Delilah Recovered **2017 Watty Winner**

chapter three

IIn silence, Wolf and his partner Joanna entered what appeared to be an abandoned candy factory. The chipped crumbling facade housed a state-of-the-art headquarters and training facility for a centuries-old secret organization, the Sect of the Silver Hammer, founded in the 1300s to exterminate witches.

"All our training and you hesitated," Joanna said as they entered the sub-armory.

Wolf began to remove his gear, "I looked into her eyes."

Joanna pushed Wolf against his locker with her elbow pressing into his throat making it difficult for him to breathe.

"You had her," she hissed.

Joanna was the toughest soldier he knew, and he had served Delta Force in the Army Special Services.

She released him and slapped him on the back. "I won't tell your old man."

They changed out of their special operations gear and into sweats embellished with The Sect's crest -- a silver hammer in a circle with words "Thou Shalt Not Suffer a Witch to Live" written in Latin underneath it. They walked through a series of cement hallways stretching through the bowels of the building. When they entered the leader of The Sect's office, they found Gart Jacob Zandt staring at a painting of Joan of Arc.

Gart pointed at the painting, "Evil comes in many faces. Look at hers, just a simple young peasant girl. She was a nobody from nowhere. What did she do before we killed her? She used her powers to lead an army of thousands of men to win a war for the French. "

Gart spun around. His salt and pepper hair still cropped close to his head, showcasing an angry throbbing vein on his forehead. He took one long stride and was nose to nose with Wolf.

"Tonight, you had one simple mission. It was to execute another nobody from nowhere before she could wreak havoc on our world, before she could start another war, the war of good versus evil," said Gart.

"Sir, we had her, but we were ambushed," Joanna attempted to explain.

Gart turned his attention to Joanna, "My two best soldiers, soldiers I personally trained, no less, bested by a mute fallen angel and a flock of fanny-pack wearing fairies."

Gart took a step back and crossed his imposing arms across his broad chest. "Now because of you two, that war has been set into motion and there's no guarantee that we're going to win it."

Wolf met Gart's steely gaze. "Father, we..."

"You don't deserve to call me by that name, you hear me?" Gart spat as he cracked Wolf across the face. The force of the blow brought Wolf to his knees.

Later that night, Wolf spent time in the gym pounding the punching bag till his knuckles bled. The sweat cascading down his muscled back like a trail of tears over the large red scars that covered it. Scars he had from the many whippings he received from his father. Each mark on Wolf's back was a testament to the shame he had brought to the Zandt name.

Every night, no matter how late, Wolf made sure to visit the chapel to pray. No matter how tired, he would climb up a hundred narrow steps, never stopping until he reached the stained glass image of the tree of life with a large flaming sword guarding it, backlit by an eternal flame at the top.

There was a small wooden altar with a wooden crucifix hanging overhead. Both were made in the 1500s for Heinrich Krammer, the clergyman who wrote The Malleus Maleficarum, also known as The Hammer of the Witches. The original book rested on top of the altar. It had been used for centuries by generations of witch hunters to hunt, test, and torture witches.

The floor of the chapel was made out of rough uneven cobblestones held together by grainy cement cut into his knees when he kneeled down to pray. Wolf would always begin with the Lord's Prayer. He always got tripped up on the passage, "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us."He said these words every night before bed, but he was never taught to forgive. Gart had only tried to plant hate in Wolf's heart.

After four tours in the Middle East, he saw honest soldiers refuse mercy, and corrupt soldiers give mercy. He knew if Joanna had the knife to Delilah's neck, she would be dead. But He couldn't kill her. Even though he failed his father, failed The Sect, he had no regrets for showing Delilah mercy tonight, he thought as he drifted off into a restless sleep.

When Wolf woke up, it was dark, with only the moon to light his path. He was dressed in black running at breakneck speed through the forest, covered in perspiration. He was being hunted. As he ran, he patted his legs and pockets. No gun. No blade. A wolf in pain howled in the distance, he turned his head and tripped over a fallen branch. Facedown in the dirt and shrubs, Wolf struggled to pull himself up. Someone had seized his leg and was dragging him through the forest. The ground scraping away bits and pieces of his skin.

He was released next to a blazing fire. As he turned over, he flinched when he looked into the wild violet eyes looking down on him. It was Delilah.

A wicked smile broke across her face. "Will you deliver me from evil?"

Wolf jerked awake. He was on the chapel floor. He looked down and his thighs were covered in blood.