The sun scorched the savanna east of Cairo, turning the earth into a kiln.
The steady crunch of boots against dry soil was the only sound. A hundred yards away, the soldiers froze. Some white-knuckled their rifles; others let theirs sag. They didn't need a briefing to know who was approaching. They knew the gait. They knew the silhouette.
Monster.
The word had preceded Alex Ambrose's birth. It was the only heirloom his father ever gave him-barked through a haze of cheap grain alcohol and broken glass.
Maybe the word fit. Even if, once upon a time, Alex had tried to be a man instead.
He was six when he learned that "good" was just a target painted on one's back. He had stepped in to protect his neighbor, Amanda, from a group of older bullies. They broke his ribs and left him in the dirt. He spent two months in a cast, fueled by the memory of Amanda's tearful thanks.
When he returned to school, he found her. She wasn't hiding. She was standing with them. The same boys who had shattered his bones were now sharing her lunch. When she saw Alex, she didn't apologize.
She laughed. Then she threw a stone.
Alex didn't cry. He realized then: spirit is a fairy tale. Strength is the only currency the world accepts.
So, Alex stopped trying to be a man. He became a machine.
The first gunshot shattered the silence like a hammer on glass.
Alex didn't flinch. He didn't dive for cover. He leaned into the violence, his frame slicing through the heat haze. His hand blurred to his hip, drawing the Glock 17 in a motion so practiced it looked like a glitch in reality.
Crack.
One shot. One kill.
He didn't watch the body fall. He was already looking for the next. There were thirty three soldiers left.
Thirty-three problems. One solution.