Inspector Benali stood under the harsh fluorescent lights of the morgue. The smell of formaldehyde was usually enough to keep him focused, but tonight, his hands were shaking.
"Two bodies in two nights," the coroner said, peeling off his gloves. "Moustapha was a mess. Hamid... Hamid was executed. Professional. Very professional."
Benali lit a cigarette, ignoring the 'No Smoking' sign. "Any witnesses?"
"None who are talking. But look at this." The coroner lifted Hamid's arm. "Bruising on the wrist. It's a specific lock. And the cut on the throat? Single motion. Left to right. This isn't a gang hit, Benali. This is a soldier."
Benali walked out of the morgue, his phone ringing. It was Him.
"Tell me," the voice on the other end was smooth, cultured. Karim Haddad.
"It's happening," Benali said, his voice low. "Hamid is dead. Moustapha too."
"A ghost," Karim mused. "We buried that family twelve years ago. I thought we were done."
"So did I," Benali lied. He had known Adam was back the moment he saw the first body. He had seen the boy in the hospital, seen the eyes. He should have killed him then. But mercy—or perhaps cowardice—had stayed his hand. Now, that mercy was going to get him killed.
"Find him, Rachid," Karim said, the warmth vanishing from his tone. "Before he finds the ledger. If that ledger opens, we all hang."
The line went dead.
Benali looked out at the police station. Officers were drinking coffee, laughing. They had no idea a predator was walking among them.
He dialed his deputy. "Put every available man on the streets. Check the warehouses, the Old City, the ports. I don't care if you violate civil rights. Find the silent man."