“I punished her.” The voice was indifferent. “She isn’t dead, but I could have killed her. I just flicked her brain a little – a pinprick embolism, I think you would call it. A little display for both her, and you, Alex Hunter.”

“You son of a bitch.” Alex felt a surge inside his mind – a storm of aggression building.

There was a sound like a bored sigh. “I could have turned her brain to liquid. I can do it to all of you. Do you need another display, maybe something a little more visual, perhaps to the other warrior woman? You like her, don’t you, Alex Hunter?” The voice had turned ominous. “Now, lower your weapons.”

“You don’t need to fear us.” Alex sensed something approaching. A wave of evil like he had never experienced in his life.

“I don’t fear anything. And so, we begin; 10 – 9 – 8 – 7 – 6 … there will be no zero, Captain Hunter … 5 – 4 …”

“Do it,” Alex said.

The small group lowered their guns.

“And now drop them to the floor.”

Alex let his fall, and the rest followed. Sam immediately squatted by Casey, lifting her head. The female HAWC groaned.

A vile smell began to fill the dark and ancient chamber, and then from deep within one of the alcoves a monstrous figure appeared. Its head towered above even the huge Sam Reid, and in the dim light they could see it held something, cradled gently in its arms.

It stepped out, and Alex heard Adira suck in a breath. She backed up, her voice so high, Alex barely recognized it. Her words – only in Hebrew – were muffled as her hand went up in front of her mouth.

“Oh God.” Casey was now sitting forward, her eyes blood-red from the brain trauma. She got to one knee. “You motherfucking son of a bitch.” She searched the ground for her weapon.

“Leave it,” Alex yelled, his eyes transfixed on the horror.

Sam just stood, arms at his side, his mouth open. The gruesome thing was dressed in a long shawl, like a surgical smock. There were patches of fluid dampening the material – some bloody, some yellowish, as if it had just slipped from an operating table.

Alex’s fists were balled, and his teeth were clamped so hard his jaws ached. In his head he could hear the screaming of the poor soul trapped forever in the living cadaver.

It was Eli, or parts of him. There were swirls of stitches holding the flaps of skin together, and only half of the face was the recognizable visage of the Mossad agent they knew. The other was a darker skin, and the eye a different color. The entire patchwork of flesh was sliced and rent with vivid scarring that wept no blood, as the flesh was as drained and dry as hung beef.