“Maybe,” Alex said. “Franks, Moshe, Eli, do a perimeter search.” The three took off in different directions. “Sam, Adira, Jon-Pierre, let’s take a look at what they left us.”

Sam and Jon-Pierre headed toward the crates, and Alex and Adira approached the table. There were scraps of paper, strips of cloth, and maps strewn everywhere. Alex took the maps and Adira lifted the papers, frowning as she tried to read the ancient words.

“Doesn’t make sense. It’s all jumbled phrases and lists of items.” She shook her head. “It looks like a recipe.” She lifted a strip of cloth with more of the ancient Arabic calligraphy on it in red. “Al-Rûm.” She frowned, looking up at Alex. “That’s the ancient name for Rome. Is that where this came from?”

“No,” Alex said, spreading out some of the maps. “Soran, Baghdad, Israel – the Sea of Galilee.”

“What?” Adira came over and looked at the map. Her jaw clenched. “So, this is what they were attempting to do – cross the Gaza Strip and explode their bomb near the Sea of Galilee. It is the largest freshwater lake in Israel – sixty-five square miles of water that Israel needs to survive.”

“I think these are targets, destinations. Look.” Alex turned one of the maps to her. It showed both the northern edge of Libya, and the southern tip of Italy. “Misrata.” Alex pointed. “Seems they start here, and travel here.” The map circled Pachino, in southern Italy.

Adira exhaled, her eyes narrowing. “The Hezar-Jihadi are almost in total control of Libya, then it’s just a few hundred miles of uninterrupted Mediterranean Sea to Italy. Takes less than a day by boat. Pachino was ruled by the Arabs a thousand years ago – they never forget.”

Alex grunted. “Seems they’re expanding out of the Middle East.” Alex looked at the crate, still feeling the tingle down his spine. “Wait.” He held up a hand to stop Sam, who was just bending toward the unopened box. “Let’s all see what’s behind door number one.”

Jon-Pierre stood back as Alex went to one end of the crate and Sam the other. The rest of the team stood watching, curious but alert, guns ready. Both the HAWCs drew K-Bar blades and jammed their chisel ends in to lever up the nails holding the top down tight.

The lid lifted with the sound of groaning wood as it tried to hang onto the metal spikes. It popped free, and they slid it to the side.

“Mon dieu!” Jon-Pierre grimaced, walking backwards.

“Jesus Christ; that is fucking gross.” Casey eased her gun around, her eyes wide.

There was a body lying inside the box, dressed in a flowing shawl. But the figure was far from normal. It was enormous – even spread flat they could see it would have been over seven feet tall.