Sidon, Lebanon

January 2, 2000 -- 1230 Hours

The noonday sun glinted off the Mediterranean Sea in sapphire and diamond shafts, reflecting light against dark sunglasses. Salty seawater sprayed up against the prow of the sleek speedboat, carrying with it the pungency of fish and seaweed. His jaw clenched as he shifted gears, watching the shimmer of approaching land dance in and out of view like a desert mirage.

Sidon. Matthew Raleigh's stomach clenched with bitter memory. He was well-acquainted with the deceptively quiet Lebanese city. He'd been here too many times in a past he'd just as soon forget as a Navy SEAL on prowl-and-growl missions. His lips curved in a wry grimace. He wasn't a SEAL anymore -- there was at least that much mercy left in the world. Not that what he did these days brought him much peace either.

Good thing he wasn't looking for peace anymore.

To deaden the pain in his soul and help reduce the nightmares that regularly stole away sleep, he formed Project Prometheus -- a special mercenary organization dedicated to ending terrorism. A futile enough cause.

He scowled. The men who'd hired Prometheus' mercenaries had business in Lebanon.

Scum was still scum. That never changed.

Matt pulled his mind from the dark thoughts creeping in. He needed to concentrate on the mission. Was the team ready? He brought them in under the cover of night yesterday. He hoped they made it to the pre-arranged safe house but he had no way of being sure. They were on radio silence and for safety's sake and he couldn't go to find them until he was ready to join them. Matt glanced at his wristwatch. Besides, he was already on his way to meet with their CIA contact, codenamed Star.

Uneasiness clutched Matt. He didn't like that no one at Langley had ever actually seen Star. There was no picture -- not even a physical description -- though the Agency claimed Star was a miracle worker. Matt's scowl darkened. He didn't believe in miracles or miracle workers. From the little Matt knew, he surmised Star was an important figure in Lebanon, well connected with an extensive knowledge of the local area. Matt also guessed Star, whoever he was, probably had connections to arms dealers or some other dubious operation. Great. Just what they needed -- a contact they couldn't trust.

Matt pulled the speedboat up smoothly beside the dock and cut the engine, secured the vessel and then leapt to the pier, his eyes searching for a spy.

No one, Matt realized as he surveyed the docks grimly. The din on the pier was maddening, with orders and insults thrown around in coarse Arabic and men jostling about like fish in a barrel. Not a single one of them with the sophistication his Intel said was Star's style.

Sunlight glinted off polished metal and Matt's attention whipped to his left. There. Beyond the dock master's digs. A large, black sedan, gleaming with a fresh coat of wax sat brazenly in the midday sun, oblivious to its high visibility.

Matt shook his head in disgust. Some spy. Aware he was probably under surveillance by someone, he approached the vehicle cautiously. As he drew near, the rear window slid down, revealing an older gentleman with sharp, dark eyes and aquiline features. His beard and moustache were neatly trimmed and more silver than black. Dark eyes fixed sharply on Matt's face.

"You are late."

Matt's gaze flickered to his watch. It was exactly 1200 hours.

"No, I'm not."

A smile twitched at the old man's lips. "You are cautious. Very wise."

"Star?"

The man inclined his head in affirmation. "Come. Get in. We have much work to do."

As Matt opened the sedan's rear door, a flash of white caught his eye. His gaze returned to the dock in time to see a woman in swirling white robes slide from a sleek white horse.

He froze. Déjà vu slammed into him like a cruise missile, driving away his breath. Jumbled images raced through his mind, too fleeting to make sense of. The clash of swords and screams of the dying were ghostly echoes in his ears as images of blood and the writhing of naked flesh mated in his mind. A shiver of recognition lunged through him. None of it was real of course, yet he couldn't erase one certainty from his mind -- somewhere, somehow, he knew that woman.

"Mr. Raleigh?" Star's impatient query reached through the shock, and Matt blinked as he remembered how to breathe. With an unsteady inhalation, he climbed into the car and closed the door but continued to watch the woman. Slowly, her dark, unveiled head turned and he caught a glimpse of her startled expression as the car pulled away. Then, the car was speeding away from the docks while Matt's skin crawled with the danger he'd seen reflected in a pair of haunting eyes.

"Where are we going?" Matt asked the man beside him as the car sped through the narrow streets of Sidon three minutes later, its destination a mystery to him. If there was one thing Matt despised, it was a mystery.

"Are you aware of your mission?"

"Yeah," Matt answered in a mutter. "What kind of answer was that?"

The older man seemed fascinated with the empty husks of bombed out buildings that lined the streets. "Amazing how quickly things change, is it not? One day a building is built, the next it is gone. Like that." Star snapped his fingers in emphasis. "Not unlike your ambassador's two daughters, no? One day alive and happy, the next, mailed back to the embassy in tiny pieces."

Matt scowled at the reminder of why he took this case. Those little girls were innocent and some butcher used them as a political statement. Damn it, Star didn't have to sound so smug about it. Suspicion knotted Matt's stomach. "Is this all leading somewhere?"

Star shot him a warning look. "Look around you, my friend. The United States supplied the bombs that destroyed these buildings, the guns these children carry. There are many here who would gladly see Americans suffer for the suffering they have bestowed on Sidon."

This was an all-too-familiar rhetoric. "And you?"

Star shook his head. "Children should never be made to suffer for the mistakes of their elders. I am a peaceful man. All I do is caution you to tread lightly."

"Why do you think the State Department called in mercenaries rather than using the SEALs? The political fallout would be catastrophic if something went wrong. My team has no political affiliations."

Star looked surprised. "You merely act upon what you have been paid to do? What has happened does not make you angry?"

"Hell yeah, it pisses me off," Matt snapped. "It should piss anyone off. Two little girls abducted and then butchered? It's sick, no matter who it happened to!" He glanced at Star. "Did you get IDs on the photos State turned over to the CIA?"

Star nodded somberly as he took a photograph from the briefcase beside him and handed it to Matt. Matt looked down into the face of a man in his early thirties with clean-shaven good looks and dark eyes that stared right through the camera. He had, Matt decided glumly, the look of a fanatic.

"Who is he?"

"Ra'id Asim Ibn Hassan Sharif al-Mawsil. He is Iraqi. A distributor of crude oil, I am told."

"A businessman?"

Star shrugged. "Business and war often go hand-in-hand here. He distributes weapons on the black market to terrorist training camps in Tunisia and Chad, and supplies his own private army as well. He was an asset of the Central Intelligence Agency during the United Nations stand-off in Saudi Arabia."

Matt's gaze narrowed on the classically handsome face in the photograph. "A spy, huh?"

Star nodded. "Let us wait until we have reached your men, then I will show you where Ra'id has taken up residence lately."

Matt sighed, nodding grimly. One thing for sure, it was already shaping up to be one hell of a new year.

*****

Mawsil Petrol Corporation, Damascus Headquarters

January 2, 2000 -- 1420 Hours

"Sir! Sir!" The door burst open and a dozen guns snapped up, safeties off, and then lowered at a gesture from the man behind the wide desk. Steady, umber-tinted eyes regarded the newcomer shrewdly.

"I trust you bring our cause good news, Mahir, coming in such unwise haste."

Mahir swallowed hard, drawing in gasping breaths as unblinking dark eyes peered into his. Unsteady, he touched one hand to his forehead and swayed.

"Yes, yes! It is good, sir," he hurried on, clearly desperate to get this interview over with. "It is how you were shown in your vision, sir. The man has arrived."

Ra'id Asim Ibn Hassan Sharif al-Mawsil settled back into his chair with a grin. Interesting. It appeared the old harlot was telling the truth. When Allah commanded him to slit her lying throat, he hesitated at first, aware of the laws forbidding him to shed her blood. When she begged him to spare her daughter's life, however, his fury was complete. The little priestess would bring an Infidel straight to the temple and destroy his plans. Yet, the Hosts of Paradise whispered he needed the bitch to cleanse the holy seat of Islam from the stain of unrighteousness. She knew how to find the temple. She could lead him there. At the temple in Nineveh, he would find the means to purge these Infidels from the face of the Earth and return it to the righteous.

Excitement twisted in his veins and his groin tightened with images of how he would make her beg for her life, same as the old harlot had. He would take his time with her though -- make her suffer for her crimes, her refusal to accept the grace of Allah. He gave her the choice and she ignored his attempt to spare her. Now, she would pay. His visions were clear. He was destined to be the scourge which removed the unfaithful from this land.

"Of course it is. I was given a vision from Allah, blessed be His name." Dark, writhing hate climbed through him. "We must rid this land of the infidels who feed so ravenously on the hearts of good men."

He picked up a hunting knife from the desk, its blade crusted with dried blood. Eyes closed, he savored the memory of slitting the old slut's throat. Syria was cleansed. The whores were all dead. All but one. The self-righteous little bitch got away from him here and robbed him of victory in Lebanon as well. He smiled cruelly as voices whispered along the edges of his mind. Allah, blessed be His name, sent His angels to guide Ra'id to victory. He had the perfect bait now. "Set a trap for the American. She will not be able to stay away long."

One of the men near him stirred. "Sir...the Black Widow, what should we do with her?"

Ra'id waved away his concern. The Brotherhood of Spiders was of little concern to him. They served a purpose and so he used them, but they were Infidels, and they too would feel his wrath when the time came. After all, they insulted him. They sent a woman to do a man's work. "Leave her be. She is still of use to us for now. I will deal with her when the time comes."

Dutifully, the men departed, leaving Ra'id alone in the room. Settling back, he toyed with the knife, a smug smile on his face. His father raised him to see the truth of these heathen women and Allah called him to purge the land of them. The little Sumerian bitch was his key to the power to destroy them all.

The light in the room flickered and Ra'id's head jerked up. His heart sped as he recognized the event. This was exactly how Allah's messenger always came to him. When he was a child, lost and missing his heathen mother, Allah sent His messenger to save Ra'id.

"Son of woman born. Servant of the One whose name is Blessed."

The words echoed in his head and ears simultaneously and Ra'id immediately slid from his seat to his knees, prostrating himself with his forehead to the floor in a sign of reverence. "I am listening."

"You let yourself be distracted from your task, son of woman born."

The displeasure in that deep, quiet voice made Ra'id tremble. Allah was merciful, but His servants were not. This one came to smite the unbelieving and the wicked, and had no tolerance for human failure. This, he learned early and he was loathe to fail Allah's messenger again.

"The women... They were Infidels, Abd-er-Rahman. They had to be destroyed."

"The tablets, son of woman born. You must retrieve the tablets in order to destroy these heathens. Only the tablets gain you entrance to their unholy temple where you will unleash the wrath of the Most Blessed."

With that declaration, the room plunged into darkness and the silence overwhelmed him. Ra'id huddled on the floor, shivering in cold fear. The threat behind the angel's words was clear. Find the tablets and finish his task, or the wrath visited on him would far outweigh any vengeance dealt to the heathen women.

Stumbling to his feet as the lights came back on, Ra'id slumped back into his seat and reached for the phone on his desk. He had an arrangement with the Black Widow. He had found the items she required. She better have secured his tablets, or she'd learn what wrath truly was.

***Want to read more? Purchase the full book today! Go to www.esthermitchell.com/project-prometheus and select your favorite e-book retailer (or Amazon, if you'd prefer print). While you're there, check out the rest of my available library, and what exciting things I've got in the works! As always, feedback is always appreciated!***