“Listen to me, Cyrus,” I said, dabbing cold sweat from his forehead, “I want to be straight with you, okay?”

He began to cry, knowing what I was going to say; but he nodded.

“You’re hurt bad. Very bad. I—I can call for an ambulance, but…” I let it trail off. I was feeling too cowardly to put it into words. Cyrus reached out with his swollen, bloody hand and did something that broke my heart. He patted my thigh. He was taking me off the hook from having to tell him that he was dying.

I took his hand and held it.

“I’ll find whoever did this,” I promised him. “So help me God, I will find them.”

He smiled with his ruined mouth. A small thing.

Cyrus touched one finger to his bloody chest and then slowly drew something on the floor. He used the pad of his finger to make a crimson dot, and then overlaid it with the symbol of the cross.

He looked from it to me and tried once more to speak the name of his killer. No—not a name. A word, a description. Two toneless syllables formed by a mouth that could not even speak that word.

Monster.

It was a horrible word, but it was no surprise to me. All this damage, all of the signs of physical power and rage—doors torn from their hinges, these men brutalized. I wonder if Cyrus and his father had stared into glaring red eyes as they were torn apart. A knight had done this, and if there was a better example of a monster hunting the streets of this country, I couldn’t imagine it.

Cyrus sighed and his hand dropped away. I sat with him while all that had made up this little man evaporated into the red darkness. I hadn’t liked him when I’d met him yesterday. A boring little guy who hadn’t much liked me either. But now that was different. He would live in my heart and head forever. Cyrus Omidi. A victim of the very old war that defines the Middle East? Or a victim of something new?

I spoke his name aloud seven times. Don’t ask me why. It felt like something I had to do.

I got to my feet and walked into the living room.

Fariel Omidi was past helping. There was nothing I could do for him. But I said his name seven times, too.

While I stood there, my phone rang.

“Captain,” Church said, “sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you. Give me a sit rep.”

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-Two

Barrier Safe House

Tehran, Iran

June 15, 10:46 a.m.

I turned away from the dead man and stared at the floor. Ghost came and lay at my feet.

“I don’t know where to begin,” I said into the phone.

“Tell me,” said Church.