itself was a helipad, the two tall spires, and the large glass dome that enclosed the complex’s command centre.
From the base of the great pillar to the tip of the highest antenna on top of the taller spire, the whole structure was at least four hundred feet tall and it dwarfed the approaching Osprey; it also made the many men stationed at the base’s various guardhouses and watchtowers, the members of the Army of Thieves, look like ants.
Hammerhead brought the Osprey into a hover above the helipad, landed softly and with his four-man crew behind him, marched into the command centre.
Hammerhead and his crew stood before their leader.
The clear glass dome that covered the command centre was easily seventy feet across. Beneath it lay several levels of consoles, computers and communications desks, all surrounding a raised platform from which a commander could look out over Dragon Island in every direction.
Seated in the command chair was the leader of the Army of Thieves.
He no longer wore his gaudy Elvis sunglasses. Instead, his eyes were visible for all to see. They were quite unnerving: pale grey eyes that rarely blinked. The discoloured acid-melted skin on his left cheek and throat was also clearly visible, as were the many guns in the many holsters he wore on his thighs, under his shoulders and on his back. A series of small tattoos ran in an ordered line down his neck: among them an image of a Russian cargo ship, a crude ‘USMC’, and an apartment building with ‘Moskva’ written over it.
To his men, he had no name other than ‘the Lord of Anarchy, General of the Army of Thieves’. They addressed him as ‘my Lord’, ‘Lord’, or ‘sir’.
He was Caucasian but had deeply tanned skin. Where he hailed from, no-one knew.
He spoke English with an American accent but then he was also fluent in Russian, Spanish and Farsi.
All anyone in the Army of Thieves knew for sure was that they had all been recruited by him at some time or another. None knew how his inner circle had come together: the Lord of Anarchy and his tight gang of five men who had known each other before they formed the Army—the four senior officers with shark nicknames: Hammerhead, Thresher, White Tip and Mako; and of course Typhon.
Naturally, there were rumours among the men: some said they were ex–Turkish Army officers who had tried to join al-Qaeda but had been turned away because they were too aggressive; others claimed they were a mix of ex-Chilean and ex-Egyptian torturers who had performed enhanced interrogation on terrorist suspects on behalf of the United States; others still claimed they were American mercenaries who just loved the sight of blood.
Beside the Lord of Anarchy stood his XO, Colonel Typhon. Named after the most feared creature in Greek mythology—of immense size, it had fiery eyes and even the gods quailed before it—he was an exceedingly tall, blank-eyed killer whom the men feared greatly.
Upon acceptance into the Army’s ranks, every member of the Army of Thieves met Typhon.
It was he who bestowed the insignia of promotion—a red-hot branding iron to the skin of the forearm which was then infused with tattooist’s ink, creating raised chevrons on the skin. Your rank in the Army was not stitched onto your sleeve, it was seared onto your very skin.
It was also Typhon who performed the initiation ceremony—a drug-hazed beating of horrific proportions while you viewed four television screens at once, screens that bombarded you with clips of gore and grotesquery, snuff killings and beheadings, rape and bestiality, drowning and torture.
The men obeyed the Lord of Anarchy because he was their leader. They obeyed Typhon out of pure terror.
‘Report,’ the Lord of Anarchy said.
‘My Lord,’ Hammerhead said, ‘we found the wreckage of Ivanov’s plane. By the time we arrived, the American testing team was there. We engaged them but then a French submarine surfaced nearby.’
The Lord of Anarchy raised an
From the base of the great pillar to the tip of the highest antenna on top of the taller spire, the whole structure was at least four hundred feet tall and it dwarfed the approaching Osprey; it also made the many men stationed at the base’s various guardhouses and watchtowers, the members of the Army of Thieves, look like ants.
Hammerhead brought the Osprey into a hover above the helipad, landed softly and with his four-man crew behind him, marched into the command centre.
Hammerhead and his crew stood before their leader.
The clear glass dome that covered the command centre was easily seventy feet across. Beneath it lay several levels of consoles, computers and communications desks, all surrounding a raised platform from which a commander could look out over Dragon Island in every direction.
Seated in the command chair was the leader of the Army of Thieves.
He no longer wore his gaudy Elvis sunglasses. Instead, his eyes were visible for all to see. They were quite unnerving: pale grey eyes that rarely blinked. The discoloured acid-melted skin on his left cheek and throat was also clearly visible, as were the many guns in the many holsters he wore on his thighs, under his shoulders and on his back. A series of small tattoos ran in an ordered line down his neck: among them an image of a Russian cargo ship, a crude ‘USMC’, and an apartment building with ‘Moskva’ written over it.
To his men, he had no name other than ‘the Lord of Anarchy, General of the Army of Thieves’. They addressed him as ‘my Lord’, ‘Lord’, or ‘sir’.
He was Caucasian but had deeply tanned skin. Where he hailed from, no-one knew.
He spoke English with an American accent but then he was also fluent in Russian, Spanish and Farsi.
All anyone in the Army of Thieves knew for sure was that they had all been recruited by him at some time or another. None knew how his inner circle had come together: the Lord of Anarchy and his tight gang of five men who had known each other before they formed the Army—the four senior officers with shark nicknames: Hammerhead, Thresher, White Tip and Mako; and of course Typhon.
Naturally, there were rumours among the men: some said they were ex–Turkish Army officers who had tried to join al-Qaeda but had been turned away because they were too aggressive; others claimed they were a mix of ex-Chilean and ex-Egyptian torturers who had performed enhanced interrogation on terrorist suspects on behalf of the United States; others still claimed they were American mercenaries who just loved the sight of blood.
Beside the Lord of Anarchy stood his XO, Colonel Typhon. Named after the most feared creature in Greek mythology—of immense size, it had fiery eyes and even the gods quailed before it—he was an exceedingly tall, blank-eyed killer whom the men feared greatly.
Upon acceptance into the Army’s ranks, every member of the Army of Thieves met Typhon.
It was he who bestowed the insignia of promotion—a red-hot branding iron to the skin of the forearm which was then infused with tattooist’s ink, creating raised chevrons on the skin. Your rank in the Army was not stitched onto your sleeve, it was seared onto your very skin.
It was also Typhon who performed the initiation ceremony—a drug-hazed beating of horrific proportions while you viewed four television screens at once, screens that bombarded you with clips of gore and grotesquery, snuff killings and beheadings, rape and bestiality, drowning and torture.
The men obeyed the Lord of Anarchy because he was their leader. They obeyed Typhon out of pure terror.
‘Report,’ the Lord of Anarchy said.
‘My Lord,’ Hammerhead said, ‘we found the wreckage of Ivanov’s plane. By the time we arrived, the American testing team was there. We engaged them but then a French submarine surfaced nearby.’
The Lord of Anarchy raised an
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