He took the stairs down from the terrace and strode between the spread of white and tan buildings stretching between parking lots. Voices called out from Scions commanding groups of chained human prisoners as they lugged crates full of ammunition and fuel into a warehouse.
These were the slaves healthy enough to be of service to the New Gods, but stubborn enough that they would not serve loyally. They would be put to use until their bodies gave out, and then they would be plastered in the webbing network permanently, nutrition flowing from their meat to feed the growing network of masterminds and other godly creations.
Among the slaves were a few Scions—or members of the Fallen, as Azrael liked to call them.
Those were creatures that had shown disloyalty. He had given them the gift of joining the ranks of the New Gods, and they had squandered it. They were the flawed part of his creation. Soon the new batches would be completely indoctrinated.
Anger flashed through his augmented body as he observed the Fallen hoisting crates into the back of a truck.
“Quicker!” the Scion said.
A female Scion with long wiry hair draping over her bony shoulders snarled at him. “Screw you, monster.”
The faithful Scion struck the female Fallen with an electric cattle prod.
“Kill this small-minded beast if she disobeys you again,” Azrael said.
“Yes, Prophet,” the Scion said.
He struck out at the Fallen with the cattle prod again. The Fallen writhed in pain but didn’t let it stop her from snarling at Azrael.
“We chose you, and yet you spurn us.” Azrael placed a foot on her sternum, pressing down so she struggled to breathe. “You have been gifted so much. Why do you waste it? Why do you cling to your silly notions of humanity?”
He leaned in toward her, baring his fangs.
“Your side has already lost.”
With that, he slashed at her face, leaving crimson tears in her flesh, then kicked her away.
Satisfied, Azrael turned and continued toward an expansive parking lot.
The buzz of the cattle prod and an anguished cry sounded from behind him again. He relished in the female’s pain.
Guards stood sentry at the parking lot. They bowed at Azrael’s approach, then turned back toward the surrounding terrain for any threats. A squadron of helicopters drew close. Among them were a few civilian models, in addition to a Black Hawk and a Little Bird.
The Black Hawk hit the ground first, and the side door slid open. Human loyalists readied the camouflage netting and tents to conceal the choppers as a group of Scions poured out. Blood covered their clothes and stained the cutlasses strapped over their backs. They strode toward Azrael, pride evident in each marching footstep, but they kept their eyes low out of respect for him.
He stood there watching, his cloak flapping behind him in the wind. He could smell the scent of death lingering over the loyal Scions as they knelt on the pavement.
The final Scion left the troop hold of the Black Hawk. He carried something roughly the size of a soccer ball wrapped up in an olive shemagh scarf mottled with dark stains.
“Elijah,” Azrael said as the Scion approached.
“We’ve returned to serve, Prophet,” Elijah said, dropping to one knee, his tattered cape falling over his battered body.
“Rise.”
Elijah stood, the object still cradled under his left arm. Bandages covered his limbs and several spots on his torso. Dried blood had soaked through them.
He kept his head bowed, blood dripping past the broken human-skull mask he wore. “I brought something back for you, master.”
“Show me.”
Elijah let the shemagh scarf fall, then gripped a human head. The long white and gray beard was tangled and matted in dried blood.
“Who’s this?” Azrael asked.
“A member of Team Ghost,” Elijah dropped the head, then fell to his knees again. “Prophet, I failed you. This is not one of the men you requested. I lost many of my soldiers to a sacrilegious Fallen Scion that was with Team Ghost and—”
“Quiet,” Azrael said calmly. He reached toward Elijah, placing his claws under the soft flesh of his chin. “Look at me.”
Elijah glanced up with golden eyes. “Prophet, I beg your forgiveness. Give me an honorable death and cleanse me of my failure.”
Azrael stood and stepped away from Elijah, considering his fate. He appreciated the loyalty of the Scion and the fact he had actually killed one of the elusive members of Team Ghost. Not to mention the trap was a success.
“You brought back something the others before you could not,” he said. “This will strike fear in their numbers to see yet another of their heroes dead.”
“I will kill those that remain, master. I swear it.”
Azrael motioned for him to stand. “You have proven yourself faithful.”
Elijah rose as Scions and human loyalists began to lead military prisoners away from the birds. The fresh meat shuffled along, together with ropes.
“Very good,” Azrael said, unable to stop from grinning. “One of these wretched beings is bound to tell us where we can find Ringgold. There are only so many outposts left in the Allied States after all.”
“That was what I had hoped, too,” Elijah said.
Azrael gestured to Elijah, then the rest of the Scions assembled before him. “Go treat your wounds, then begin the interrogations.”
He locked eyes with Elijah again. “Then once we have the intel we need, you’ll have your chance at redemption. Team Ghost will be yours.”
***
President Ringgold sat next to Chief of Staff Soprano in the EOC at the Harbor House Hotel in Galveston. Generals Cornelius and Souza, along with General Vance and Colonel Stilwell from Canada and General Hernandez from Mexico, were seated around the conference table. Comms officers surveyed the computers lining one of the walls.
The Las Vegas mission had been an abject failure, and they had been reorganizing their defenses since the survivors had returned. But their failure had not been limited to Sin City.
“We still haven’t heard anything from Lemke, have we?” Ringgold asked.
“Nothing,” Souza said. “The last transmission we received from Puerto Rico was when the USS George
