Prologue to Determined Souls
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Northwest Pakistan—Two Years Before
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Through military-grade optics, Faraz Qureshi watched a ghost return to the place he’d burned.
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A thousand meters. The rangefinder held steady on the blackened timbers jutting from the Christian compound's ruins. A solitary figure moved through the destruction, his white shalwar kameez bright against charred stone—Hassan Awan, the missionary's former assistant. The traitor who’d chosen infidels over his national faith.
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Sweat soaked through Faraz’s uniform, but he didn't blink. Didn't shift position despite rocks digging into his elbows. A hawk circled overhead, riding thermals thick with dust and wild sage.
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Thirteen years since we cleansed this place. And now he’s returned.
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Awan had worked at the mission for years before the attack. According to rumors, he had risked everything to guide William Freeman’s son through an escape tunnel while the parents stayed behind to face death. To Faraz, this was an unforgivable betrayal—a Pakistani Muslim loyal to Christian missionaries.
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“So you’ve returned.” Faraz’s whisper carried no farther than the hot wind. “Like a dog to its vomit.”
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The question that had haunted him for thirteen years surfaced again. Where was the boy? The boy would be a young man now, twenty-two or twenty-three. Old enough to have inherited his father’s charisma, his ability to win hearts and build influence among the vulnerable people near the Shingli Payeen Village of Northwest Pakistan.
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Faraz surveyed what remained of his most significant accomplishment. Few at the Federal Investigation Agency (FIA) knew of his militant past with Tehreek-e-Labbaik Pakistan—his personnel file mentioned only “security experience.” A scrubbed history, maintained through careful networking and Rahman’s protection. If the truth emerged, everything would collapse.
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Hassan’s careful preparation below suggested this wasn’t a casual visit. This was reconnaissance for a greater threat. Perhaps the son’s return.
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Faraz’s left cheek flared—the familiar burn whenever his past threatened his present. He touched the scar tissue, feeling the ridged line where flames had marked him that night. Rahman had cauterized the wound himself, turning disfigurement into a badge of service.
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From TLP raider to FIA Director. He’d spent thirteen years building this new identity, all while maintaining his devotion to Rahman’s vision—a Pakistan purified of Christian influence. A scorpion scuttled across the rock beside him, its tail curved defensively. Faraz watched it disappear into a crevice. Silent. Deadly. Patient.
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Like him.
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He shifted his position, careful not to dislodge any loose stones that might betray his presence. His government vehicle waited a kilometer away, where the dirt road ended. No official reason explained why he was here today. This was personal reconnaissance, conducted with resources only his rank afforded.
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Through the binoculars, he watched Hassan pause at what had once been the chapel’s entrance. The infidel knelt, running his fingers over the scorched foundation, his head bowed in what Faraz recognized as prayer. Rage ignited in his chest.
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Still clinging to his false Son of God. Yet where was this Christ when we burned their sanctuary to the ground?
A text message vibrated silently against his hip. He ignored it, knowing only Rahman would contact him on this secure line. Their communication had grown more cautious lately—the sheikh had expressed concern about Faraz’s “divided loyalties,” questioning whether government service had softened his commitment to their cause. This surveillance would prove otherwise.
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Hassan stood and moved to what had once been the mission’s garden, his steps sure despite the tangled undergrowth. He seemed to know where he was going, as if he’d memorized every corner of this place before its destruction. He knelt again, clearing away weeds and stones from a particular spot with gentle, reverent movements.
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Faraz adjusted the binoculars, tightening his focus on Hassan’s hands as they worked the soil. The Christian reached into his bag and withdrew a small canteen. A dust devil swirled across the compound, stirring ash and debris. Hassan waited for it to pass, then poured water onto whatever he had uncovered.
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Adjusting the binocular’s focus ring, Faraz magnified the image. A small green shoot pushed through the blackened soil, its leaves bright against the damp earth. Some kind of plant that had returned despite the devastation.
“What are you nurturing, traitor?” he whispered, though he already understood.
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The memory of that day thirteen years ago surged unbidden. The shouting, the gunfire, the crackling flames that had devoured the structures. He remembered the missionaries’ terrified faces illuminated by the inferno, the woman’s screams as she called for her God. The boy he’d never laid eyes on—nine or ten years old—who had somehow escaped with Hassan’s help while his parents died defending their schoolhouse.
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Joseph Freeman. The one who got away.
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Hassan shifted position, giving Faraz a clear view of what the man had been protecting. The plant was small but healthy, its leaves bright against the damp soil. Around its base, a perfect circle—a tiny sanctuary in the midst of destruction.
“You think something can grow here again,” Faraz muttered. “You think you can resurrect what we destroyed.”
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The thought chilled him more than he cared to admit. He had built his reputation on thoroughness, on leaving no loose ends. The mission raid should have been complete—the buildings burned to rubble, the missionaries killed, their influence eradicated. Yet here was Hassan, suggesting that perhaps Faraz’s greatest victory had not been as final as he’d believed.
Hassan finished his work and stood, scanning the ruins before gathering his things. The Christian paused at what had once been the entrance to the compound. He bowed his head in prayer, then turned and walked away along the dirt path that led back to the nearest village.
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Faraz remained motionless until Hassan was well out of sight. Only then did he slip the binoculars into their case and secure it in his pack.
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He stretched his stiff joints before departing his observation post, then took a last look at the ruins below. From this distance, without magnification, the compound appeared completely desolate—just another abandoned place reclaimed by nature and time. No one passing by would notice the new growth pushing through the hard earth.
But Faraz knew. And Faraz would not allow such things to grow.
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He reached his government SUV, parked discreetly behind an outcropping of rocks. His driver was absent—some matters about his past must remain secret.
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“This is not over,” he promised the empty air, his voice carrying absolute conviction. “This will never be over until every trace is gone.”
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He checked his watch—he had a meeting with local officials in twenty minutes. Director Qureshi would be punctual, professional, respected. No one would guess that beneath his administrator exterior lay the same zealot who had led the charge against this mission thirteen years ago.
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His scar pulsed one final time as he started the engine—a warning, perhaps, that the past was never truly buried, only waiting for the right moment to resurrect itself.