Chapter 10
Eglon, King of Moab
Az-Zaidiyah, Kingdom of Libni
02 Erdak BE 001
Mustafa Ghaddafi sat in his courtyard, but the sight of his beauties lounging around the pool gave him no pleasure. Neither did his Petroshky twins as they fanned him, nor the chilled wine of finest vintage in its jewel-encrusted silver goblet. None of his ordinary delights served to lift his spirits ever since he received word that the Sheherazade Sisters had failed in their mission and died horribly in the attempt. In his younger years, he would have flown into a rage and not rested until he could find whoever was responsible and literally beat them into a bloody pulp. Now there was a heaviness to him that kept him from acting, and it had nothing to do with his great physical weight.
For too long had his empire grown beyond him, beyond the need for him to take an active role in managing its affairs. It moved without him and ordinarily it moved perfectly well without any intervention from him. He had grown too accustomed to simply spending his days enjoying the fruits of the ambition of his younger days. Now that things were going wrong again and again, he needed to act, yet it felt as if there was nothing he could do.
If he was going to take action, first he had to clear his mind, bring himself back to the man he once was so that he might find his way again.
"Leave me," he said to the twins. Then a little louder so that the rest of them could hear, "All of you, out. I wish to be alone."
"But, Master..." one of the twins began to speak.
"Do not make me repeat myself," he said coolly.
The twins bowed low and withdrew, then the matron who was charged with managing Ghaddafi's beauties clapped her hands and said, "You heard the Master. Up, up, out, out!"
The women were herded out by the matron and so Ghaddafi had the solitude he sought. Free of distractions, he pondered his situation. The disgrace of these two defeats and the deaths of the Sheherazade Sisters had to be avenged not only for the sake of his pride but to ensure that no one dared to assume that the Khalifa of Crime had grown weak. His whole empire could collapse if he did not act swiftly and decisively.
The only problem was that the Protectors had proven themselves to be far more capable than he would have assumed. It would take time for the Mad Dogs to replenish their lost numbers, train up and be ready for deployment. No other individual operatives in the Syndicate were as skilled as the Sheherazade Sisters. If he did not have what he needed on hand, he would simply have buy the men he needed to accomplish the task, former military elite, state security, spies whose loyalty could be bought for a price. It would need to be ruthless men who could not only best the Protectors themselves, but also purge their friends and families, doing such a thorough job that no one would dare to defy the Ghaddafi Syndicate.
It would take time to bring this plan into being, to find the sort of people he needed and to bring them into the fold. It would take time, but he did not have time. He needed to act quickly, which meant that it would simply take more money instead of patience. He had more than enough to spare and if he did not use his wealth to preserve the means of generating that wealth, what was it good for?
He would start tomorrow. No, he should start right away. There was no time to lose. There was no place for resting with what needed to be done.
Just as he was about to call someone in to get started on the work that needed to be done, the lights went out. This being an open-air courtyard, Ghaddafi could still see but dimly in the waning light of dusk, and what he saw was a lone man standing before him. It was not one of his people.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "How did you get in here?"
"I am nobody," the man replied. "And I got in the way that was open to me."
"You are lucky," Ghaddafi said. "I have business to attend to. Disappear and I will forget that you have trespassed here."
"I have business to attend to as well," the man said. "And I must attend to it before I can disappear."
"Then I suggest you resolve that business quickly."
"I am most happy to do so."
The man seemed to close the distance between them in no more than two or three steps and punched Ghaddafi in his massive gut. The very thought of someone daring such a thing was shocking enough, but when Ghaddafi looked down at himself, he saw the man's arm buried deep in his stomach past the elbow.
"I have never had a target quite so big before," the man said. "I cannot be sure I hit my mark."
Ghaddafi tried to speak but could only manage a choked grunt.
"You have two choices," the man said. "You can stay still and give yourself some time to make whatever peace you can with inevitability, or you can move around and if this blade has cut what it needed to, you will be dead in a matter of seconds."
The man then twisted his arm, as if he were breaking off something inside Ghaddafi before drawing out his befouled hand.
The man looked at his arm and said, "I may take the liberty of making use of your pool to wash some of this off. I hope you do not mind."
Again, the only sound Ghaddafi could manage was a sort of grunt, a strained exhalation as the air leaked out of his lungs. At the same time, his mind was blank and yet he seemed to see everything clearly. For all his wealth and power, for all his fearsome reputation and wide-reaching influence, a single nameless man was all it took to bring everything crashing down. How could he have thought to stand against the fulfillment of the Prophecy when just one man could take away everything he had? It was funny, but he could not bring himself to laugh.
