Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05

by Chris Stewart

  All of it was out there.

  And Azadeh was out there, too.

  He thought of her face, dirty and streaked with tears. He thought of her eyes and her trembling shoulders. He thought of her hands, clasped so tightly at her chest. She was young. So fragile. So beautiful.

  But that wasn’t the reason he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

  “I knew you,” he whispered to himself. “I knew you . . . somewhere. I know that I did.” He rubbed his hand across his face, keeping his eyes looking east.

  It was crazy, and he knew it. It was impossible. She was just another girl, another victim, another casualty that would be forgotten when the next battle began.

  But there was something about her . . . .

  So Sam stared across the nearly empty desert, looking toward the mountains of Iran, knowing that she was out there and knowing just as surely that he would never see her again.

  Agha Jari Deh Valley, Eastern Iran

  Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi sat on the cracked stone and cement steps of her father’s house and looked west. The smell of smoke still drifted in the air. Behind her, she heard one of the villagers, a stranger, rummaging through what remained of their kitchen, scavenging for any pots and pans that may have been left behind. Azadeh knew the thin woman wouldn’t find anything worth keeping; too many others had already picked their way through what remained of her father’s house.

  Some of the scavengers had been people she knew, even a few family friends, but most had been people from the other side of the village whom she did not know well. Each had done the same thing: approach her devastated house and pass her on the steps, ignoring her altogether, as if she weren’t there, then rummage through her belongings and haul away a few possessions without so much as a word.

  There was a small crash as the stranger in the kitchen picked up a piece of pottery and dropped it, the sound of broken clay scattering across the wooden floor. Azadeh heard another crash and more broken clay, but she didn’t react, her face remaining passionless and calm. She leaned back against the cold brick, listening to the final looting that was taking place in her house. It was nearly all gone, everything they had owned, every piece of furniture, every item of food, the kitchen table and utensils, the coal-fired heater, small television, blankets, mattresses, her clothes, all of it had been taken.

  Her father was gone. All of her family. She had nothing. She was nothing.

  Looking west, she had a clear view to the sea, the afternoon sun high, the terrain falling gently before her, the gradual slope of the valley dropping toward the salty waters of the Persian Gulf. Behind the village, the mountains rose, topped with gray granite and white snow. The trees were green in the valley, and the orchards along the river were close to bearing fruit. The sky was clear, and all the remaining villagers were out and working: preparing for the burials, tending the young bodies, cleaning up the debris, patching the bullet holes in the walls, sweeping up broken glass. Some had even started the work of rebuilding or repairing the damage done to their homes.

  Hundreds of people worked around her.

  But Azadeh sat alone.

  Somewhere in the Desert of Western Iraq

  He stood alone as the sun rose, clinging to the last of the dark night. He was a tall figure, his shoulders broad, and his arms powerful. He closed his eyes as he waited, facing the rising sun, its slanting rays creating a shadow underneath his heavy brow.

  He stood unmoving, a great form of darkness, a shimmering statue against the sun.

  He was the Son of the Morning, the Prince of this World. And he was incredibly powerful.

  Balaam and the others waited behind him. From where they stood, with his cloak and hood hiding his pale skin and sick eyes, Lucifer still looked majestic, perhaps even beautiful. But Balaam had seen him up close, and he knew it wasn’t true. Lucifer could be handsome, yes; he could show a face of beauty and great splendor when he was forced to. Balaam cursed, almost laughing, knowing that when Lucifer showed himself to mortals he could even still force a smile. But like a reflection on shallow water, there was no substance to his beauty, no heart and no soul. Up close, Lucifer’s skin had grown pale, dead and yellow and cold. And it had turned soft and supple, as if it might slough off, like a costume of skin that was no longer attached to his soul. Even his eyes shimmered yellow, like those of a sick animal.

  Lucifer was miserable. Balaam knew that. And his fellow demons knew it, too.

  Yes, Lucifer could work miracles to deceive or appear as an angel of light; he could cite Scripture to make the mortals think they were on the right course while he soothed and manipulated and cursed and controlled. He could stir secret combinations and murder and sinister works in the dark.

  But he could never be happy. It was impossible. He was a dismal wretch, dark and ugly and perfectly miserable. And he was condemned to his misery for the rest of all time, condemned to a body of spirit, incomplete and away from the Light.

  He is the Prince of Darkness, the Accuser, standing to watch a rising sun whose warmth he would never feel. The day would dawn bright and sunny, but he would remain in the dark, his day as cold and dismal as the death of a child.

  Wallowing in the cold pain, Balaam rolled his head, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. At least Roth was not around to irritate him anymore, for Lucifer had banished the slothful angel for not killing the girl. Roth should have convinced one of the soldiers to tie her to the tree and burn her beside her father. But the simple truth was—and this he hated to admit—despite their best efforts, there were times when even the most evil mortals didn’t do what they were commanded, when even the darkest soldiers were reluctant to kill the young and beautiful. Balaam didn’t understand it, for his natural instinct was just the opposite. The more beautiful they were, the more he hated them. The stronger they were, the more he wanted them dead.

  Standing on the edge of the desert, Lucifer glanced over his shoulder, then cursed and growled, an unnatural sound in his throat. Another day had passed. Another night was gone. The eastern sky was bright now. Another day had come.

  Another day closer to the end!

  Time was growing short now! And there was still so much to do!

  He snarled again, half from rage, half from fear. A sudden panic set in.

  He was shortening the days, stealing Lucifer’s precious time! Everyone felt it. Even the mortals, in their ignorance, sensed the quickening of time that was robbing Lucifer of the opportunity to destroy the souls of all men, robbing him of the time he needed to wreak havoc and despair, robbing him of the pleasure of his famines and heartaches and wars.

  He needed more time. Much more time. Time to find the good ones and drag them to him.

  But He was stealing it from him.

  How he hated Him!

  * * *

  Behind Lucifer, his servants cowered in the shadows of the morn. Lucifer was foul now, and it scared them to be near him when he was in such a bad mood. Each day he grew bitterer, quicker to attack. So they stood as far away as they dared, out of sight, in the shadows, but always within earshot, knowing that he might call them and that they had to be ready to move.

  How many spirits stood behind Lucifer, even he didn’t know. So many had chosen to follow him that they had never been numbered, but this much was clear: There were far more dark angels at his beckoning than there were souls in the world. This meant every man, woman, and child could be tempted individually, all of them receiving the personal assaults they deserved. And his angels weren’t all men . . . no, there were many women on his side. The bitter temptresses had proven incredibly powerful, able to speak to the mortals in ways that even Lucifer didn’t know, able to whisper especially dark thoughts into their mortal sisters’ ears.

  So behind him, in the morning, an untold number of fallen angels waited, all of them ready to move at his command. They all felt his power. But they felt his anxiety, too.

  The sun climbed over the horizon, sending a great shaft of light across t
he gray sand. He stood and watched the day break, then took a long, angry breath.

  Yes, he was the Son of the Morning. He was so powerful. There was much to fear from him as his majesty grew.

  He smirked and turned away, turning his back on the sun.

  If He was shortening time, then Lucifer could work harder, too. He would accelerate the battle. He would drive his angels in a fury of heat, sweat, and fear. His heart slammed like a hammer. “Go!” he hissed to his angels. “They are waking now in this part of the world. I want you waiting for them the moment they open their eyes. Do your work. Say your whispers. You all know what to do!”

  * * *

  Washington, D.C.

  On the other side of the world, it was the middle of the night. General Neil Brighton was on his way home from the White House. He sat in the backseat, reading and tapping at his Blackberry®, trying to respond to the insufferable amount of e-mails he had received that day while his driver maneuvered expertly, using the HOV lane, though the traffic wasn’t so heavy at this hour of the night as to slow them down anyway. Brighton looked up occasionally to watch the passing cars as he thought, then returned to his work, thankful for a few minutes of quiet. After receiving the third death threat in a month, he had recently been assigned a security detail, a decision that he had originally objected to but now was grateful for the protection. It gave him time to work as he traveled to and from his office at the White House, and he had grown to be amazed at how much he could get done.

  The driver pulled off Interstate 495 and turned inside the Beltway, varying his route through the side streets but generally heading south. He doubled back once, then made his way through a quiet neighborhood before coming to a stop in front of Brighton’s house.

  “Sir,” he announced their arrival, and General Brighton looked up.

  The general tapped at his Blackberry, then slipped it inside his blue Air Force jacket.

  “What time in the morning, sir?” the driver asked as Brighton pushed open his door.

  “Plan on five,” Brighton answered wearily.

  “Going to sleep in, are we, sir?”

  Brighton smiled. “You know, every once in a while.”

  The sergeant turned and rested his massive arm on the back of the passenger seat. He wasn’t merely a driver, he was a security specialist, and Brighton figured, judging from the size of the sergeant’s arms, he could lift the car and throw it across the street. But he also understood that wasn’t why he had been selected to the Pentagon’s Special Security Detail. The sergeant had been picked for his brains, not for his muscles. It was his responsibility not just to fight his way out of trouble but to avoid getting into it, a task that demanded far more than a six-pack abs and thick arms.

  Still, Brighton couldn’t help but be impressed. He thought back on his and Sam’s recent fight in the German bar. There wouldn’t have been any trouble if this guy had been there.

  His thoughts raced again, lighting on Sam, wondering how he was after tonight’s mission. Then he patted the driver on the shoulder. “Thank you for the ride, Sergeant Hamilton,” he said. “Sorry to keep you up so late again.”

  “Happy to help out, sir. But I won’t be here in the morning. I’ve got small-arms training at the range. It will be Master Sergeant Dawson if that’s OK with you, sir.”

  “That’s fine,” Brighton nodded, then stepped out of the car and made his way across the lawn. Hamilton started the engine, but the car didn’t move.

  The lamp on the street corner cast a weak, yellow light, and as he approached his front door, Brighton realized that he hadn’t seen his house or his yard in the daylight for several weeks now. It had been going on—what?—seventeen days since he had had a day off, and his schedule was always the same: up before the day broke and home after dark.

  Stepping onto the porch, he turned and nodded to Hamilton, who waved back before slowly pulling away from the curb.

  Neil Brighton stood a moment, watching the car drive away. It was cool, and the autumn evening air was not as heavy and humid as it had been just a week before. Several tiny moths flirted with the porch light that Sara had left on for him, but the front door was locked and he reached into his pocket to pull out his keys. Unlocking the deadbolt, he slipped inside the house.

  A single, small bulb burned over the range in the kitchen, casting a dim light down the hall and into the enormous living room, but the house was otherwise dark and quiet. He knew Sara would be reading upstairs on their bed. She generally waited up for him, no matter how late he got home—said she couldn’t sleep without him anyway, so she no longer tried.

  Standing in the hallway, Brighton realized that he wasn’t alone.

  He didn’t move for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. Then he heard the breathing and saw a slow rocking movement, and he stepped toward the figure sitting in the wooden rocking chair.

  “Luke, what’s up?” he asked.

  His son sat in the dim light with his eyes closed, his arms folded on his lap, his feet flat on the floor. “Hey, Dad,” he responded simply, but didn’t say any more.

  Brighton placed his briefcase on the steps (he would have to lock it in his security safe before he went to bed), pulled off his jacket with his medals, and dropped his flight cap on the steps next to the briefcase and coat. Loosening his tie, he walked into the warm living room. The house was peaceful, and smelled of cinnamon and apples from the candle that Sara frequently kept burning near the kitchen sink.

  Brighton didn’t turn on the lights. He sat down on the couch and leaned back wearily.

  “Long day, Dad?” Luke asked.

  Brighton took a deep breath and considered the things he had been dealing with for the last couple of days: the assassination of the Saudi royal family, the assault in Iran, all the children who had been killed. And that was just the beginning. It got much worse than that. Prince al-Rahman, the crown prince and heir apparent to the throne of Saudi Arabia, had become unpredictable. And now there were very troubling reports coming out of Pakistan. Too many meetings among the wrong men. Movements of al Qaeda soldiers. Rumors of something happening—something deadly, something big. It all had to fit together, but Brighton had no idea how. All he knew was that for the last week the hairs on his arms had seemed to stand constantly on end.

  It was coming. And he knew it. He just didn’t know when—

  “Long day, Dad?” Luke repeated, his voice penetrating the dark.

  Brighton realized that several moments had passed and he hadn’t answered. “Yeah. Kind of long. You know how it is.”

  Luke nodded slowly. He knew this job was killing his dad, sucking the life from him like the air from a balloon. But he knew he couldn’t change that. It was just the way it was. His father would die from exhaustion at this post if that was what he had to do. U.S. soldiers died every day, that was nothing new, and there was no way he would quit just because it was hard.

  But Luke couldn’t help worrying. He had seen a real change in his dad.

  The two sat in silence for a long time, neither of them feeling much of a need to talk. It was enough just to share a moment together in the dark. It seemed the silence said more than words could express anyway. So they listened to the clock on the mantel as it ticked time away. A few cars passed outside, and the old house creaked as the wood cooled from the heat of the day.

  Luke rocked, his eyes closed, a peaceful look on his face. “Hey, Dad?” he finally said as he let the rocking chair come to a stop. “Something’s happening, isn’t it?”

  A long moment of silence and then, “Yes, son, there is.”

  Luke thought, then leaned forward. “Thanks for being a good man, Dad. Thanks for loving us.” He paused a moment. “Thanks for loving Mom.”

  Brighton didn’t move, but he swallowed very hard.

  “Thanks for teaching me,” Luke continued. “And thanks for knowing yourself.”

  “I love you, Luke,” Brighton answered.

  “I know you do, Dad
.”

  TWO

  Agha Jari Deh Valley, Eastern Iran

  Azadeh sat alone on her porch.

  The afternoon had grown late, and though the sun was low it was still bright and yellow in the mountain air. Lifting her hand, she pulled her light chador around her neck and thin shoulders. The long cloak covered her head but not her face, and she pushed the light silk back, tucking it behind her ears, exposing her eyes to the afternoon sun.

  The villagers worked quickly around her, solemn, quiet, a great depression hanging like a black mist in the air. The men and women kept their voices low and their backs bent as they concentrated on the cleanup and rebuilding. There was so much to do, such a mess to take care of, and that evening, before the sun would set, there would be a community funeral for all those who had been killed.

  Azadeh shuddered suddenly as she looked at the devastated village around her.

  So many dead children. So many shattered homes.

  But the villagers had grown used to living with death, and the passing of their children was not the only thing they feared. It could get worse. It would get worse. There was a dark brooding in the air.

  Azadeh sat in a stupor. She didn’t think, she didn’t feel, she hardly even breathed. She occasionally sighed, her shoulders shuddering from a long night of tears, but otherwise she didn’t react to the commotion around her. And no one stopped to talk or give her comfort; indeed, no one paid her any attention at all. The villagers, her neighbors, those who had previously been their friends, those who had known her father and her mother since before she was born, those men and women and their families who had shared the same food, the same holidays, the same mosque and prayers, acted as if they were blind to the young girl. They all looked by her or through her, around her or past her, but no one looked at her, for she was cursed.

  The villagers had known it would happen. Some of the older ones had been saying it for years, especially those who had lived through the revolution that had overthrown the Shah. “No good could come from having a grandson of Shah Pahlavi living here.” How many times had they said that? Now they had been proven right. The army had returned to the village.