Someone kneeled by his side. Agile hands tore his shirt open and loosened his bulletproof vest. He rolled to his back, and air rushed into his lungs. His chest compressed. Unable to sustain the air, he spat it back, but his mouth kept gulping it. He squeezed his eyes and forced himself to sit up. The friendly hand patted his shoulder and his mind cleared.
“Ejder?” he called, rushing to his feet. The dull pain rebounded in his core from the impact point, and he rubbed his chest where the bullets had hit him. “Get the fucking light!”
Someone opened the door and a strong cascade of light sliced through the gloom, as the car drove up and stopped in the doorways. A new wave of gunshots reached him from the outside, but Talha didn’t care. Rushing to his brother, he hauled him upright.
“Get him to the doctor. Collect our wounded and dead. We need to get out of here before the police arrive.” Talha shoved Ejder to Dinçer, before rushing toward the altar. Grabbing the chain that hung from the ceiling, he tugged. The floor at his feet moved, and a stone slab slid to the side revealing a hidden ladder.
Without thinking, he descended.
A string of electric lights illuminated a long corridor, leading one way. Dark, red brick walls and an arch of a ceiling emitted the strong smell of mold. Black spots above holes in the wall suggested that before electricity, torches illuminated this place. Talha heard someone following behind him but didn’t bother looking back. His attention was glued to the wooden door at the end of the passage.
Kicking the door open, he pointed the gun at the single figure present in the dungeon room. The fireplace glowed orange and illuminated the walls, a large wooden table that took up half the space in the room, and a huge map that sprawled on the wall opposite Talha. In the corner of his eye, he noticed some black deformed objects pinned to the continents, but they didn’t grab his attention, as the blood drumming in his ears, demanded him to kill.
Something squeaked, rushing from under Talha’s foot. Dropping his aim to the floor, he saw a huge gray rat galloping toward the wall before squeezing its fat body into a small hole.
Jerking his cheek, he raised the gun at the man again. Streams of sweat, reflecting the fire, rushed down his shirtless torso and the damp mess of his short black hair. The stranger didn’t flinch, as if he didn’t notice Talha’s presence. Both of his arms were covered in something black up to his elbows, as he stood in front of the opposite wall, examining the map. Head tilting, he lifted one hand, squeezing something in his fist, then pressed the formless knot of something to the map where England lay. Lifting his foot, the man slid his other hand under the top of his military boot and fished out a long throwing knife.
A raspy breath, coming from behind, washed Talha’s ears in heat. The airwave hit the side of his face, and a muzzle entered his field of vision.
The thin black metal of the throwing knife didn’t reflect any light as the man raised his hand and pinned a formless object to the map. Confused, Talha inched forward, never losing the sight of the man, never lowering his gun. He saw Dinçer and a recruit, Emin, entering the room right after him; both held the man in their sights.
“Turn around,” Talha ordered. “Hands in the air.”
The man twisted his torso toward Talha then made a complete spin. Genuine surprise shot up his eyebrow and a corner of his mouth into an approximation of a smile. “Oh, you’re alive. Interesting…”
Black stains, marring his face and chest, merged with crisp shadows that outlined the relief of his toned muscles. Talha took another step, scrutinizing his features. Full lips on a young, Caucasian face stretched further into a smile, as his glacial eyes pierced Talha’s soul. Despite standing under the threat of three guns, the man showed no signs of distress, quite the opposite; he looked in his domain—confident, relaxed, mildly curious. The maturity had already sharpened his jawline and his cheekbones, but his inquisitive, fearless gaze and smooth skin told Talha that he was in his early twenties. No matter how long Talha scanned his face, this wasn’t Behçet Asani.
“Bism-m-millah[16]…” Emin stuttered. Talha scanned the body language of the thickset man. His gun trembled in his hand as his beady, always wet eyes stared at something on the floor lying behind the wide wooden table. “It’s Iblīs...”
The atmosphere shifted in the room as a smile on the young, handsome face turned wicked. Iblīs took a step toward them. Lifting his finger to his mouth, he shushed, “Shhhh.”
“Iblīs?” Talha repeated. His heart, speeding up, sent boiling blood slamming against his face. Swallowing his excitement, he inched right. Approaching Emin, he circled the table and glanced down.
The body of Behçet Asani sprawled over the floor, his hands pinned to the carpet with throwing daggers as if crucified. His mouth gaped in a silent scream as his dead eyes bulged in horror. A long slice split his large, muscular body from solar plexus to groin. In the bloody wound, Talha saw the grayish mess of his guts, swimming in a pool of blood.
Emin’s hands shook as he pointed his gun at Iblīs. His pupils dilated, lips whispering prayers, and his finger twitched over the trigger, ready to shoot the Devil. Sidestepping, Talha placed his hand over Emin’s gun, lowering it. Meeting the fearful stare of a feral animal, Talha ordered, “Leave.”
Tucking Ejder’s gun in the back of his belt, Talha took a small step toward the younger man with his open palms forward. Droplets of sweat glared on the toned body in reflected red and gold light from the fire. The blue eyes scrutinized his every move.
He is barely older than Ejder. How can this be Iblīs?
His memory leafed through all the information he had ever received on Iblīs but found nothing useful. People said that three years ago Behçet was no one. Brutal, but not smart, he lacked self-control and flexibility; therefore he had never reached high, remaining a small drug dealer with overly high ambitions. Things changed when he sold his soul to the Devil or so people said. Slicing one throat after another, his personal ripper slaughtered every one of Behçet’s enemies, leaving no witnesses behind. Soon after, people began to believe that the bloody ripper was indeed Iblīs—the evil jinn, created from the smokeless fire. It took Iblīs half a year to make the Asani Cartel the largest organization in Istanbul.
No one claimed to have seen Iblīs. No one had ever survived a meeting with him, or those who did had never talked about him. No one knew his age, so Talha had always assumed he had to be some sick old fuck. But this man was young, and his facial features were almost gentle. Tall and lean, he was beautiful, rather than scary. But the butchered body of Behçet, lying by his feet, spoke better than words. No doubt, this was Iblīs.
“Is that right?” Talha wasn’t sure if he stated or asked. “You are Iblīs?”
The younger man didn’t answer, but his full lips, drew up, revealing a perfect row of white teeth.
“Why did you kill Behçet? Wasn’t he your master?”
“Why?” An agile voice, speaking in flawless Turkish, sent hundreds of goosebumps down Talha’s back. Iblīs smirked, granting Behçet’s body a glance full of contempt. “Behçet disappointed.”
“Disappointed?”
“Behçet got weak. Behçet was scared. The weak can’t own Slater. Only the strong can.”