Free First Strike by Ben Coes

times, then clicked.
    â€œYes,” came the voice.
    â€œTristan,” he said.
    â€œMarwan,” answered Nazir. “Have you downloaded it yet?”
    â€œYes. I downloaded it and edited it. Everything is done.”
    â€œVery good. Does it meet your approval?”
    â€œIt’s like the others, Tristan,” he said, immediately regretting the hint of disapproval he knew his answer had implied.
    â€œYou don’t like it?” said Nazir.
    â€œNo, I didn’t mean that at all.”
    â€œIt’s too violent? You think perhaps we go too far? Tell me.”
    Al-Jaheishi paused.
    â€œNo, I like it. They are infidels. We must continue to—”
    â€œStop feeding me your lines of bullshit,” snapped Nazir. “It’s not a video anyone will like, but it is necessary. Necessary, Marwan.”
    â€œYou will be pleased. Would you like to see it before I upload it?”
    Nazir was quiet for a few moments.
    â€œNo,” he said. “Get it out immediately.”
    *   *   *
    An hour later, al-Jaheishi was dressed in a gray pin-striped suit, a white button-down, and a yellow tie. He entered the office building and showed his ID card to the security guard, then took the elevator to the eighteenth floor. He walked to the end of the hallway, past several office suites of companies with names like Parish Capital Ltd. and Simoan Trans-Atlantic Holdings, until he arrived at a frosted glass door with the name ASSYRIAN RELIEF ASSETS LTD.
    The entrance area was large and quiet. A long, elegant glass receptionist’s desk sat directly to the left, an empty leather chair behind it. This was where Assra, the receptionist, usually sat, but today she was not there. Two modern black-leather-and-chrome couches were to the right, facing each other around a low oval glass coffee table with newspapers and magazines piled neatly on top.
    The back of the entrance foyer was a long floor-to-ceiling window. The sprawling city of Damascus was visible beyond.
    Al-Jaheishi walked down the hall, past half a dozen offices. He said hello to his coworkers as he quickly passed the open doors. At the end of the hallway, he opened his door, stepped inside, and flipped on the lights.
    A man was seated in his chair. He had his shoes up on top of al-Jaheishi’s desk, legs crossed at the ankles.
    â€œGood morning, Marwan. You’re late.”
    â€œI was at prayers, Tristan.”
    Al-Jaheishi felt perspiration surface at his hand, upon his forehead, even on his upper lip. He tried not to look at Nazir as he removed his coat and hung it on the back of his door. He said nothing as he walked to his desk and placed his leather briefcase on the corner.
    â€œThey’re calling us butchers,” said Nazir. “Isn’t that what they should’ve called us after the beheadings, Marwan?”
    Al-Jaheishi laughed.
    â€œNow, perhaps they should call us arsonists,” continued Nazir.
    Al-Jaheishi laughed again.
    â€œIt turns your stomach, doesn’t it, Marwan?” asked Nazir.
    â€œNo,” said al-Jaheishi. “It’s necessary.”
    â€œIs it?” asked Nazir. “And what will we do when we have a country of our own? If it is necessary now, will it not still be necessary then?”
    â€œThere are stages to the development of the state,” said al-Jaheishi, lying. “When it is no longer necessary, you won’t do it, and you will look benevolent in comparison, Tristan.”
    Al-Jaheishi stared at Nazir. Nazir’s eyes were like black lasers. Does he know?
    â€œBut it’s brutality, Marwan. We could just kill them. Instead, we behead them. We burn them alive. Surely, between us, you can see the terrible things we’re doing?”
    He’s testing you, Marwan.
    â€œWhat will never be forgotten is the brutality,” answered al-Jaheishi, “but it is like steel in the sword of our rule and our power. We can perhaps someday