Free The Tenth Circle by Jon Land

raised there as an orphan after witnessing the Israelis murder both your parents,” Kosh continued. “Rescued and trained by a legendary Palestinian intelligence official, trained himself by the Soviets at the height of their power. The legendary Zarrin, specialist in every weapon, but renowned for making use of objects that aren’t weapons at all, allowing for close-in kills utterly impossible for all others who practice your trade. Then, of course, there is your expertise with explosives, thanks to which the Syrian rebels are now looking for new leaders and Iran’s interests there will remain secure, at least for the time being.”
    “What do you want, Colonel?”
    “I have another job for you.”
    Zarrin flexed her hands, pushing the blood back into them and hoping Kosh wouldn’t notice, lest she appear vulnerable in any way. “I’m not interested.”
    “You haven’t heard about the job yet,” Kosh said, extracting a picture from his pocket and unfolding it. “You are familiar with this man?”
    Zarrin regarded the picture without taking it in hand. Something changed in her expression. “Blaine McCracken. I thought he was dead.”
    “Then it must have been a ghost who destroyed Natanz and our country’s dreams along with it.”
    Zarrin moved to her dressing table and eased both her hands into ice-laden, frigid water. The agony waned quickly, leaving her hands numb and still. Every day a bit worse than the day before.
    “Name your price, Zarrin.”
    “I already said I was too expensive for you.”
    “An example must be set,” Kosh told her, thin shoulders stiffening. “Otherwise we stand for nothing.”
    “Then that will be price for McCracken: nothing.”
    Kosh’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the catch?”
    “How many of your operatives did I kill all those years ago on behalf of the Iraqis?”
    “I lost count.”
    “Sixteen. I want a million dollars for each of them. Consider McCracken a bonus.”
    “And what would an artist like yourself do with so much money?”
    Zarrin finished her mental count to thirty and yanked her hands from the ice bath. She dried them with a fresh white towel and looked back at Kosh.
    “Maybe I’ll buy a villa in the Mediterranean.”
    “Why not your own private island, Zarrin? But then who would you perform before?”
    “Myself, Colonel. In the end, that’s the most important person to please.”
    “I’m sure Blaine McCracken feels the same way.”
    “Not for long,” Zarrin told him.

CHAPTER 18
    Mobile, Alabama
    “Brothers and sisters,” the Reverend Jeremiah Rule greeted, his voice booming over the crowd of 750 gathered around the fire pit in Crawford Park, “welcome to your future. Welcome to salvation by renouncing the heathens among us, who have infiltrated our culture to besmirch His word. They would try to weaken us by slaying the innocent, but their efforts only make us stronger, toughening our resolve.”
    McCracken watched and listened to the service from the adjoining road, high up in the bucket of a utility truck, an unfamiliar feeling tugging at his insides and leaving them knotted. He couldn’t look at Jeremiah Rule without thinking of Andrew Ericson, as close to a grandson as he’d ever have, missing in the frigid waters of the Missouri River in the wake of the terrorist bombing inspired by this madman’s rants. Blaine kept imagining he’d spotted Andrew in the crowd, only to shake off the vision as cold sweat rose to the surface of his skin.
    He wanted to kill Jeremiah Rule so much that he could feel his hands clenching and unclenching, the same way they did in the moments before he readied fire with an assault rifle. Wanted to do that so bad now he could feel himself quivering. An altogether foreign feeling.
    McCracken rotated a smaller version of standard binoculars to better view the festivities and had come equipped with a laser microphone rigged to an earpiece to better listen to them. He’d chosen this spot mostly for the vantage