“Those were the longest twenty-one days of my life,” he murmured. “How can someone I’ve known such a short time be such a huge part of my being? I couldn’t imagine going on without you.”
“You’ll never have to,” said Ren, relishing the feeling of being held by him again. She wrapped her right arm around him, but her other remained limp at her side. Mark pulled back and gave her a quizzical look.
“I didn’t take it easy on that torn ligament, if you remember,” she explained. “The doctor said I’ll need physical therapy to regain full use of it again, and to regain strength in my hands.” She showed him her palms, which were still scabbed. Mark knew they would scar and be a permanent reminder of the mission that had almost cost them their lives.
“I’ll help you with therapy,” Mark said. “I won’t leave your side. Starting today.” He leaned in and kissed her tenderly, and she gave herself up to the emotion.
“However will we pass the time until we can return to our mission?” she asked him coyly when he finally pulled away. “Well, I suppose I can think of one way to keep busy…”
Mark knew what she meant, and it filled him with joy and anticipation. “It’s definitely time for us to get out of these hospital rooms,” he said.
But recovery wouldn’t prove to be easy—though Ren regained full use of her right hand fairly quickly, her left arm and hand were stubborn and resistant to progress. The function just didn’t seem to improve, and Ren cried with anger more than once.
Each time, Mark would take her into his arms and soothe her. “You’re the most determined women—no, person—I’ve ever met,” he said. “You’ll beat this just like you’ve beaten everything else.”
Eventually, Ren was discharged with instructions to continue her exercises—and it was time to decide what to do with their lives. Mark still hadn’t given his answer to his superiors about his next steps, though in light of his heroism the military was giving him both time and space.
“Let’s return to my base in Honolulu,” he urged Ren after a particularly rough day—she hated watching the soldiers march out when she could do nothing to help. “It doesn’t mean we can’t come back, or that we’re giving up—but you deserve a break. You’ve been on the run for years, Ren—let go for a while, and let me take care of you.”
When Ren reluctantly agreed, they made their travel arrangements—but leaving the base wouldn’t be as peaceful as they had imagined. Caught up in their own world for weeks now, they had forgotten about the stir they had caused around the globe. Every television and radio station was waiting for an interview or a candid photo. They were all waiting like hungry bears for their chance—calls for Mark flooded into the base, and his email inbox was overflowing with inquiries and requests. Most of them asked for one thing—to talk to the mysterious warrior woman.
“I’m not interested,” said Ren every time. “I fight ISIL because it’s the right thing to do, not because I want to be a celebrity.”
Someone tipped off the media when Mark and Ren flew to Hawaii, and local police had to shoo away countless news trucks and determined reporters; nevertheless, the next day the pictures of the couple arriving in America were splashed across every form of media.
Every night, when they turned on the TV, Mark and Ren saw news stories about ISIL—and were inevitably mentioned. One night, Ren called Mark over to the television. “Come look! It’s one of the scientists!”
Mark ran into the room to see for himself—he was pleased that the scientist had recovered fully, at least physically, from his ordeal and had regained the power of speech. “We tested the water around the plane crash, and along the current path for miles,” the scientists said. “The water contained minerals and other trace elements that diluted the strain of Ebola, diminishing how infectious it was—from there, we worked tirelessly and have since formulated a cure.”
“That’s amazing!” Ren gasped. “Just think, if we hadn’t saved those men, not only would millions have died—but there might not have been anyone brilliant enough to discover a cure!”
To pass their days and keep Ren’s mind off of her slow progress with her therapy, Mark started teaching her to surf—he wasn’t surprised when she took to the sport like a pro and was soon facing down huge waves with no fear. She felt more anxiety over wearing a bathing suit for the first time, even if it was a modest one-piece—she had never been so exposed, but at the same time she liked the freedom and the distance it represented from her restrictive past.
Soon, though, the time came to make another decision—Mark received news that he was to be transferred to the Philippines, where a group of American missionaries had been ambushed and taken hostage in the mountains of Mindanao. The military wanted Mark to join an elite task force that would be responsible for infiltrating the headquarters and rescuing the prisoners.
“You have to take the mission,” Ren said. “There won’t be anybody better than you to help those innocent people, just as you helped me and so many others.”
“But I don’t want to leave you,” Mark answered fiercely. “I want to take you with me—we could get married.”
Ren smiled sadly. “You can’t take your wife with you on active duty deployment,” she said.
“Then I’ll leave the army,” said Mark. “I have to give a year’s notice, but the military can commute it down to six months at their discretion—so within six months I could be back with you. I love you more and more every day, Ren.”
“I love you too, Mark,” she answered. She knew the six months would be torture. “But neither of us is meant for the quiet life. What will you do if you quit the army?”
“I’ll be a mercenary,” Mark said. “A team, with you. I just know I can’t do anything that takes me away from you. You can stay here while I’m gone, and once I return to you we won’t ever be apart again.”
“No,” said Ren, realizing suddenly she missed her homeland. “I will wait for you in my village—where I grew up. It’s time for me to make peace with what happened so long ago, and that peace starts there. Besides, ISIL is still a strong presence—they may need my protection. I will practice with my knives every day there, and when you come for me I’ll be the same Ren I once was.”
The next day, Mark took Ren to the beach at sunset and got down on one knee. “I wasn’t kidding about getting married,” he said. “Ren, you are the most amazing, beautiful, strong woman I’ve ever met—I knew as soon as I saw you that I wanted to be with you forever. Fighting by your side only served to convince me my first impression had been right. Will you be my wife?”
Ren began to cry. “Yes!” she said, her smile bright. “Yes, of course!”
Mark slipped an emerald set in a diamond band onto her finger—it fit perfectly. “This belonged to my great-grandmother, a woman called Black Beauty,” he said. “Dr. Lock gave it to me before we left the base—he’s carried it everywhere for years, and he said he was sure I’d need it before the month was out.”
Ren was so overwhelmed she didn’t think to ask why Dr. Lock had Mark’s great-grandmother’s ring—though if she had, Mark would have told her it was a story for another day.
They were married three days later, and two days after that Mark left for the Philippines while Ren left for her village. That night, as she fell asleep desperately missing Mark, she had a dream about her father.
“I’m sorry, Father,” she said in the dream. “I’m sorry I disobeyed you that day in the city.” She squeezed him tightly, so glad to see his familiar face once again.
“My lovely daughter. Don’t you know I wanted more than anything to protect you? I am glad you lived and went on to save so many lives—and you will continue your work, with your new husband. Even the child you now carry will one day fulfill your legacy of bravery. Now go, and find peace within yourself—to be loved and to love is a more powerful force than any other in the world, and something ISIL cannot understand. Eventually, it will be their downfall.”
As her father’s voic
e faded Ren awoke, filled with a new sense of both contentment and purpose. She was ready to take on the world and defend not only her village, but freedom for all mankind.
Five Years Later...
“I got this!” Ren yelled to Mark, who was occupied with two young militants. He shot each one in the leg, not pausing to watch them fall as he continued to cover Ren. Ren was hurling knives at a man twice her size—the militant was determined to finally bring down this woman who had been the scourge of ISIL for so long.
Ren and Mark, backed anonymously by the United States government, had spent the last two years infiltrating ISIL strongholds, rescuing captives, and slaying as many militants as possible. It seemed that for every one they took down, three more rose up to take their place—but the couple were determined to prevail and had confidence that, in time, ISIL would be nothing more than a page in a history book.
“When will these guys ever learn?” Ren asked, panting slightly as she threw herself straight into the militant’s path, slashing his throat just as his arms wrapped around her to throw her to the ground. She fell under him, and Mark rolled him off and helped her to her feet, ignoring the man’s gruesome death rattle.
“Honey, I told you to go easy on throat-slashing. It’s hard to remove the stains!” Mark joked.
Ren laughed. “I love you, but it’s not like you do the laundry.” Their humor was a little unorthodox, but it was how they coped with the high stress of their job.
They both fell to the ground as a bullet whizzed by—out of the corner of his eye, Mark saw a sniper fleeing around the side of a building. The shot grazed Ren’s upper arm, and Mark felt rage overcome him—he followed the militant and dispatched him with a shot straight to the chest.
When he returned to Ren, he grimaced at the amount of blood running down her arm.
“It wouldn’t be a memorable mission without a scar,” she said as Mark pulled out his white handkerchief and made a quick tourniquet.
“You’re getting pretty damn good at this,” she winked up at him.
“You keep getting hurt, and I keep mending,” Mark said.
The day ended with forty-two militants dead, sixteen prisoners rescued, and one more small battle won in the war against ISIL.
Despite their efforts, though, ISIL could not be contained in Africa and the Middle East—the militants continued to manufacture warheads and experiment with biological weapons, even being rumored to have developed a mobile lab. Occasionally, they would release a video or hijack a broadcast to spread their threats—they even took credit for a subway bombing in New York, as well as bus station bombs in Oslo and Paris.
“We can’t be everywhere,” Mark and Ren would say to each other—but every time innocent lives were lost, their resolve became firmer and they fought with renewed vigor.
“I’m sure ISIL mothers tell their little militants bedtime stories about us to scare them,” Mark joked one night.
“Just as we tell our daughter about them,” said Ren, thinking back to her daughter’s birth. Mark had practically held Ren hostage in the house, taking her away from knives and forbidding her from engaging in anything remotely dangerous. They had named the little girl Regina after Ren’s mother, and called her Reg for short. She had her mother’s will and light curls, and her father’s fearlessness and patrician nose. She held a knife before she was able to hold a fork or spoon.
Both Mark and Ren were head over heels in love with their child—but from an early age she sensed how dangerous their missions were, and would follow them from room to room sobbing when they were preparing to leave.
When she could talk, she made her parents swear to “pinky promises” before they left. “You’ll take care of mom, right?” she would ask Mark. “Pinky promise?” And Mark would wrap her small pinky with his, replying enthusiastically, “Pinky promise!”
It always calmed Reg, even if Mark couldn’t always keep the promise. When he came home one day without Ren, who was in the hospital with a broken leg, Reg did not talk to him for weeks afterward.
But despite the dangerous world they lived in, they were a happy, loving, close-knit family—the village embraced them and Reg experienced a childhood full of joy. Her favorite bedtime story was one from her mother’s imagination:
“There was once a Kurdish warrior girl with light curls just like you. She fought bad guys, but one day she was outnumbered. A brave soldier flying a helicopter swooped in to save her and it turned out he was her prince…”
And the child fell asleep, dreaming of becoming a warrior herself, as her parents’ battle waged on against the ISIL threat, saving the world time and time again.
Piroz The ISIS Slayer Page 10