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It was nearly two weeks since she had escaped, raggedly clothed and armed with all the weapons she could carry. Her stolen jeep had long since run out of fuel. She had left it, abandoned, along the side of the dirt track that served as a road in this godforsaken desert. There was barely a living thing that crossed her path, save a few desert hare. These she shot when she saw, though the large caliber left little to eat. She soon learned to hit the top of the head, leaving the body mostly untouched. But her strength was failing now. Her muscles shook with each step and the sun baked down upon her, leaving her parched.
There came a low rumbling from behind her, a cloud of dust thrown up in its wake. Another jeep, far in the distance. She looked around, but she knew there was nowhere to hide, nothing to be done. She pulled off the hijab, determined to die with the sun on her face and her hair free just as it had always been. There was no point trying to blend in.
She raised her gun as the jeep came level. She saw the men in the vehicle do the same. She dropped hers, however, when she saw their faces, suntanned under their army caps. It was too late, for one of them fired, catching her below the shoulder. She stood in shock, the pain not quite caught up.
She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but the blackness was upon her. She fell back into the dust, the sun scorching her skin.
"You're lucky the doctor had a layover," came a voice to her left. She opened her eyes groggily. "He's one of our best. Off to Afghanistan. You should be glad the Army was so cheap with his airfare."
"It's only £57," she said, the number swimming back to her. "No wonder they were cheap."
"You seem in a remarkably good mood for someone who was-" he stopped, color creeping into his cheeks. "Well, I'm sorry about the whole…" He trailed off.
"You were the one that shot me?" she asked, clinically. There was no anger in her voice.
"Like I said, I'm sorry about that-"
"Its fine, really," she said, sitting up. She winced, the ache settling into her body. "After the last three weeks, it's not even on the top ten worst."
"Why were you out there anyway?" the soldier asked. He was young, with kind brown eyes and freckles that ran across his nose like footprints. "You look like hell."
"It rubs off on you," she said bitterly. He opened his mouth to say something else, but was cut off by another voice.
"Robertson. Don't you have rounds to be making?"
Robertson stood, saluting the man who had just entered. "Captain."
"At ease," he said. Robertson scuttled off, throwing one last look back at her. The Captain approached and she could tell at once that this was the doctor Robertson had told her about. Her eyes roved over him, slowed by whatever they were pumping her with to keep the pain at bay. He had shortly cropped blonde hair and steely blue eyes, was shorter in stature and walked with purpose and authority. He surveyed her, finally saying, "So our Jane Doe finally awakes."
When Isla didn't answer, he continued. "Four broken ribs, countless cuts and bruises and a severe gunshot wound. Not to mention acute dehydration and the beginnings of malnourishment. You were also armed with an AK-47, three handguns of various makes and a sword," he stopped, eyes narrowed. "Now my men raided that camp. Yes, we know about the camp, and yes we know that you were a prisoner there, we found evidence of your imprisonment. We also found no less than 25 dead insurgents at the camp. Who are you?"
Her face didn't change at his words. The mysterious man may have killed her five executioners, but she had taken care of the rest with her stolen guns. It had been easy, thinking back. No one had expected it. All those years of shooting pots in the backyard with Sherlock had finally paid off. Most of them hadn't even their guns on them, relying on the secluded nature of their camp as all the protection they needed. This proved to be a most fatal mistake.
"Enter the code 95743-MYC-9113-84007 into your requests along with the message 'M+S on the tarmac at arrival. 2461, encrypt Djinn."
"Who are you?" he asked again, his face set.
"I don't know anymore."
It was true. She knew she should feel something, anything. After all, she had just massacred the remainder of the camp, at least fifteen men. Their blood was on her hands. But she felt nothing. She had survived, just as she had prayed to. She had avenged herself on them for every horrible, godforsaken thing they had done to her, for four days of torture. But now, all she felt was empty, a chill spreading through her veins.
