Piroz The ISIS Slayer
Page 2
The soldiers, all glad for their hazard suits, picked their way through the make-shift hospital of tents the Red Cross had set up, avoiding looking too closely at any of the bodies. Most of the men had seen enough death so far, and wouldn’t willingly look upon any more if they didn’t have to. When they came to the Red Cross tent, one of the men waved Major Raines over.
“Look, sir,” he said.
Inside, several doctors lay dead—but the tent had not been ransacked. Instead, it looked as if someone had very methodically gone through the binders and vials and taken what they wanted.
“My God,” said Major Raines. “Was looting the other villages just a tactic to distract us? If they’ve taken the virus…then they must have a plan for it. We’ve delayed too long already—let’s go.”
Then men tried to imagine the horror that ISIL might cause with access to the Ebola virus, and it put fire in their souls to catch the militants. Reaching the edge of the clearing they disrobed from their hazard suits, leaving them behind to retrieve later—the yellow was too bright for their next maneuver, which would require stealth. They turned their attention toward the jungle and began moving deeper into the line of trees. Their formation was tight, ready for anything. Their footsteps moved in a synchronized dance through the undergrowth.
After a few miles, Major Raines held out his arm to stop his troop. Their well-trained eyes had all caught the same blur of movement. An animal. Its brown color was barely visible amongst the thick trees. Whatever it was, it was frozen, watching them just as they were watching it. As its pointed ears perked up above the large leaves of a bush, the men’s muscles relaxed, but only slightly. “Caracal,” the major whispered. The sand-colored jungle cat darted away, soon disappearing.
"Major, do you think the colonel was right about the direction? It’s very possible that he was disoriented if not hallucinating," a soldier asked.
Raines ignored the question, instead shifting some leaves aside with his foot and revealing a boot print. The same soldier was feeling inquisitive, though, and had one more question. “Major, I know you and Colonel Thomas go way back, but he looks almost young enough to be your son.”
The squad, which had now gathered around the boot print, stopped to stare in awkward silence at the twenty-year-old who kept daring to speak up. The others held their breath for a harsh response, but instead Major Raines answered in stride.
“It’s an ongoing joke of ours—he’ll tell you the secret to his youth is a special potion passed down through his family, but it can’t be anything more than good genes. He’s a good man, and we did our country a service by rescuing him. He’s saved my neck more than once, and he may save yours one day as well.” Looking around the major quickly changed the subject. “Let’s pick it up. These tracks are good, but if the terrorists get out of this jungle with that virus...” his voice trailed off. “I don’t need to finish the sentence.” He led on.
They began to hoof their way through the beginning of the afternoon rain. It was soon impossible to tell whether the drops that rolled from their foreheads and dripped from their chins were beads of sweat or drops of sweet rain. Their agile bodies ducked and weaved through the dense fauna, their eyes on sharp alert and their guns ready for any surprise attack by man or beast. Major Raines calculated that by the freshness of the previous footprints and his own troops’ rapid pace, they had a good chance of catching up to the ISIL soldiers. The enemy soldiers were quick, no doubt, and also likely greater in number—but Major Raines knew from experience that they were largely untrained and more enthusiastic than skilled in their use of weapons.
Ahead, the ISIL soldiers were growing uneasy about a possible pursuit. "We are being slowed down by these vials and papers,” one of the men said as they carefully made their way through the jungle, trudging onward though their clothes weighed pounds more from the soaking rain. It was his turn to help carry the box of deadly treasure they had come for, sharing the duty with another as they each held one handle on either side.
“The Americans may catch us,” his current partner mumbled. “And they won’t show us any more mercy than we showed those villagers.”
Their whispers weren’t soft enough to avoid being overheard by the ears of those at the front of the group. The two men looked at one another, trying to disguise their fear as the line stopped and Askari and Usman spoke quietly to one another.
“All right,” Askari said to the militants, pointing to the two standing closest to him. “You two—take the virus and carry on with me. The rest of you will wait here for the Americans. I want no hostages. Kill them all. We’ll wait for you at the plane.” No one questioned his booming command. In minutes the rest of the militants were perched strategically in the bushes, waiting for their prey. The natural inhabitants of the treetops felt the tension and reacted accordingly, hooting and screaming. There was the muffled pop of a silencer, and a single shot sent a primate falling from his branch.
"Major Raines,” one of the American soldiers nodded his head to the west, seeing movement a short distance away. The major motioned for the men to get down. His focus remained unbroken even when he felt the legs of an insect scuttle across his knuckles.
They crept forward, their elbows and knees dragging across the soggy ground. The six men arranged themselves, shoulder to shoulder, with their leader in the middle.
“We’re outnumbered,” Major Raines whispered. “They’re waiting to ambush us.”
The soldiers followed Major Raines’ finger as he pointed in turn at each of the enemy members who crouched in the bushes. “We’ll circle around them and hope for the best.”
The soldiers slowly drew back, circling around the waiting ambush. Each of their steps was calculated to make no noise and they remained undetected, as quiet as the breeze that occasionally rustled the leaves around them.
Raines whistled a signal to attack, at the same time firing rapidly and taking down four of the enemy. His soldiers opened fire as well, and their aim was true—each took out at least one radical.
“United States Military. Drop your guns and surrender!” Raines shouted the command so all of the militants could hear. “We don’t want to kill any more of you than we have to. Put down your guns and step into the open.”
“You surrender, infidels, in the name of Allah!” screamed one of the militants as he burst out of the jungle, firing wildly.
“Open fire!” the major shouted in response, and again his soldiers fell in beside each other and walked forward in a deadly wall, aiming precisely at the militants who rushed toward them. It seemed to be a quick victory as bodies dropped, and they heard the sound of several militants running away into the jungle.
The soldiers’ concentration was broken by an anguished cry. “Corporal!”
One of their own lay on the ground, next to a lifeless radical—the radical was a young man, perhaps no more than sixteen. Major Raines wondered briefly who had cared so little for his son or brother that he would lead him down the militant path to almost certain death, but then his attention snapped back to his fallen comrade.
The soldier’s chest rose and fell with heavily labored breaths, and blood soaked into the earth beneath him.
“Hang in there, Smitt,” Raines commanded as if giving any other order. “We’ll get you back to the base.”
“Kill the infidels,” said a calm, accented voice from behind them. More of the militants had circled back, and now stood ready to avenge their fallen comrades. The Americans had won the first round of ambush only to find themselves now at gunpoint themselves.
“You will watch your friend die,” one of the militants said. “And then you will die yourselves.”
Several seconds passed and Smitt’s breathing became wet and wheezing. The Americans knew he wouldn’t make it out alive if they couldn’t get him moving within minutes. “Grenade!” the major shouted, taking a chance. It caught the militants off guard for just the split second that they needed to scatter out of harm’s way.
Everyone took inventory of standing soldiers, pushing emotions aside to stay in the fight. Another two ISIL members were down. Next, two American troops hit the ground.
“Grenade!” the youngest soldier yelled again, this time giving a real warning. The area was too compact. A duck for cover was fruitless; the explosion blew two soldiers apart, and the smoke created a confusing scene of wild, aimless gunfire. Major Raines crouched behind a bush, waiting for the haze to clear, gun aimed straight ahead and ready to fire. As the smoke dissipated the scene was everything Raines had both hoped for and dreaded. There was no one to point a gun at. All of the ISIL members—or their body parts—sprawled on the ground in front of him. Likewise, there was no one to rally together with Raines and move forward. His eyes moved from location to location as he identified each one of his soldiers, now lying dead on the floor of the rainforest. “Those bastards are going to pay for this,” the major spat, checking his ammo and sprinting forward.
“It sounds like our most immediate problem has been solved. The American soldiers should have had a relatively quick death compared to what the rest of the world will soon face.” Askari stood at the top of a shaking watchtower, watching the battle play out from afar. He could tell that he needn’t await any of his own soldiers, either.
The abandoned airstrip on which the watchtower stood had gone many years without a plane gracing its now-overgrown runway, which made it perfect for ISIL purposes—it was isolated and relatively safe from detection. Askari climbed down, motioning for his two remaining soldiers to climb aboard the ragged cargo plane. Its exterior matched its surroundings: neglected and long past its prime. As the two men lifted the cargo they had come for up toward the first step, they suddenly fell face forward, the contents of the box spilling out.
"That was for my men." Major Raines came loping from the treeline. His stride was fearless, his gun pointed directly at Askari. He followed Askari’s gaze as the ISIL leader looked to Usman, who was standing in the shadow of the cockpit, but Raines didn’t move quickly enough in response to the unspoken signal. A gunshot cracked out and Raines’ hand went to his chest, his fingers covered in blood. He dropped to his knees, his eyes glazing over in shock.
"Pathetic. When you let yourself become overwhelmed with emotion, you lose all logic—that was hardly an ambush," Askari said.
At the wave of Askari’s hand, Usman collected the fallen vials of virus and the papers, securing them in the trunk once more.
“You are true warriors,” Askari complimented the two wounded militants at the stairs as he approached, pausing in front of them to make eye contact. “Enjoy your peace in the afterlife.” He shot the two men, carried his precious cargo onto the plane, and instructed Usman to take them to headquarters.
A Few Weeks Later....
Mark breathed in fresh air, feeling full of life. He thought back to only a few days ago, when he had been so ready to resume his life as a soldier—he saw the scene so clearly in his mind’s eye.
His left leg jiggled impatiently—never one to handle being idle, Mark was anxious to leave the military hospital and get back to his routine.
His doctor, a middle-aged man with silvery grey hair, looked at Mark’s chart and then smiled. “I’m giving you a clean bill of health,” he said. “You’re cleared for duty.”
“Finally!” Mark exulted, standing up to leave. Before he could take a step toward the door, though, Dr. Lock halted him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“No one admires your dedication to justice more than me,” Dr. Lock said. “But you know I have to say this—you must be more careful. Your mother will have my head if anything happens to you; I’ve gotten endless lectures about your last adventure already.”
Mark reached up and patted Dr. Lock’s hand. There was such a closeness between them that a casual onlooker would have thought them old friends, or even father and son. “I promise that any risks I take with my own life will be worth it for our country,” he answered.
Dr. Lock smiled again, a twinkle in his eyes. “I can see I won’t get you to promise to be careful—but I’m glad to see you so hale and hearty. Go on, now—I know you’re eager to get on with things.”
Now Mark felt stronger than ever, on a simple mission to get parts for his helicopter. He had reached the larger base camp several miles away, and had been there several days helping with repairs and general duties. Looking up at the large block TV in the room he watched the footage roll—a story of special interest to him. He read the words across the bottom of the screen; the story of a Kurdish warrior who had taken down a small group of ISIL followers. Mark’s attention was captured entirely.
Then, as the newscaster moved on to the next story, Mark’s hand went to his mouth to stop the gasp that was trying to escape his lips. His base had just been bombed. The footage walked its viewers through the complete devastation left behind. It appeared everyone was dead, either from the explosion or the Ebola—now wielded as a heartless and deadly biological weapon—that reporters weren’t saying much about. The new strain of the disease somehow seemed to infect and kill within hours.
A different face abruptly appeared on the television—this time, the feed was grainy and the filming amateur. "This is just a test strike against the Western infidels. Soon the whole world will know what it is like to defy Al-Dawla Al-Islamiya fi al-Iraq wa al-Sham. We will cleanse the world and only the true believers will remain. This is just the beginning." The hooded man made his declaration via a hijacked signal that overrode the programming on every television station. Mark clenched his fist and knew he wouldn’t rest until that man was in hell.
Chapter 1
Ren felt a light brown curl spring out from behind her ear. She hated her curls. They made her look much younger than she really was, and as a result others rarely took her seriously upon first impression. She was in her early twenties, but her lithe body, large eyes, fair skin, and bouncing locks meant she could pass for a fifteen-year-old any day.
Worries about her appearance were far from her mind right now, though; she was too busy to fret over such things. Judging by the number of hours that had passed since the sun went down she guessed it was just after midnight. Girls in other parts of the world were in bed, studying for school, or out flirting with young men in bars. Instead here she was dodging blows from a radical extremist who was nearly twice her size. The man hurled himself at her, a large club in hand. She quickly repositioned her small, agile frame just enough that the blow struck her side rather than her head.
“That hurt!” she shouted, surprising the bearded man. Her response to the tearing pain in her side was a swift kick toward his genitals. It was hard to aim just right when his draping, black attire swallowed most of his lower half, but she got lucky and the man doubled over in pain.
“Go to HELL!” Ren revealed a set of knives hidden underneath her own long garment. Without even looking down she snatched one out of its sheath and sent it flying toward the man’s head, where it buried itself between his eyes.
“Aw, you poor thing.”
Without missing a beat she pulled out another knife with her left hand and sent it directly into the second man’s eye, hearing a soft and jellied pop, followed by agonized shrieks.
“Oof. So glad I’m not you!”
The scene became a bloody mess of knife wounds as she calmly took down the men rushing at her. Her movements were fluid, almost as if she was a machine—every throw was perfectly calculated and hit its mark without fail. The blades, ferociously sharp, sliced through flesh like it
was butter. When the last man had fallen, Ren looked down at her laced-up boots and grimaced at the blood. What she didn’t see, she could feel, slick beneath her feet.
There was one more man lurking in the shadows behind her. He had been waiting patiently, watching Ren’s every move and puzzling out how best to overcome her. He was waiting to sneak up from behind and grab her arms, knowing his superior strength could prevail only if she couldn’t reach her knives. But Ren knew that trick—this encounter was far from being her first fight. She didn’t let on that she was waiting for still another assailant, whose movement she could sense from behind. Instead, she stood as if exhausted, pretending to pant with exertion and hanging her head toward the ground.
Her lack of startled movement was the man’s clue that she hadn’t been surprised by his attack. She let him take hold of her, bringing his grip in tighter and tighter until she knew his chin was just above the crown of her head. Patiently she allowed his restraint until just the right moment, and then CRACK! She curled up into a ball and released herself with an explosion of power, hitting her head upward into the man’s chin so hard it forced him to let go.