Abyss (Songs of Megiddo) Read Online Free PDF

-of-sight facilities that The Organisation had access to. He and Yvonne were lucky. Lucky beyond words.
    Dio was acutely, constantly, and humbly aware of this fact, even without Wright to remind him of how much it cost to keep him fed and sheltered. When he had initially been recruited, he’d been awaiting trial in Tel Aviv: a trial that, more than likely, would never have arrived. They were calling him a traitor. A collaborator. A terrorist. And yes...he’d known what would happen if he was caught, but...he’d never been able to shrug off his faithful belief in a core of essential goodness common to Humankind. Or, for that matter, his Faith – yes, with a capital ‘F’ – in God’s love for not just His ‘chosen people’, but for all people. Both Dio’s faith in man and Faith in God had led him to believe that he would be protected. But – as he asked himself from time to time – how had he genuinely believed that this would be possible? He had leaked classified information to Hamas. He was, as a result, complicit in an attack that took the lives of a dozen Israeli soldiers. There was no absolution there; no forgiveness to be earned or penance to be performed. But still...he had believed that he would be protected.
    In that first interrogation – the bad one – his former friends had clarified things. They had broken it down for him. And they broke it down as they broke him down: with fists, and boots, and a Tazer with the voltage dialled back so that he didn’t pass out. With spit, and rage, and vitriol, they’d shown him the truth. He remembered their knuckles toward the end of it, like a child remembers images from the front lines. Images filtered into the home by wire, signal, satellite, and broadsheet: those first, unforgettable encounters with the darkest of the darkness at the heart of the Human species...seeping in through the soul’s ingress; hitting you where you live.
    Their fists were, like so, seared i nto his memory. Former friends and fellow soldiers...they beat him until the skin split and the bone bruised – theirs as much as his – and until the blood came. It had been almost black, slimy and with accents of startling crimson in the blinding lightness of that white-walled torture chamber...oozing forth from the lacerations that they couldn’t feel; drunk, as they were, with their righteous, berserker rage.
    The word ‘c hiaroscuro’ had rippled through the curdling, concussed jumble of thoughts that had been jostling for Dio’s attention at the time. It had rung through his mind, clear as a bell, cutting through the hysterical, babbling insistences of his castrated fight-or-flight reflex. He’d sat there, delirious, shaking like a leaf and quietly crying...and allowed the word to become his sole focus; to calm him. ‘Chiaroscuro’: the extreme contrast of light and dark. An American girl – a University student on exchange – had taught him that word. She’d been beautiful. Pale skin – alabaster – and soft, curly, brown hair that she liked to hide under a vast and ever-growing collection of adorable little berets. She was athletic and slim, but not tough; not dominating. Quite the opposite. He’d liked that.
    “It’s a film thing.” She’d said. “Creates meaning, y’know?”
    “Yeah.” He’d mumbled, lips on her neck; fingers tracing the elastic waistband of those sporty, girlish culottes she liked to wear. “Meaning.”
    “You don’t give a shit, do you?” She’d giggled. Dio had been surprised. He was used to I sraeli girls. He couldn’t quite remember if he’d ever heard an Israeli girl ‘giggle’.
    “No, no. I think it’s fascinating.”
    “You think something’s fascinating,” she’d sighed, eyes falling shut. “But it isn’t creating meaning.”
    “Sure it is,” He’d chuckled. “I’m looking very forward to seeing how many times we can ‘create meaning’ before – ”
    “ – Ugh. You’re such a boy.” she’d muttered, falling