Piroz The ISIS Slayer

  No words came out of his mouth; only groans of pain. He walked backward, clutching his face. Ren felt his hot blood flow down her scalp. She knew she must have either dislocated his jaw or knocked some of his teeth into his nose. She also knew she would have a splitting headache soon. Scanning the room from left to right, listening intently for any sound other than her own breathing, she concluded there were no more immediate threats. There were no more men in black, and certainly no one to attack her. She collected her knives on the way out, counting the bodies . . . three, four, six dead ISIL followers. A twisted joy flared deep inside of her at how many men she had killed single-handedly, but exhaustion was taking over. Her neck hurt, her side hurt, and her upper arm was bleeding. It was really just a surface wound—nothing to be too concerned about—but she still needed to rest. She slipped from the building, vigilant for any additional enemies, and was soon jogging down a well-worn trail.

  Though her body was weary, her spirits lifted as soon as she entered the village. A rejoicing crowd followed her down the main path, welcoming her back and thanking her for her protection. The people gathered to offer her their gratitude, and the children clutched flowers they had picked for her. One of the village elders stood waiting with open arms and a smile.

  “We will prepare a celebration for you. Go now. Rest and let yourself be taken care of.” Behind the elder a group of women were waiting to lead Ren to a nearby home where she could bathe and relax. Ren said nothing, though she gave the women a feeble smile to convey her thanks.

  They helped Ren disrobe from her long black robe, which concealed her knives. Her shoulders lifted instantly as the weight of the deadly metal was removed from her. The tub of water, scented with lavender and mint, proved to be an instant relief for her aching limbs. She let her body melt into the warmth, allowing the tension to slide away. She didn’t usually like to be pampered or doted on, but she couldn’t muster up any strength to send the women away—and besides, it must have taken so much effort for them to fetch a full tub of water for her. They were carefully tending her wounds, washing her skin of dirt and grime to restore its youthful glow. They took her bloodied clothes and replaced them with a pair of worn slacks and a white shirt.

  Once her fingers had pruned, the water had cooled, and the women had left her on her own, Ren slipped into the new clothes and went to join the villagers. The smell of meat over an open fire reminded her stomach that she hadn’t eaten in many hours. Yet the villagers’ generosity and gratitude meant Ren reached for nothing. Instead, the women who had bathed her so gently brought a feast of meats, vegetables, fresh fruit, flatbreads, custard, and sweets to her. The crackle of the fire embraced her in a warm glow, while the running children and laughing faces brought an energy that made Ren happy she was there and nowhere else. Her nature, usually shy, was overcome by the kindness the villagers so openly showed her, and Ren felt completely at ease, almost if she were once again among family. She didn’t know the village people as well as she felt warranted such special treatment. Most of her hours during the day were spent either training or sleeping. And yet, the people treated her just as they would one of their own.

  The hum of a tune began to grow, and she soon joined in the chorus singing the Ezdin Sher. She allowed herself to close her eyes and go back to her early memories of the song. Her father used to sing it to her and her younger brother sometimes. Her fingers moved slightly, mimicking the movements she had once made on her own guitar, which her father had taught her to play.

  Pangs of sadness crept from deep within. How she missed her family. The gruesome and short battle of the Kurds against the Islamic State in Kobane had taken them away from her all too early. The threat of an incoming invasion had sent the citizens of the town frantically packing to leave before the tanks arrived, but most didn’t make it out in time. Memories flashed of her father shoving a few precious belongings into a bag, family heirlooms and beloved books. His voice was calm, but firm. “We’re leaving quickly on a surprise trip.”

  Ren wasn’t naive. She’d heard the rumors about evacuation, as well as the stories of what happened to those who didn’t escape. Ren’s family hurried out the door and toward the bus a few blocks away. The whimper of a small puppy, abandoned and crying with fear, had distracted her. She just needed one moment to scoop it up and take it with them—she stopped and turned around the corner to lure it to her. Her father’s face as he turned to call after her was the last memory she would ever have of him. The explosion engulfed the area around them, shaking buildings and killing all those it caught in its fiery spread. Ren opened her eyes as the song ended, forcing her deep inner pain to dissipate.

  “Everything I do now is for you Papa, lil’ brother,” she whispered to herself. She chewed savagely on a piece of bread in an effort to control her tears. The painful thoughts, as always, stirred the fire inside of her. “I will tear every ISIL follower limb from limb using my bare hands. I will avenge my family.”

  The dying fire brought the celebration to its end. The air of joy and thankfulness had mellowed into a sleepy contentment, though that was soon to change. For the past several hours the bushes had laid host to three militants, all of whom were waiting patiently for the villagers to grow tired from their merry-making. Beyond them were a few dozen more waiting for the signal to attack. The last ember died out; villagers continued to stagger to their beds for the night.

  Ren should have known she wouldn’t get to rest for long—she never did. The sound of a shrill whistle sent Ren immediately on alert, reaching for her knives. No! she thought. They were in the house with her bloodied and dirty clothes. One by one, the ISIL soldiers came out of hiding, two with high-powered rocket launchers, the others armed with machine guns. Three moved on to the center of the village to announce their presence while a militant with a video camera filmed the happenings. Villagers who had already retired to their homes peered from their windows or cowered in their beds, while those who had still been enjoying the evening now sat frozen.

  Ren took in her surroundings, trying to count the militants and fix their positions in her memory. How can I get to my knives? she thought. Stupid, stupid to leave them behind even for a minute! Suddenly, she felt her hair yanked by the roots, a strong hand dragging her toward the center of the village. She moved her arms and legs in an awkward backwards crawl. Ren felt it likely that she was the target of the evening’s operation; it would be revenge for the six men she had killed earlier.

  Her mind conjured up a plan. She allowed herself to be pinned down by the militants, going limp. Two held her arms while the blows began—a harsh fist to her face, a kick straight into the center of her back. She swallowed any cries of pain. She sat with her arms held like a doll as they continued the beating. They were angry at her unresponsiveness. They wanted a fight.

  “Where is your bravery now?” one hissed at her. “Where is the strength and spark that pushed you to kill six of our brothers? Show it! Give us another reason to hurt you, though we need none!”

  Ren did not respond. She told herself to be patient for the right moment, but the panic grew inside her as she saw villagers being jerked into an idling truck. Men and women alike were pulled from their homes, some dragged from their beds. An involuntary shout escaped her mouth as she saw a young boy ripped from his family. He was screaming, shouting for his mother and father, crying for help, and uselessly flailing with his scrawny arms and legs. He looked just like her brother.

  Ren knew that these people were to be killed, to serve as an example to others who might align against ISIL. The villagers had showered Ren with generosity for saving them. Now look where they are, because of me, she thought. Everyone was terrified. The village expected her to do something; she knew they expected her to resist and defend them with her knives. Fool, she chastised herself again. You should be armed at all times!

  Even if she had been armed, though, Ren knew she could not have fought this many men; they would have overwhelmed her eventually. Perhaps th
ey would take her to their headquarters, rather than killing her outright—then she would start to fight in a different way, with inside information as to their plans and whereabouts. For now, she would remain docile, attacking when the time was right. Knowing these fanatics as she did, they would crave publicity. They would release the footage of their attack on the village, and then more footage later of executions and torture. Disseminating either to the news media would take time. And time was exactly what she needed.

  A smelly hand gripped Ren’s chin and jerked it upward—yet another militant, eager to leave his mark on her skin. “So you are the wonder girl? How puny! Are you even old enough to carry a gun?” the man laughed. “Why aren’t you hitting me back? Don’t be sad. Tell me why you fight—is there a dead family or husband in your past? How about joining them with the other infidels in the afterlife?”

  Ren could only wince. Again her thoughts wandered to her father and brother. She could hear them calling for her to hurry and to leave the puppy alone. She was too distracted with the cute white creature that whimpered in fear, a small cry for help in the chaos. Ironically, that small distraction saved her life—the corner she had ducked around to grab the puppy had sheltered her from the largest chunks of flying debris. It had also taken her down a new path in life—filled at first with deep depression and then with burning anger, she had sought out someone who could train her not only to fight back, but to protect herself. Eventually, she had found a teacher who was willing, however reluctantly, to take on a female student.

  The first thing her instructor, a wise and strong man, had drilled into her mind about becoming a Kurdish warrior was this: Always assess the situation. Be in the present moment. Engage with all of your senses. One should count how many opponents are nearby and where are they located. A warrior never rushes to a scene but instead gingerly checks the situation and looks for the best time to attack. Most importantly, a warrior never attacks based on emotion alone—but that rule was one Ren struggled with, both then and now.

  Her hands were tied behind her back, and two men lifted her into the truck to be packed in with the other women. The door slammed shut, the inside handle biting into her hip. There was nothing but pure darkness now—her sense of sight was useless until her eyes began to adjust. Her skin felt the warm and panicked breath of the others; her ears heard the rickety old engine start. The women’s bodies smashed up against each other as the truck shook, moving slowly down the road.

  She tried to free her hands but the ropes were too tight. If she could escape, she would—there might not be a chance once the truck arrived at the radicals’ camp, and escape was more important than any inside information she might obtain. The quick glance she had gotten before the doors shut showed her that there was only one militant in the back with them. She had visually placed him on the left side, middle. The man wasn’t much larger than her, giving her the confidence that she could take him even with her hands tied. She whispered instructions to the girl next to her. “I’m going to loosen your rope,” she whispered. “Turn your back to me so I can use my mouth.” The girl was shaking with fear but she followed Ren’s instructions.

  After a few seconds of maneuvering with her mouth, Ren had gotten the girl’s rope loose enough for the girl to slip a hand out. Without any instruction the girl knew she needed to loosen Ren’s bonds as well. Had the soldier been more attentive he may have heard their whispers, but he was too busy whistling an odd tune and groping the woman nearest him. The woman cried softly, not resisting.

  Ren moved slowly toward the guard, the rope that had previously tied her clutched in her hands. With a swift movement she looped it around the guard’s throat, pulling it tight and bending him backward. He sank to his knees and then to the floor of the truck without a sound, his death completely unsuspected by the driver up front.

  Ren made her way around to start releasing the women. Each helping one another, they were all free of their bonds within minutes. It was time to try to jimmy the back doors open and hope they could jump out one by one without detection. One hand steadying herself on the wall, Ren stepped forward. Her progress was abruptly interrupted by a halt in movement that threw her off her feet.

  “Where are we?” a woman cried.

  Ren shushed her and told her to keep low. “They still think that we have our hands tied, so if they open the door keep on pretending.” The women stood still, squished together, heads down and hands behind their backs. The door flung open, letting in the light provided by the nearly full moon and bountiful stars.

  “Out of the truck!” shouted an ISIL soldier. “And keep quiet—the first one who screams or cries gets a shot in the back of the head.”

  Once again a man with a video camera stood filming, hiding behind the lens and tiny red light. He motioned to the driver to line the passengers up as they came out of the truck. The militants seemed not to care that they were missing an ally, or that the ropes binding the women’s hands were missing. Perhaps the darkness of the night helped to conceal both, but Ren suspected more likely that these soldiers were just too stupid to notice.

  Only vast desert stretched out in front of the women now. There was nothing in their view except the row of machine guns pointed at them. In her frantic insanity, one woman tried to run away. A bullet sent her falling face first to the ground. The other women wailed and cried.

  “That’s what will happen if you disobey! So don’t!” the driver shouted. “And shut up!”

  With great effort, the women comforted each other and stopped sobbing, still hopeful that some miracle would occur to set them free.

  One of the men covered his face with a black mask. “It’s time,” he told the cameraman. “Focus the light on the women.”

  The driver plucked Ren from the line and dragged her to the front. The other women shrieked in horror as they saw their warrior targeted. Ren held her breath, not quite ready to take action, trying to make herself think coolly. The man continued to talk in front of the camera with a hand pulling tightly on her curly hair. Ren could only stare blankly at the camera, as if to say that they could shoot her or even torture her but she would not show fear. She tried not to let panic creep in, knowing deep inside that she would not be killed, at least not immediately. ISIL only wanted attention right now—if any killings occurred, they would happen later, when the rest of the world had had plenty of time to worry about the kidnapped women.

  Chapter 2

  Mark winced as he watched a news story about the latest ISIL attack on a small village. The footage was raw and seemingly unedited—it appeared the ISIL militants had interrupted some type of celebration, catching the villagers unprepared. There was no definitive answer as to who had originally sent the file to the media or shot the video, but what caught his attention most was a girl who seemed to have given in but not given up—a girl with honey-hued, curly hair. He watched the militants kick and pummel her, but she gave no reaction; her face showed no sign of pain or fear.

  “Who is this girl?” he muttered to himself. “And why are the militants so intent on punishing her, when they do not abuse their other victims?”

  Mark had grown bitter and angry after the Ebola attack that had destroyed his entire base. There was no cure available for the strain of virus, and even if there had been the infected soldiers wouldn’t have been able to get it in time. They suffered badly; most died within minutes from the exposure to the newly enhanced pathogen, but Mark knew those moments must have felt like years as the men twitched and cried and shuddered with pain.

  Mark knew he was lucky he hadn’t been on the base when the attack happened. At the time, retrieving the helicopter parts had seemed like the more dangerous option, but fate had certainly been fickle that day. If the helicopter had passed its safety inspection, and he hadn’t been grounded for a week…and then if the parts hadn’t come in when they did…Mark knew he would be dead too.

  Mark had thought of asking his right-hand man, Airmen Sam, for a ride to the other base,
both for safety and for company, but Sam had said he had to stay behind. He was looking forward to a Skype call from his pregnant wife. Sam was a loyal and loving husband. He had a soft heart, and more than one cat, rescued as a kitten by Sam, now frolicked around the base. If there was anyone or anything that needed help, Sam was there.

  Mark remembered watching the news footage and then racing to the officers’ barracks to see if they, too, had seen the news. A fury of emotions twisted inside him then—from anger to pain to confusion. Eventually, anger became dominant—anger at the Islamic militants for the loss of friends like Sam and others who had served bravely to preserve freedom for not only America, but for the world. They were good men who hadn’t deserved to leave this earth—and their families and friends certainly hadn’t deserved the loss they now suffered.

  “How did the news station get this intelligence before we did?” Mark had demanded of the master sergeant, ignoring the fact that he was disrespecting a senior officer.

  “Your base was small and isolated,” the Master Sergeant had answered. “The ISIL forces must have tipped off the station immediately after the bombing—we had gotten some maydays but made it out there at the same time the news choppers did. By that time, there was nothing left.”

  “Are we sending ground forces to check the area?” Mark had asked. “There might still be some militants left behind—we could capture them, and question them.”