The Shroud of Heaven Read Online Free PDF Page A

ready.”
    “Safe?” he echoed hollowly. “With you? You’re a fucking psychopath.”
    Hauser hopped onto the rear bumper and pulled himself half inside the truck. He then turned to Kismet and grinned, shifting his head back slightly, like a werewolf ready to howl. Kismet shook his head to clear the image. “Who are you?”
    “I’ve given you my name,” Hauser replied, elevating his voice to be heard as the diesel engine rumbled to life. “Anything else I could say would only serve to confuse you. However, this much I will reveal: We are the chains of God, sealing Pandora’s box for the preservation of mankind. We are Prometheus, guiding the destiny of the world until humanity is ready to ascend Olympus.”
    The words sounded like a mantra; a pledge learned by rote. The truck lurched into gear, spinning its wheels for a moment before finding purchase in the loose sand. Hauser steadied himself, then shouted over the din. “Do not try to follow us, Kismet. I have done what I can to spare you, but I will take no responsibility for the fortunes of war.”
    Something Hauser had said earlier now echoed in his mind. I told him he is lucky he didn’t kill you .
    “Why?” he shouted as the vehicle moved away from the chamber. “Why didn’t you kill me?”
    Hauser broke into unrestrained laughter; his first honest display of emotion. “Kismet, if I killed you, your mother would have my head.”
    If Hauser had anything more to say, it was lost as the truck moved away, threading the narrow alley between brick structures and sand dunes. Kismet took a step after them, then stopped as rage built in his chest and arms.
    He pressed the button to eject the spent magazine from the carbine, then slammed a fresh clip into the weapon, slapping it with a mechanically practiced action to guarantee that the first round would not jam. He released the bolt, advancing a cartridge into the firing chamber, then raised it to shoulder height and sighted down the stubby barrel at the receding truck. Even as his finger flexed on the trigger, he knew the shot would be a futile gesture. He might get lucky and actually hit one of the escaping killers, but the odds were not good. With a defeated sigh, he lowered the gun and backed into the now deserted ruins. The oil lamps placed by Samir and his family continued to illuminate the abattoir that was the antechamber.
    The sulfur odor of gunpowder lingered in the air, but there was a new scent added to the mix—the unmistakable stench of death. He had been in the presence of the dying and recently passed, but nothing like this. He had never seen healthy, vibrant individuals so violently ripped away from the world. It took a deliberate effort for him to search the memories of his combat skills training in order to determine his next action.
    Like an automaton plugged into a new program, he lurched into action, systematically moving down the row of shattered bodies. The 5.56-mm green-tip ball ammunition had not ripped their flesh apart as larger and softer lead rounds might. Instead, the bullets had stabbed neat little holes clear through the victims, lacerating intestines and vital organs, wreaking internal damage with less outward trauma than might have been expected.
    Samir and the woman Kismet assumed to be his wife had both expired from their wounds, but two of the younger children and one older male still drew ragged breaths. One of the children, a girl, clung to consciousness, whimpering when he turned her over to inspect the wounds. It was enough to throw him out of his almost mechanical routine, and he felt hot tears streaking down his face. He drew out one of two Syrettes of morphine hanging from a breakaway chain around his neck and quickly injected the contents into the girl’s thigh. Her agonized moans soon gave way to shallow breathing.
    He knew the morphine would probably kill her, but that would merely hasten the inevitable and with less anguish. None of those who still drew breath