nothing as his head was severed from his ruined body. Another man in black picked up the head by the hair and stored it safely in a lined canvas bag.

Daniels pulled off his mask and looked over at his colleague, Rahim Fahnir, an American born Iraqi whose father had emigrated shortly after Saddam's elevation to power. "Now it's time to get the real work done,"

July 2, 2008
1:30 AM
Over Afghanistan

There was almost no sound as they flew overhead. The flight of four heavily modified MH-53 Pave-Low helicopters and their escorts cut silently through the night skies over Afghanistan, recognized on NATO radar as flights of peacekeepers patrolling the skies over the border areas. The truth was, although their equipment was American, the flight was most definitely not part of the peacekeeping force in Afghanistan, and their mission was hardly peaceful. Daniels peered through night vision goggles through the windscreen of the lead helicopter as the flight split up into four groups. One helicopter and its pair of escorts would be a strategic reserve, while the other three headed for their targets.

Baghram Village, Pakistan
2:30 AM

The first target was a small village just across the border in a rugged area that was a no-man's land to the Pakistani military. While it was technically their area of responsibility, the area was home to fierce tribes that had never recognized the authority of the Pakistani government. After a few half-hearted efforts after 9/11 had ended in many deaths from guerrilla warfare, Pakistan had come to an agreement of sorts with the tribal leaders and the area was more or less considered autonomous. It was home, however, to many insurgent groups.

Dropping off the two snipers and their spotters first, who quickly took their positions overlooking the village, the Pave-Low quickly and silently dropped off the six man assault group and took up a position hovering a few miles outside town with its escorts, in case it was needed. Daniels led the assault element into position, and along with another man, took a position outside the hut belonging to the village leader. The rest of the group had spread through the tiny village, taking positions. Daniels looked at his satellite receiver and saw that the thirty inhabitants of the tiny village were all asleep in their homes, with the exception of two sentries, who were quickly overpowered and tied up. Silently, the point man, Miguel Gonzalez, opened the door and the two men entered the house. The chief lay in bed next to his wife, and Gonzalez quickly grabbed the chief, covering his mouth with a gloved hand while he sprayed the wife with the incapacitating agent. She quickly slumped into unconsciousness, and Gonzalez turned the chief to face Daniels.

"Good evening," said Daniels. "I'm going to ask you a question one time. If you answer it correctly, you will be rewarded. If you lie or refuse to answer, I will kill you and everyone else in this village. Do you understand?"