They turned at the sound of gunfire to see Moshe and Adira, legs planted, putting bullets into the few fleeing terrorists. Adira’s powerful Barak was blowing apart balaclava-clad heads, and she never missed. It was brutal, but with Alex’s returning clarity, he realized she was tidying up the chaos he had started – there could be none left alive to come after them or call the dog pack onto their heels, when their mission was not yet over.

After a moment, there was no more movement, no more terrorists, no cheering crowd, no Mosul film crew. Only the four of them were left standing, and a nervous-looking French pilot. The other captives still huddled on the ground, hands over their heads. In the sky above, large birds had begun to circle.

Moshe looked up. “Vultures. They find plenty to eat in the days of the Hezar-Jihadi.”

Alex nodded, watching the birds. “Death always draws a crowd.”

Adira slit the bonds of the French pilot, and said a few soft words to him. She then walked calmly toward the camera, and when she was close enough, smiled into the lens. She pulled off a glove, and held up her hand. There was a small blue Star of David tattooed in the meat between her thumb and forefinger. She showed it to the camera and then kissed it.

She spoke clearly in English. “Lions eat Jakals.” Then almost faster than the eye could follow she drew both her guns and fired point black into the lens.

Adira walked over to where Alex, Sam, and Moshe were freeing the kneeling captives, and helping the shocked men to their feet. The pilot followed, staggering, and watched as Adira walked along the line of them, speaking to many in their own dialects. One man in a tattered blue shirt hugged her and shook her hand, thanking her.

She turned. “They’re mostly locals. Seems their crime was to fall foul of these creeps – wrong religion, wrong words, basically wrong anything.”

“Send them home,” Alex said.

The pilot came and stood before Alex. “Merci, thank you.” He looked around at the decimation. “Are you part of a larger force? A rescue mission?”

Alex half smiled, his gray-green eyes staring through the blood still running down his face, but then the blood suddenly slowed and then stopped. “No, we’re alone. And we’re not here to rescue you. So until our mission is complete, you’re a passenger; understand?”

The young man’s face was still bleached of color, except for the bruises and tears to his flesh, evidence of his treatment while in captivity. “Oui, er, yes, I understand. I am Lieutenant Jon-Pierre Duval, at your service.” He saluted, still looking unsteady on his feet.

Sam slapped him on the upper arm, making him stagger. “Well, Jon, it looks like it’s your lucky day.”