Chapter Text
“Our war is not our faith. We fight to remove all foreign power from our soil.”
The TV crackled in the back of the truck. Wolf’s words flooded the space as the men slowly readied themselves. Tugging on their gear and grabbing their guns.
“We are Al-Qatala. We are The Killers.”
“We fight without sorrow. Without sympathy. This is the only way to live… and die… A true soldier.”
The words faded into the background as the truck doors were pushed open, the ruckus of London instead overtaking all else. The men slowly loaded out of the truck, all but one heading off in other directions in Piccadilly.
The one man slowly sauntered forward, taking a breath from his cigar before dropping it and crushing it underfoot. He exhaled the smoke through gritted teeth and parted lips.
A child tugged on his mother’s coat, pointing toward the man. The woman turned and looked, all before screaming and grabbing her child, trying to run. The man laughed coldly, a gleam in his eyes through his mask.
He had a C4 strapped to his chest.
Others began to scream and run upon noticing, desperate to escape before the detonation. The man took his time, unhooking the detonator from his belt and twirling it in his hand before—