Free Occult Assassin 4: Soul Jacker by William Massa Page B

any of this make sense to you?”
    He shook his head. “The drug is the key. The lab must be somewhere in this building, and I’m going to find it.”
    For a second Samia thought she misheard. Judging from the stunned expression on the old man’s face, he must’ve felt the same way. She studied Mark more closely. This man wasn’t reckless, nor did he harbor a secret death wish. He looked as disturbed by the unfolding events as they all did. But below his fear there was something else. Some elusive quality she couldn’t quite point her finger at. She’d witnessed it in the eyes of firefighters who stormed into burning buildings. Call it a sense of duty or mission. Samia sensed this man was here for one single reason: to put an end to what was happening in the banlieues. He might not even know exactly what he was up against, but he wouldn’t leave until the job was done—and pity the men foolish enough to get in his way.
    “Where can I find Rakan?” the American inquired.  
    Almost as if the building had decided to answer his question directly, a terrified cry pierced the night. Samia immediately realized two things. The scream had emanated from the building’s top floor—and the voice belonged to Alan Bertand, Captain of the RAID team.

C HAPTER E LEVEN

    THE DEATH CRY of the RAID team captain cut through the night. Rakan smiled. The sound reminded him of his own screams during those long years spent in a French penitentiary. He was surprised by his sudden nostalgic turn. Nowadays the past held little meaning to him. His former self had ceased to be of any consequence.  
    It had to be Samia’s fault. There was a time when he would have done anything for his pretty little treasure, but he now served another master, devoted to a different cause. Romantic feelings didn’t factor into his thinking. Samia had turned her back on him years earlier and sided with the enemy. Nevertheless some part of him, maybe the remaining vestiges of his humanity, wanted to see her one last time. Call it curiosity. Maybe he wanted to understand how she justified being a cop when the police rejoiced in harassing their people. The Samia he’d known had been a rebel, not a lapdog of the establishment. Perhaps now she might be convinced to see the error of her ways.
    Ideology and prison had cut short their love affair. A string of petty crimes had led to his arrest, and a racist judge had thrown the book at him. He had been banished to a maximum security facility, where he’d become the plaything of a group of white supremacists. The beatings and abuse eroded whatever had been left of his innocence, chipping away all the soft parts until only stone remained.  
    Hatred and rage defined his reborn self. The boy who once upon a time wanted to grow up to be a photographer had been replaced with a hardened criminal who sought refuge and transcendence in the teachings of radical Islam. Over half the prison population was Muslim, and his tormentors had driven him toward his own people. Toward Abdul Akmal, considered one of France’s most radical jihadists. The man had trained with Osama Bin Laden, and his words had fired up Rakan’s soul. Abdul’s electric message had spoken to him in a deep way, and by the time he left the prison, Rakan was ready to lay down his life in the battle with the infidels.  
    As soon as Rakan had managed to scrape enough money together to purchase an airplane ticket, he booked a one-way trip to Syria. A new holy war was being waged by a group hellbent on establishing a caliphate and fighting an epochal battle against the infidels. Rakan was eager to join their ranks. The battlefield was waiting, and he yearned to see the blood of his enemy color the desert red.  
    It was in Syria that he learned the art of war. The streets and prison had taught him how to handle himself, but the training in the desert turned him into a soldier. A few weeks into his grueling transformation, an imam approached him. The man had