Dark Weapon Book One: Time of Bombing

Chapter 6

Three Years Later

Swart had ascended to Minister of Defense. He'd kept his friendship with Phillips despite everything—despite the lie they'd both told, despite the massacre they'd allowed to happen.

At his promotion ceremony, Phillips approached with a handshake. 'Congratulations, my friend.'

'Thank you,' Swart said, but there was no warmth in it.

'The President summoned me. I should go,' Phillips said.

'Of course.'

General George appeared, older now but still pulling strings. 'Worth it, wasn't it? What we did three years ago?'

Swart said nothing.

George smiled. 'The thing about being a General, Swart, is that you get used to decisions like that. You'll see.'

Life moved on in Horki. But not for the families of the dead.

Rose opened her eyes in a dark bedroom. No Dana. Would never be Dana again.

She'd held a memorial service three years ago. No body to bury. They'd given her nothing—no uniform, no identification, just a name on a plaque.

'Mom, are you coming to the church?' Emilie asked. It was Dana's death anniversary.

'Later,' Rose said, barely audible.

'Other families moved on. Their kids graduated, got jobs. But me? I never even saw her body.'

Nate stood in the doorway, aged by grief. He'd supported Dana's dream. Now that dream had killed her.

Rose turned away. There was nothing left to say.

*

At Phillips's house, his daughter Thelma complained at dinner. 'Someone's been following me all day.'

'Probably wants an autograph,' Phillips joked.

'You're not a celebrity, Dad.'

Phillips dismissed it. 'I'll assign bodyguards tomorrow. Don't worry.'

That night, Thelma screamed. Phillips and his wife Elisa rushed into her room and saw it—the wall painted blood-red with a message:

'WE ARE COMING FOR YOU - 5'

Phillips checked the security cameras. Most were disabled. Shots had been fired through them with precision.

He found his security team in the security room—all dead, laid out in organized rows.

Another message on the wall, written in black:

'THESE SECURITIES WILL NOT SAVE YOU FROM US. IF YOU DON'T WANT ANYMORE INNOCENT BLOOD, STOP HIRING THEM. WE WILL FIND YOU. - 5'

The news picked up the story by morning. The report blamed it on drug dealers Phillips had arrested, but the detail stuck: a mysterious 'five' had left messages only Phillips would understand.

Sitting in his living room, watching the news report, a girl with dark eyes turned off the television. She sighed.

'Twenty-four security guards,' one of her team members said. 'Not exactly a pile.'

'That's not what bothers me,' the first girl replied. Her name was Nada. 'They edited out our message. Phillips is hiding what we sent.'

'Terror group?' another whispered. 'We're mercenaries, not terrorists.'

'But the instinct to kill,' Nada said, 'they got that right.'

*

Phillips went to Swart, desperate. 'My family is in danger.'

Swart looked up from his coffee slowly. 'I know. Saw the news.'

'I don't know who these people are. They call themselves the 5. I've never arrested anyone by that name.'

Swart's coffee cup fell to the floor and shattered.

'Are you okay?' Phillips asked, moving toward his friend.

Swart turned away. 'Just getting old.'

His secretary rushed in. 'General Phillips's daughter has been kidnapped.'

Alone in his office after Phillips left, Swart opened a cabinet and pulled out a worn shoe. The leather was faded, but the marking was still visible:

'5'

He'd found it the day after the bombing. He'd kept it as evidence. As a reminder. As penance.

Now it felt like an accusation.

*

In a dark warehouse, Thelma was bound—hands and legs shackled.

'Please, if you want money, my father will pay,' she begged.

'We don't want money,' a woman said. Her name was Blesse. She stood in shadow, watching. Five figures total. Five survivors. 'We want blood for blood.'

'Yeah,' another laughed—Nebula. 'The General's daughter deserves pretty skin in a pretty cell.'

Thelma cried. 'I didn't do anything wrong. Why are you doing this?'

'Your father did,' said Nada, stepping forward. 'That's enough.'

Nada ordered the cameras set up. The recording began.

What followed was methodical. Calculated. Nada heated an iron in boiling coal. She pressed it to Thelma's skin and watched her scream.

'This is what your father did to innocent people,' Nada said to the camera. 'He trained us to kill. Then he tried to erase us.'

Thelma's cries echoed until there was nothing left to cry with.

When she died—from the burns, from the shock, from sheer agony—Nada recorded that too. A gift for her father.

The video was sent to Phillips's home.

*

Phillips watched it. His daughter's death. Three minutes and forty-seven seconds of it.

The television cut to black. Then: 'YOUR WIFE IS NEXT'

He ran to Elisa's room. His wife Hannah was there instead, shot in the shoulder.

'They took her,' Hannah gasped. 'They said you're next.'

The phone rang. The caller ID showed Elisa's number.

'Elisa?' Phillips asked, desperate.

'No,' the voice replied. 'Nada.'

'Where is my wife? My daughter?'

'Your daughter is dead. Your wife is here. And you,' Nada said, 'you're next.'

She hung up.

Somewhere in the compound where they held Elisa, the interrogation was brief.

'Please, let me see my daughter,' Elisa begged.

'We've sent her home,' Blesse said quietly.

'Did you... let her go?'

'Her soul is free,' Nebula replied.

'What are you talking about?' Elisa's voice cracked.

Nada took a sip from a glass of whisky. 'Three hundred and fifty people, Elisa. That's how many your husband killed to get where he is. Three hundred and fifty. We were meant to be mercenaries for Horki—trained killers. Instead, we became training examples. We died so your husband could climb.'

'I didn't know,' Elisa whispered.

'Neither did your daughter,' Nada said. 'We killed her anyway.'

Nada raised the gun. The silencer was already attached.

The shot was quiet. Professional. Elisa fell like a puppet with cut strings.

'Package delivered,' Mini said.

'Ready for the final delivery?' Nada asked, reloading.

Her team nodded.

Somewhere across the city, Phillips was waiting. Waiting to die.