BIRTHCRY1: CHAPTER 4 – SECONDS BEFORE DEATH
In Nehran, seventy-two hours after the President's execution, in the shadowed heart of Hiran's central highlands, beneath the fractured stones of an ancient fortress, a gathering pulsed with dread. The underground chamber reeked of torch smoke and sweat, its soot-caked walls flickering with firelight. Hundreds of militants, faces veiled in black scarves, knelt in suffocating rows, breaths shallow, eyes locked forward in reverent silence. The air throbbed with unspoken violence.
A solitary figure emerged—clad in black, his presence like a blade. He raised a fist.
"Bring them," he commanded, his voice sharp as shattered glass.
Four names echoed in the chamber. Four young men, bound, blindfolded, wrists chained, were dragged into the torchlight. Their torn clothes were stained with days of captivity. As they were forced to their knees before the crowd, they did not scream or beg—only waited, their expressions as unreadable as stone.
"These four young men killed our president!" the leader declared. "These bastards are from Ru's faction and killed our president on Ru's orders. Ru, the Betrayer of our president. He pretended loyalty but murdered him. These traitors will be executed in two days!"
The crowd erupted. Masked faces twisted with hatred. Fists pounded the air. Rifles thrust upward in a savage salute. The chant roared: "Death to the betrayers!" It shook dust from the ancient ceiling.
The prisoners were hauled away to lightless pits carved into rock—no bedding, no food, only silence. They did not resist, as if they had always known.
Two days later, on execution day at 10:53 a.m., they were dragged from their cells. Barefoot and shirtless, the prisoners bore raw wounds where rusted cuffs had bitten deep. Blood trickled down their sides. They marched into the center of the district, where thousands had gathered.
This wasn't justice. This was a spectacle.
Six towering figures stood at the center—gods of death clad in combat armor, faces hidden behind demonic masks. Their hands gripped torture instruments: hooks, blades, electrified chains. These weren't tools for killing. They were instruments of horror.
A drum pounded—a slow, relentless beat.
The people began to dance, their movements a grotesque blend of ritual and violence. The crowd roared its approval, drunk on bloodlust, hailing the squad with unholy reverence.
A member raised his hands. "One hour of entertainment begins now!"
The prisoners, stripped naked, chests rising in the cold air, braced as the first whip cracked—sharp as lightning.
"STOP!"
A voice rang out.
The terrorist leader stormed into the arena, face pale, sweat streaking his brow. "Stop the execution!"
Confusion rippled through the courtyard. The six masked executioners turned toward him.
Then, without warning—they charged.
Bullets screamed through the air. Guards dropped. The executioners, untouched, moved with mechanical precision. Bullets ricocheted off their armor. Panic surged. The crowd trampled over each other to escape. In three minutes, the courtyard became a graveyard—hundreds dead, blood soaking the ancient stones.
Amid the chaos, the four prisoners vanished—naked, ribs stark, gasping like men reborn.
The leader, bleeding from a dozen wounds, crawled toward a shattered microphone, coughing blood.
"They're human bombs!" he screamed. "Each carries a nuclear device in his body! If any of them dies... this region will be vaporized!"
Silence struck like a hammer.
The executioners froze. They had been unaware. Their weapons dropped—not in surrender, but to begin a new mission: hunt the escapees.
The prisoners were quickly recaptured. This time, they were not beaten. They were clothed, fed, and watched with clinical care.
Hours later, a satellite phone crackled to life.
The Supreme Terrorist Leader's voice cut through, cold and sharp: "Transport them to our base. Immediately."
That same morning, a blacked-out private jet landed in a secret facility buried deep within Zaristan's peaks. The four prisoners were escorted under heavy guard. Awaiting them was the Supreme Commander's right-hand man—smooth, suited, his eyes lifeless as steel.
American-trained surgeons, military biochemists, and engineers stood ready. Their mission: extract the nuclear devices.
They failed.
Each man carried fifteen microscopic nuclear cells—smaller than sand grains, embedded in organs, veins, and muscle. Removal meant instant detonation.
The Supreme Leader's ultimatum: "Complete a suicide mission for us, or watch your entire faction annihilated."
At first they hesitated, but then the four agreed, their resolve hardening like forged steel.
A secure phone buzzed in the Supreme Leader's hand. He glanced at the screen—an encrypted line. Boston.
He answered without greeting.
Boston's voice came through, steady and cold. "A guy with a mark on his neck—he's the real one. Keep him safe. He's the only hope we have. Always keep an eye on him."
The Supreme Leader's expression didn't change. "Understood."
"And one more thing," Boston continued. "Train them in South languages. That's where their mission might be."
The line went dead.
The Supreme Leader lowered the phone, his gaze settling on the four prisoners. One of them bore a faint scar along his neck—barely visible, but there.
He nodded to himself.
They were scheduled for hell: relentless training in languages, infiltration tactics, weapons handling, forging fake identities and names, anti-aging drugs, and the brutal arts of psychological warfare. There would be no sleep. There would be no mercy. And in the end, they would become assassins with a countdown ticking inside them.
Inside the facility, the six executioners now lounged in a rec room, sipping tea as satellite TV buzzed in the background.
Breaking news flashed: "Hiranian President Assassinated by Terrorist Unit of Four."
Their faces appeared—unmasked, confident. The four prisoners.
Mugs dropped. Eyes widened. Silence fell.
Not victims. Not prisoners.
The executioners—those they had tortured, captured, and pitied—had been the real killers all along. Their escape, their recapture—it had all been a ruse.
At the same time in SYRIA 71, Dexter sat frozen in his dimly lit command room, eyes fixed on the screen. The reporter's voice broke the silence:
"Two days ago, The Hiran's president was executed by an unidentified terrorist cell. Now, their identities are known."
The footage rolled. The four faces. Not Dexter's elite black-ops unit. Someone else.
Dexter's pulse thundered. His team had gone nowhere.
He turned to a classified file. Pages once filled with operative data—names, ages, ranks—were now blacked out. Each page stamped: MISSING.
The room grew colder.
Someone was rewriting the story.
Meanwhile, Boston prepared his things. S1 through S5 and junior warriors stood with him. The entrance gate of SYRIA 71 opened. Boston stared at the desert, blankly. He started to walk, a huge bag fixed to his back. The senior and junior warriors took their weapons and began to leave SYRIA 71. Dexter watched them move toward their own headquarters, newly built by SYRIA 71.
While Boston walked, only one thought ran through his mind: MOTHER.
(End of prologue arc)