AFTERSHOCK - Part 1. (Chapter 1)
The crackling voice in his earpiece of the squad leader brought him back to the present. "This is some fucked up shit. They slaughtered all the villagers. Check the cellars. Don't touch the bodies. They might be booby-trapped."
"Well, that's what happens when you're killing for God. You do it with righteous joy," Herbst replied with disgust.
"Ghost, anything?" the squad leader asked. He left the bodies in the cellar, and as he stepped out of the house, he looked in Ghost's direction. He couldn't see him because Aiden was an expert of camouflage and the ghillie suit had masterfully concealed him.
"Nothing, the village seems empty from here," Aiden replied, emotionally detached.
He was on over-watch of the patrol that was moving into a village where a mujahedeen warlord supposedly established his base of operations. So far, there were no movements or sound detected. This was a modern religious war between Islam and Europe, yet the whole world was involved. This new war was as brutal as World War I and World War II combined and was compliments of the elected 2017 Trump administration and the alt-right Nazi supremacist Stephen Bannon.
Yet in that moment, the rest of the world didn't matter. The causes for war in Europe, just as the causes for the second Civil War in the U.S. between religious right wing states and secular states, were unimportant. The only thing that mattered was his buddies moving into a slaughtered village. The stench of death was everywhere. He was searching for possible threats, a possible ambush or an enemy sniper that might be lurking and waiting for the opportune moment to strike.
The sound was carried with the wind first, and then he saw the smoke in the distance. He focused his scope onto the road leading into the village. His vantage point was perfect and from it he could see three cars driving towards them.
He pressed the receiver on his radio and calmly reported, "Gents, we have company. Two jeeps and a truck in between. Approaching fast." He was tracking their movement and focused on the driver of the first car.
The squad in the village took up defensive positions and kept out of sight. "They're not slowing down. It seems like they have no idea we're here."
"Copy that Ghost," the squad leader replied. "Heads up, gents. We don't know their strength. Might be a platoon size."
"They stopped in the center of the village and are getting out of their vehicles. I got their commander in sight. I have a clear shot." He found that space between breathing and his heartbeats that enabled a first shot-first kill.
"Weapons free. I want prisoners." He heard the squad leader's order in his earpiece.
"Wait, they have captives." He moved his scope toward the back of the vehicle as they threw the first prisoner off the truck.
Steiner sighed. "Shize. Hold," he ordered his international fifteen men-strong squad.
Aiden steadied his breathing and focused on the man on the ground. The guy had just received a kick to the head by the mujahid from the second jeep. He quickly scanned the village and made sure he knew where his comrades were. It was his job to keep them alive, and he was great at his job. Day was coming to an end, and it was clear that the mujahideen decided to stay the night in the village. The second prisoner was thrown off the truck, and the third followed.
He swore silently, because what he saw through his scope was a girl, and they were usually brutalized if captured by jihadists under Sharia laws, which were barbaric to say the least, especially to a modern, secular, and humanist society. He saw more than his share of death and destruction, and he didn't want even for his enemies to suffer the fate mujahideen had reserved for the infidel prisoners when captured. The newcomers didn't venture deeper into the village, and their commander pointed at a few houses where he would want them to set up their beds for the night.
Aiden pressed the receiver on his radio. "They're staying put in the center of the village, and they're setting up a larger bonfire, too. The prisoners seem to be members of the Red Cross. One of them is a woman. For some reason, they kept them alive, but I don't like that fire. There's no reason for it, unless they plan to have a bit of entertainment before they settle in for the night."
The girl's screams amused the jihadists as they hauled her and kicked the two men toward the fire that was then lit. Aiden zoomed in on the mujahedeen dragging the girl. "What's the plan, Stenier?" he calmly asked their squad leader. "I think that they're about to barbecue their prisoners."
They forced all three prisoners onto their knees, and the one in the middle got smacked over the head for showing resistance. The girl yelled at the assailant and tried to jump at him but was punched in the face by the mujahedeen commander. He was laughing as he pointed at her and made what Aiden figured was a derogatory remark.
He whispered to himself, "The first bullet is for you, filthy bastard."
The prisoners were shouting at their captors and without a warning, a man who appeared to be their second in command grabbed the middle captive by his hair, pulled his head back, and slit his throat. Blood gurgled from the gash and falling onto his side, the life faded out of him. The girl was helplessly lying on the ground, sobbing as her other colleague met the same fate with screams of horror which were sharply cut short by a mujahid knife.
"Son of a bitch," Aiden gasped. "Steiner, are you seeing this shit?! I'm taking the bastards down."
"Hold your fire, Ghost!" The pissed-off reply cracked in his earpiece, but he wasn't listening anymore. He turned off his radio.
He closed his eyes for a moment and cleared his mind. He knew that he was about to open the gates of hell and that he would have no regrets. His vision focused on the mujahedeen commander, who was hovering over the girl as two of his fellow jihadists were holding her down. She was crying and resisting and that earned her another punch in the face. Aiden sensed that his comrades were waiting for his shot before springing into action. A soft breeze caressed his cheek, and he tenderly adjusted his scope to account for the changed conditions. This was one shot he did not want to miss.
His finger caressed the trigger as his heartbeat slowed. Her terrified screams vanished. His breathing calmed. He had found that quiet space between the end of a single exhale aligned among heartbeats. He didn't even feel the recoil of his rifle. The sound echoed off the mountains. Just as he had undone his pants, the mujahedeen commander's head exploded in a red, pulpy burst. The girl stared in shock, hypnotized by terror. The dogs of war were unleashed.
To be continued,
