Piroz The ISIS Slayer

by Sadia Barrameda

  “That’s not an option at this time, Colonel. That area is now absolutely forbidden to all civilians and military personnel—the entire area is infected. ISIL gassed the area right after the bombs fell—with an airborne strain of Ebola, just as you saw on the news. You’ll be stationed here for the time being—go find a bunk.”

  Mark had obeyed, still in shock. But it was the last order he was going to obey—now was the time to plot his revenge.

  As he considered the logistics of infiltrating—hell, of even finding—the ISIL stronghold, his phone beeped. One of his colleagues in logistics had sent out a mass text that ISIL had released a new video. Mark followed the link to the video, which had aired on a Kurdish television channel. The video was crudely shot, with poor lighting. Two hooded figures, typical of an ISIL broadcast, stood to the side of a group of crying, frightened women. The first member spoke in broken English about their success in overpowering a village outside Kobane. The other member held a large gun, cautioning the shrieking women in the background.

  Mark’s eyes shot to the woman the leader was holding by the hair. She was not crying or pleading, but instead she was calmly facing down the cameraman—it was the same girl from the video that had aired earlier.

  “We will kill not only this girl, but every woman we have just kidnapped if our requests are not met,” the first man said. “We want all American troops to withdraw from the Middle East—they do not belong here, corrupting our land with their sins. If we do not see signs that your troops are preparing to withdraw within the week, we will torture and kill these women one by one—and send every news outlet the video.”

  The threat strengthened Mark’s resolve to act. The video had been uploaded only twenty minutes ago, so he had plenty of time to take action. He called his contact in logistics.

  “Do you have an IP address for whoever uploaded the video?” he asked. “Or any clue as where the upload originated?”

  “We’re doing our best, though we haven’t been able to trace it so far. But the ISIL forces are mobile—it’s unlikely they’re anywhere near either the place where that video was uploaded. I can tell the coordinates of where we think it was shot, though.”

  “I’ll take any information you have,” Mark swore, knowing his friend was right. “Thank you—I’ll be in touch.” He couldn’t get the curly-haired girl out of his mind; her calm face but fierce eyes were burned into his memory. He felt, against all common sense, that he needed to find her—that perhaps she was the key to his revenge.

  But how am I to find her? he wondered. Once he left the base, he’d be labeled AWOL—without the support or protection of his fellow soldiers. He went through his mental file of connections. He hadn’t earned the rank of colonel for nothing—he was an expert at schmoozing and making friends, with a long roster of people who owed him favors. If only I had access to my parade uniform, he thought with regret. It’s easier to pull rank when you look the part. Of course, that had been blown to smithereens back on his base. At least it was unlikely anyone would miss him immediately—all of the soldiers on this base and any in the area would be scrambling to handle the latest threat.

  Mark’s plan eventually came to him all at once in what he considered to be a flash of brilliance. He was going to use his rank to commandeer a helicopter on base. In the midst of the current chaos, with the high-ranking officials distracted by meetings and strategy sessions, it was likely that only non-commissioned men would be left to guard and maintain the aircraft.

  Mark walked right into the small hangar that housed the helicopters with no problem, showing his ID card to the sergeant at the gate. He even received some salutes along the way. He meandered past a few helicopters until he found exactly the one he wanted. It was an Apache with state-of-the-art missile launchers and telemetry. Perfect. With a nonchalant glance around Mark saw that no one was watching him; then he jumped inside the Apache and powered it on. One quick check for safety and he was on his way, positioning the headphones over his ears. The rotors started and caught the attention of some officers nearby, but no one minded him. They assumed he was supposed to be doing whatever he was doing.

  With the Apache Mark would be at the site where the video was shot in about half an hour—just at the fall of dusk. His gut was still on fire with rage. He approached the area like a menace, ready to mete out his own version of justice.

  Mark had wondered if the militants would be foolish enough to stay near where they had shot the video, and it appeared they had. He spotted several small shanties near a patch of stunted trees. As he approached, men with weapons edged out, their guns aimed at the sky. Mark felt several bullets thud into the reinforced metal sides of the chopper, and one cracked the glass in front of the co-pilot’s seat, but the men weren’t good enough shots to hit Mark directly. He opened fire himself, feeling satisfaction when two of the militants were blown backward onto the ground, dead.

  Dust swirled below as the copter landed. The logical part of Mark’s mind was screaming that this was a suicide mission—but for once in Mark’s life, he was going to be brash. He felt oddly invincible.

  Keeping his gun at the ready, Mark began to shout. “I’ve seen your video, you bastards! What kind of men terrorize and murder women? You’re cowards and barbarians!”

  He dashed from the copter and was standing, tense and ready to shoot, in front of the largest shanty when a lone man exited the building and began to speak.

  “Oh, we have a hero!” the militant mocked. “You are surrounded by us—the only reason you are not dead is because executing a U.S. officer on camera will bring us greater fame than ever—and strike even more fear into the hearts of our enemies. You want the women? You can have this one—or at least her body!”

  The militant ducked back into the doorway from which he’d come and dragged out the brown-haired girl from the video—the one who had refused to plead or cry. Her face was still stoic, and she hung limply in the militant’s arms even though he now had a gun to her head.

  “Do you want her? Well come and get her!” the militant shouted, still some distance away.

  Mark did not waste time; but instead of shooting at the man holding the girl, he whirled to his left and sent a bullet into the forehead of another militant who had been stealthily approaching him from the side.

  The first militant’s grip loosened just enough from the surprise that the girl was able to take advantage of his split-second hesitation—she made her tied hands into a club and rammed them into the man’s neck. He shuddered and then fell to the ground, gagging.

  Mark could not believe his eyes—the movement had been so swift, and the seemingly fragile girl obviously possessed more strength than he had realized. Now where was she? Mark eyed the second shanty; perhaps the women were inside, but Mark heard no sound and saw no movement.

  Then Mark noticed the nearby truck, and realized the women had probably been herded inside like cattle. His heart was hammering with adrenaline, but the small calm voice at the back of his mind wondered why other militants weren’t swarming toward him—surely there hadn’t been only two men to watch all of these women?

  Cautiously, he approached the truck and eased the back door open—the women, sure they were about to be killed, began screaming in panic and fright.

  “Shhhh!!! I’m here to help!” he said in a loud whisper. He motioned for them all to run to the helicopter—somehow, he would pack them into its small confines. But where was the girl? He couldn’t leave without her, and there was no coming back for her. The militant group would be moving again soon, and who knew where she would end up—probably dead on video, broadcast for the world to see. He rallied behind the group of women and herded them toward the copter. “Damn it, where is she?!” he shouted aloud.

  Suddenly, as if on cue, the girl appeared at his side with a large knife in her hands. She was making a straight dash for the Apache. Cheers erupted—though Mark had led the assault that freed them, the women still viewed the girl as their savior. />
  “In case you wondered, there were several soldiers in the brush with their sights trained on you. Sorry to keep you waiting—but I’m the reason you don’t have bullet holes riddling your body,” she said while cleaning off the knife.

  “Let’s go, miss,” he replied with a huge smile. “I’ll thank you later.” He had heard the other women calling her Ren, and he thought to himself that it was a beautiful name—but there would be time for more formal introductions later.

  Ren was just making her way on board when a bloodied figure came from around one of the shanties, charging at full speed behind her. Without thinking Mark aimed his pistol straight between the man’s eyes, hitting his target just where he intended.

  The women cheered again—though only yesterday seeing a murder would have sent them into shock, they were deeply changed by their experience. One less enemy meant more safety for them and their families.

  Their ride back to the base was quiet—the women huddled together, comforting one another. Only Ren sat alone, playing with her knife with a faraway look in her eyes.

  Mark felt some trepidation as he landed the Apache—but the master sergeant’s angry stride toward him was halted by the group of women who stumbled from the copter, some of them kissing the ground in gratitude.

  “This could have landed you with a dishonorable discharge,” the master sergeant said with no real anger in his voice. “And if you ever do something like this again, Colonel, I’ll personally see you thrown from the Army into the jungle. But just this once—good job. Hell of a good job. Now, you rescued all of these women—you’re in charge of them. Make sure they get a meal, shelter, and rest, in that order; we’ll set about trying to find their families.”

  Mark knew that any of the soldiers on base would gladly give their bunks to the women, and he sent a private running ahead to the mess hall to tell the cook to prepare a meal. Then, he approached Ren. It was time to officially introduce himself.

  He extended his hand. “Colonel Mark Thomas, at your service.” He continued, “I saw what you did back there and to be frank, I doubt there’s anyone alive who’s as brave as you. You could probably take down an army if you wanted to." He laughed, a little unnerved by her steady and emotionless gaze. His hand was left out awkwardly, not met by a shake in return.

  Ren did not like strangers. She never had. When her father and her little brother were still alive she had been wary of the unknown, and she still was. Somehow this man was different, though—plus, he had saved her life.

  “I’m Ren,” she said. “And you seem plenty brave yourself. We’re each driven by our own demons, I suppose—I can see yours in your eyes.”

  With that she turned and followed the other women to the showers.

  As the lukewarm water ran down her skin, the dirt and blood pooling at her feet, Ren thought about this man, Mark. It seemed the first time in an eternity that she was given a chance to shower and wash her hair, though just two days ago she had been luxuriating in an herb-scented bath. What was it about the man that she seemed to trust? Was he a familiar face? Was it her exhaustion overcoming her good sense?

  She dressed in a white commissioned shirt and fatigue pants; they were too large, but she used a belt to cinch the waist. Her mind was everywhere: her stomach was shouting for food, she was curious about Mark, and yet she wanted to get back to the village and see the other women reunited with their loved ones. Ren opened the door to the barracks. To her surprise, Mark was there waiting for her. Her wet curls framed her flushed cheeks, and she looked young and innocent rather than like the seasoned killer she was. Mark knew that she knew he was staring. He blushed and looked away.

  “Dinner is served at the cafeteria. Your friends are there.”

  “I have no friends.”

  “I don’t either, anymore. They are all dead—killed by the ISIL assholes.”

  “My dad and brother were killed by ISIL too. I’m alone now, but I like it that way. If there’s no one left you care about, then no one can really hurt you.” She couldn’t think why she had been moved to share such a personal memory—no one else but her beloved trainer knew of her deep inner pain.

  Mark took pity on her. He understood now the reason for her bravery. This was the reason she could keep on fighting, though her tough exterior masked her rage and pain rather than lessened it.

  “Anyway, why should we get to know each other?” she asked bitterly. “I am going to eat and then leave the base. I have a mission to complete. Every ISIL fanatic leader must die.”

  But even as Ren spoke the words she felt the lack of truth in them—there was a reason to get to know Mark, she was sure of it. She was a shy girl who wanted to stay, to learn more about the man who had just saved her life.

  Mark tensed as he heard her plans. “I know why you are fighting, and it is a very noble thing to do. At least let me come with you. I owe those bastards some payback, too. Neither of us has anything to lose,” he shrugged. He held her arm as if he wanted her to stay, but the touch meant more. He wanted her to be with him to fight and possibly to…

  Ren shrugged off his hand. “I have no time. I just want a meal and then I need to go. Thank you for your help back there, but I work alone. Please take care of the women and make sure they are returned safely to their families.” The mention of the women’s families made Ren realize that the men and children had also been taken away. They were captives somewhere else. How could she take on a huge army all by herself? She needed this man.

  Chapter 3

  Ren had been pacing around the base restlessly for days, growing impatient with their lack of progress. “The longer we sit here idle, the more likely it is that those men and children are dying!” she cried at Mark. “We have to leave—perhaps we can track them, or something!”

  Mark understood her desperation, but he also understood the need to act logically and with precision. Not every brash action ended happily, like his own mission had. Most, in fact, ended in death. The only bright point in the day so far had been the news that Dr. Lock had arrived on base again.

  Mark greeted his old friend with warmth when they met in the mess hall.

  “Glad to see you are looking so well!” Dr. Lock exclaimed. “I see you didn’t listen at all to my warnings about being safe—but then again, I wouldn’t have expected anything less from you. Now,” he lowered his voice, “can we go somewhere to speak privately?”

  “Of course,” Mark said. “Follow me.”

  He led Dr. Lock to an isolated corner of the base, and then waited patiently for whatever news the man might offer. Dr. Lock reached into his jacket and pulled out a small sheaf of papers. “These are the coordinates where some of the ISIL militants are hiding,” he whispered. “Logistics believes the leader, Askari, to be there as well.”

  Mark couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You could get in a lot of trouble for slipping this to me—this kind of information is on a need-to-know basis.”

  “You need to know,” said Dr. Lock, his tone growing grim. “There are still children to be rescued—and if anyone can do it, you can.”

  Mark tucked the papers into his own jacket, patting them to make sure they were secure. “If I make it back, I owe you a bottle of scotch.”

  “When you make it back, seeing you in one piece will be present enough for me,” said Dr. Lock. “Be safe, and be strong. Then his eyes twinkled briefly. “And don’t forget to take along your new friend—I’ve heard she knows her way around a set of knives. Not to mention that she’s beautiful.”

  Mark blushed. “She is, isn’t she?” he said. “But I don’t think she sees me as anything more than her path to killing more militants—she’s single-minded.”

  “You’d be surprised at how complicated women can be,” answered Dr. Lock. “Take my word for it—even if she doesn’t seem like she’s thinking of anything else, she is.”

  When the two parted, Mark sought out Ren to share the news. “Who knew where the ISIL leaders were hiding?” she aske
d in confusion. “How did you get this information?”

  “Well, my friend Sher—umm, Dr. Lock is a good man to know. He passed the information along from his own source, and he wouldn’t have given it to us if he weren’t one hundred percent sure it was accurate.”

  “Well, this happened just in time,” Ren said. “I just saw on the news that ISIL may be creating more weapons armed with Ebola—the militants hacked another feed and were gloating about it. If we don’t stop them soon, they could expand beyond Africa and the Middle East—they could start targeting major cities around the world.”

  “We won’t let that happen,” said Mark. “I’m going to slip away and stake out these coordinates—perhaps I can get a clear shot at the leader. At the very least, I’ll take out as many of those bastards as I can.”

  The Islamic State militants were ruthless, no doubt; though they claimed their sole wish was to bring the rightful religion to the world and eradicate the “infidels,” Mark suspected that they were really after one thing: power. After all, it was what most corrupt leaders and factions throughout history had sought.

  “Take me with you. I could help,” Ren said to Mark. “I know I look small, but I’ve saved your life once—it wouldn’t be a bad thing to have me watching your back.”