“Hear him out!” the colonel shouted over the objections.

  There was a scraping of chairs as the men took their seats. Unfazed by the protest, Rogan approached the map and pointed to the far side of the field. “The main strike force will assemble here.”

  Crossing the open field would be suicide. Everyone knew it. But, to the man, they had pledged their lives to protect Israel. If that meant crossing an open field under fire to save young Jewish lives, so be it. Rogan knew that.

  He signaled the man in charge of the projector. “Put up the overlay,” he said.

  What appeared to be an ancient map settled atop the drone photo. Parallel broken lines stretched across the field from the point Rogan had indicated, to about thirty meters from the structure. It looked like a garden path lined with rocks.

  “Originally constructed by the Hasmoneans, expanded by Herod the Great and the Romans, this is the Biyar Aqueduct, an underground tunnel that once brought water to the Temple mount. This will be our access to the winery.”

  “Wipe that smug smile off your face,” Sokoloff said.

  Following the briefing, Sokoloff and Harel approached Rogan at the front of the situation room.

  “Leave it to you to find a solution buried in an old book,” Harel said.

  While the fact that the solution came from an ancient text was surprising, the fact that Rogan had found it was not. On their off-duty hours when the majority of the Sayeret Matkal blew off steam playing sports or frequenting bars to watch sports and hook up with women, Rogan read. His greatest love was the Tanakh, the Jewish Holy Scriptures. After that he read mostly history, mostly about the Hasmonean dynasty, mostly Judah Maccabee, the Israelite resistance warrior who led a revolt against the Seleucids and restored the Temple on the 25th of Kislev, 164 BCE. Because of Rogan’s fascination with Judah Maccabee, his buddies gave him Judah’s nickname, “The Hammer.”

  Uri Sokoloff was “The Falcon,” derived from his Czech last name.

  Noam Harel was “The Mountain,” also derived from his surname. His first name meant Tenderness, which caused him no small amount of ribbing. While mountain was an apt description of him—he was the tallest and largest of the commandos—there was nothing remotely tender about him.

  The relationship between the three men went beyond Israeli Defense Forces and beyond Sayeret Matkal. They had a common heritage. They were direct descendants of King Solomon. And this lineage qualified them for specialized training no other member of the Sayeret Matkal received. Tattoos on their ring fingers, a pentalpha—five interlaced A’s—within a circle. It identified them as members of a secret, elite team.

  “Dorn, Sokoloff, Harel, in my office.”

  Col. Amar stood in the doorway of an adjoining room. When the three commandos were inside, he shut the door behind them.

  Any lingering levity they’d brought with them dissipated the moment they saw who was waiting for them—the commander of their elite team, who was also the commander of the angelic host, the Archangel Michael.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Israeli Defense Forces, Central Command

  The archangel offered no greetings. He got right down to business.

  “You are familiar with the corridor of terror stretching from Haifa to Jerusalem. We have identified the bloodlust as the work of three notorious demons: Ashmedai, the strongest and their leader; Ornasis; and Lilith. From the information we have gathered, the clay vessels that imprisoned them were dredged up from the bottom of the sea by a fishing trawler. It was King Solomon himself who captured them and consigned them to the deep.”

  The archangel spoke the name as though it was just yesterday Solomon was king of Israel. Perhaps to him that’s how it seemed.

  “We do not know their current location, though we suspect they have been reunited with their prince. Having been imprisoned for centuries, they are as wild starving animals and are particularly dangerous. Should you encounter them, do not underestimate them. They are cunning.”

  “Are they responsible for the abduction of the children?” Rogan asked.

  “Unknown, though we can’t rule it out.”

  He held out his hand, in the palm of which was a ring that bore the same image the three commandos had tattooed on their fingers engraved on a red gemstone. Inside the ring was inscribed the name of God.

  “Rogan Dorn, you have been chosen to wear the ring,” the archangel said.

  This was the moment for which they had trained. Rogan caught his breath. He would be the first to wear Solomon’s ring on a mission.

  He stepped forward. Without hesitation, he took the ring and slipped it onto his finger.

  The instant he did, he saw that Michael had not come alone. A dozen angels were in the room with them, invisible to the others, though Rogan saw them clearly. They were armed with gleaming silver swords. Rogan could also see the swords of his two buddies and the colonel, strong and proud, indicators of the intent of their hearts and the depth of their spiritual strength.

  Michael said: “Should you encounter Ashmedai, Ornasis, or Lilith, you will capture them, place them in this clay receptacle, and return it to me.”

  The archangel indicated a clay jar on the colonel’s desk.

  “Yes, sir,” Rogan said.

  The Archangel Michael vanished, along with the other angels.

  Colonel Amar took it from there.

  “Let’s save those children,” he said.

  An hour later, as they loaded onto the transport that would take them to the Efrat Winery, Rogan, a veteran commando, felt the same anxiety he’d experienced on his first Sayeret Matkal mission.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Efrat Winery, Israel

  A bobbing light splashed against rough-hewn stone and reflected off knee-deep water as Rogan led the Sayeret Matkal main strike force single-file through the ancient Biyar Aqueduct. It amazed him to think that thousands of years ago Israelite workers using crude cutting tools carved this tunnel out of solid rock. Rogan could spend weeks in here, months, studying the aqueduct and its history. Maybe on his next leave. Shoving his personal interests aside, he focused on the mission: Identify the threat. Neutralize the threat. Rescue the children.

  Wading through water made for slow progress and determined effort. As team leader, Rogan had faith in the physical condition of his men, that they’d be able to transit the distance of the tunnel and still have enough strength to storm the winery at a dead run if necessary. Each man cradled an IWI Tavor in his arms, holding it high to keep it out of the water. The Tavor, an Israeli Weapons Industry product, was an efficient assault rifle that could switch between semi- and full-automatic mode. It was fashioned for maximum reliability, durability, simplicity of design, and ease of maintenance under adverse or battlefield conditions.

  When they had located the aqueduct entrance, they found it sealed by two stone slabs. It took four men each to remove them. What obstacles awaited them at the exit was unknown. Had they the time, Rogan would have led a reconnaissance team to plan every detail to access the passage down to the second. But they didn’t have time. Children’s lives were at stake and the clock was ticking. They had to move fast with what little information they had.

  When they’d entered the aqueduct, there still had been no communication with the terrorists, no demands. Other rescue teams would have set up a perimeter and tried to establish communication. To stall for time. To negotiate. Sayeret Matkal wasn’t other teams.

  Strike fast. Strike hard. Surprise is everything. Controlled chaos. That’s how they trained. That’s what they were known for.

  Having reached the calculated distance of the tunnel’s egress, there was an incline and Rogan waded out of the water. Like the entrance, the exit was blocked, but by a pile of rocks, not stone slabs. Rogan and his men set to work, dislodging stones slightly larger than a man’s head, handing them back, commando to commando. A rush of fresh air signaled the breakthrough. Tearing dry brush aside, Rogan crawled out and found himself in a shallow wadi, the sides of which were barely three meters high.

  As the remainder of the strike force emerged from the tunnel, Rogan, Sokoloff, and Herel lay against the sandy incline and with binoculars assessed the situation.

  There were three armed terrorists guarding the rear of the structure, a small covered patio with white iron tables and chairs. There was nothing fancy about it, probably an eating and smoking area for workers. The meager light of a quarter moon outlined the dark shapes of the guards. Rogan studied them, assessing their battle readiness.

  The men slouched; one of them was seated at a table. While they were facing the open field, they were not alert. All three of them were holding their rifles—AK-47s from the look of them—in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other.

  “Definitely not professional soldiers,” Sokoloff said.

  “They’re drunk,” Harel added.

  An uneasy feeling crept over Rogan. It felt wrong. Given the high profile of the victims, he expected a professional force. Was it possible they didn’t know who they’d kidnapped?

  With the strike force in position, Rogan spoke over the COM to the diversionary force in front.

  “We’re good to go,” he said.

  “Copy that,” came the reply.

  With nothing to do now but wait for the diversionary force to implement the initial stage of the plan, Rogan allowed himself a wry smile as he pictured the events that were about to unfold in the front parking lot of the winery. It was a tip of the hat to the historic raid on the airport in Entebbe when Sayeret Matkal forces approached an airport terminal in a black Mercedes, the kind used by government officials in Uganda. A Mercedes was being used tonight also, but with a twist—

  A red Mercedes GT Roadster convertible thundered up the dirt road and into the Efrat Winery parking lot, pulling to a stop near the glass front doors of the showroom. A burly man tumbled out from behind the wheel. He was wearing a cowboy hat, Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and flip flops. A buxom woman with platinum blonde hair remained in the passenger seat.

  “Will you look at that!” the man cried with an American accent. “It’s closed, sweetcakes!”

  He stood with hands on hips staring at the dark building.

  The front door opened and a man with a rifle emerged, clearly perplexed.

  “You’re closed!” Hawaiian shirt cried. “Do you realize we came all the way from Beaumont, Texas, just to taste your wine?”

  The terrorist didn’t understand a word of English. He shouted at them to go away, waving his rifle for emphasis.

  Another terrorist joined him.

  “This is unacceptable,” Hawaiian shirt shouted. “I want to register a complaint. Do any of you speak English?”

  A third and fourth terrorist appeared, ogling the blonde.

  “EN . . . GLISH,” Hawaiian shirt cried.

  One of the terrorists stepped forward. “You . . . go . . . now,” he said in broken English. He leveled his rifle at Hawaiian shirt, who raised his hands.

  “All right! All right! We’ll go.” He walked to the driver’s side door. “But I have to tell you, you’re getting a one-star review on Yelp.”

  He started to open the door.

  “One thing more,” he said. “Can any of you give us directions to Bethlehem?”

  The code word spoken, four successive shots rang out from the vineyard and all four terrorists collapsed onto the macadam, dead.

  The blonde threw off her wig, jumped out of the car—not a woman after all. The two commandos threw open the winery doors and tossed flash-bang grenades into the showroom while the full diversionary force poured out of the vineyards and stormed the building.

  “Go, go, go!”

  The instant the command came over the COM, Rogan signaled three designated snipers who dispatched the guards on the patio with a single shot each. Following Rogan’s lead, his team emerged from the wadi on a dead run. They encountered no resistance.

  Crossing the patio, they breached the building through an unlocked door. The winery was built on two levels. This was the lower level. Rows of wine casks stretched the length of the room. Seated between the casks were the children, all hugging their knees, probably so ordered by the terrorists.

  Between the sounds of the flash-bangs and gunfire coming from upstairs and the sudden appearance of armed men streaming through the doors, the children were wide-eyed and frightened, many of them crying.

  “Be quiet and move quickly,” Rogan said to them. “We’ll take you to your parents.”

  Half the team moved to secure the room’s perimeter while the other half began shepherding the children out the back, across the field, and into the tunnel.

  With the operation proceeding as planned, Rogan signaled Sokoloff and Harel to follow him. They had been tasked with locating and securing the three high-profile children. Child by child, they searched each face.

  Reaching the end of one row, Rogan turned to his left. He had just started down the next row when he heard Harel call out.

  “Over here!”

  That same moment Rogan saw three children huddled separately from the others. An angel was standing over them. He had a black sword.

  “Sokoloff! Harel!” Rogan shouted. “I found them.”

  They couldn’t hear him through the din and continued running the opposite direction.

  Rogan made his way down the row, never taking his eye off the angel, his thumb touching the ring on his finger reassuringly. He was about to order the angel to stand aside when the supernatural being vanished.

  Rogan ran to the youngsters.

  They weren’t the children he was looking for. He helped them up and led them to the egress point, handing them off to another commando. Turning back into the room, he retraced his steps. Running to the end of the row of barrels, he glanced in the direction he’d last seen Sokoloff and Harel.

  They were at the far side of the room. Just beyond them, a couple of terrorists were shoving three children into an adjoining room. Sokoloff raised his weapon, but couldn’t get a clear shot. The door slammed shut. Sokoloff and Harel quickly approached, took up positions at the door, weapons ready, and with a silent signal between them, burst into the room.

  The door closed behind them.

  The instant it did, Rogan saw two angels appear, guarding the door, their black swords drawn.

  Invisible to ordinary men, did they know Rogan could see them?

  Gunfire erupted on the other side of the door.

  Scenarios flashed through Rogan’s mind. He’d fought visible angels in training sessions and he felt confident he could hold his own against these two, but a fight would delay him and he needed to get into that room now.

  To his left was a hallway. He sprinted down it, flanking the angels.

  The hallway shared an adjoining wall with the room Sokoloff and Harel had entered. Rogan placed his hand on it, the hand with Solomon’s ring. This he had not done in training, having been taught the powers of the ring, but never having experienced it. At the time he’d argued that training in theory was inadequate. Teaching a recruit the operational specs of the Tavor assault rifle was far different from having him fire one in the field, different still from firing one under battle conditions. His argument fell on deaf ears. The Archangel Michael offered no explanation.

  The palm of Rogan’s hand brushed the surface of the wall. It was smooth. Solid. Was it really possible to do this? The lives of his men and the children depended on a legend.

  Rogan took a deep breath. He pressed his hand against the wall.

  His hand disappeared, passing through seemingly solid mass as though it was not there.

  Another deep breath and Rogan followed his hand through the wall.

  Emerging on the other side, he entered a room lined from floor to ceiling with racks with wine bottles. The three children, frightened, crying, were seated on the floor. The two terrorists lay dead just a few feet distant. Sokoloff and Harel stood over them.

  Situation secure.

  Or so it seemed.

  There was something not right with two of the children, one of the boys and the girl. When Rogan looked at them their faces flickered back forth between that of a child and that of the demon that possessed them.

  Before Rogan had a chance to warn his team members, Sokoloff, who had not seen him enter through the wall, swung his Tavor in the direction of Harel and fired a short burst into his friend; Harel’s face registered shock as he flew backward by the impact of the blast.

  A cry of horror welled up inside Rogan, erupting into a shout. “No!”

  Sokoloff swung around.

  His friend’s face flickered, one instant Sokoloff, the next instant not Sokoloff.

  Hundreds of hours of Sayeret Matkal training kicked in and Rogan instinctively raised his rifle.

  “Sokoloff! Stand down!” he shouted.

  The face of his friend registered horror, aware of what he was doing, but unable to stop; the face of the demon was one of murderous intent.

  Sokoloff’s weapon fired in a raking motion as it swung around, shattering bottles and spraying the room with red wine. A bullet slammed into Rogan’s shoulder. The next round would end him.

  Rogan fired, hitting Sokoloff square in the chest, at this close range penetrating his body armor, blasting him off his feet.

  His friend was dead when he hit the ground. The only life remaining in him was the demon which rose out of him and came toward Rogan.

  Rogan raised his hand.

  “Be still!” he shouted. “I command you, be still!”

  The demon froze.

  The two demons inside the children, in similar fashion, rose to attack him.

  Rogan swung around. “Be still!” he shouted again.

  They froze, half in, half out of the children.

 

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