Chapter 2: Retaliation.

"So long as there are men, there will be wars."

-Albert Einstein.

"Your weapon is an M4A2 SOPMOD. That stands for "Special Operations Modifiable". It's a fully automatic carbine designed by Colt, chambered with .223 Remington rounds, or 5.56 x 45mm NATO if you will." The quartermaster informed to Murray, whose troops were already gearing up for their mission. "See those rails in the hand guard and over the chamber? You can set virtually anything it those. For instance, you can set an infrared scope or a laser sight in the upper rail."

"Wonderful. I think I'm taking the Infrared Scope." Howler responded dryly. "What about the hand guard?"

"You can set a lot of stuff in there too. You can place from a barrel cooler to a 12-Gauge Entry Shotgun. But most of our boys prefer using M203's. There's this new shit these Belgians –Fabrique Nationale- developed: a non-lethal pneumatical shotgun, the FN-303. It shoots non-lethal plastic projectiles, but they do hurt a fucking lot. You can leave a man KO after one of those." The weapons room was large, and had plenty of tables, where his men were already placing the rounds in the magazines, setting the sights, and testing the NVG's, all in a dark room, whose walls were folded aluminum.

"I think I'm taking the M203, anyway." He said, cautious.

"Flash or HE?"

"HE. What's with you and non-lethal shit? You almost sound like a riot cop." Murray mocked the quartermaster, who responded disappointed.

"You know, we've been under a lot of pressure since Iraq. If you are going to occupy, make sure you don't kill those angry civilians." He said, pissed. The public cared more about foreign civilians than their own troops. Only in America.

"Guessed so."

He returned to his troops. Di'noffrio was gladly cleaning his M9, but stirred up as soon as Howler called the young Italian American.

"Cleaning your Beretta, eh, mate? You must love those things, knowing where you are from." He said, keeping it cool and friendly with the Corporal.

"Yes, sir. You know me well." The affable rifleman responded. "With all due respect, I guess you used to be like this with your Colt .45, right?"

"I'm not that old, Corporal."

"Then, forgive me sir."

"Nah, I'm flattered you took me for a man with more experience." Howler informed frankly. "You don't by chance have our unit list, right?"

"Only ours, sir. The SAS people are so secretive."

"Don't blame it on the British." He said. "They are in on this with us." He said, knowing the UK was one of the few who stood up for the US back in '03. "Hand me over that list, will ya'?"

"Sure, sir." The Special Forces split itself in groups of twelve, lead by a Captain. Then, there were a Lieutenant who lead a team of six, and a Sergeant who aided the Captain with the other six. That job was Murray's. The rest were a combine of Lance Corporals and 1st class Privates. The list was written in a dried paper.

It read:

1) Captain Vincent Ryan (Commander (Both elements))

2) 1st Lieutenant Roger McTarant (Sub-Commander, Squad leader "Alpha")

3) Sergeant Murray Howler (Squad leader "Bravo")

4) Corporal Nathaniel Clark (Aid Planner, "Alpha")

5) Corporal James Di'noffrio (M2 Gunner, "Bravo")

6) Corporal Craig Hernandez (TOW Gunner, "Alpha")

7) Private 1st Class Mitchell Windsor (Driver "Bravo")

8) Private 1st Class Martin Jenkins (Driver "Alpha")

9) Private 1st Class Michael Lee (Sniper Team "Gunner")

10) Private 1st Class David Hazansky (Sniper Team "Spotter")

11) Private 1st Class Ali Marawki (Translator (Arab))

12) Private 1st Class Kareem Bannad (Translator (Kurdish))

"Sounds like a nice bunch." Murray said, eyeing the list. "What about our gear?"

"It's down here, Sarge". Di'noffrio passed the second list.

-2 HMMVV, 1 TOW equipped, 1 M2 equipped.

-6 M4A2 SOPMOD (variable attachments)

-2 M249 SAW light machine guns.

-1 M95 sniper rifle.

-1 M24 sniper rifle.

-2 MP5 sub-machineguns

-8 M9 Handguns.

-4 MK-23 SOCOM handguns.

-12 "Desert 6-Color" pattern DBDU's with infrared treatment.

-12 NVG's

-24 K-type rations.

"We should be done with that, eh, Sarge?" Di'noffrio asked innocently.

"We should."

---

Somewhere near Halabja, in the Zagros Mountains. Iraq. Twenty-two years before.

The shot rang off, the ear-splitting sounds riddled the mountains, and he shook as the wave hit his ear. The WWI-WWII era Mauser was still a formidable rifle in the hands of a good shooter. His father was one of them.

His name was Mustafa Yosuf Slervansk, sheepherder most of the year, hunter in winter. And he was a Peshmerga when necessary. He rose from the greenish land of the Zagros Mountains, and tried to see what happened to his pray; a mountain wolf. There had to be more pleasant sources of food, but not at that time and in that place.

The large canine had taken the powerful 7.92 x 57mm round to the neck; evidence of the years Mustafa had spent with that thing. The wolf displayed one neat hole near its head, blood was oozing in pretty small numbers; clearly, the bloodstream had stopped around three quarters of a second after the large, heavy bullet left that German K98k's chamber.

He pulled the bolt back quickly, opening the chamber, and he inserted a fresh round into it. Even though he didn't particularly feel anything about the fallen beast, he could see his son –Elijah Mahmoud- was shaking. Or could it be the noise of the rifle? Surprisingly, his even smaller sister, Layla, felt nothing. And she was only five.

It was natural for their people to grow around firearms; most homes had at least one Kalashnikov assault rifle in their basements; Mustafa's didn't. Not because he rejected violence (it was thanks to it that he lived) but because he never had an AK-47. He was a rebel; he had been part of the Rebellion against the new Ba'ath regime in 1966, but his weapon of choice had always been the same: that K98k Mauser, made in 1944 near Nuremberg, Germany.

Anyway, from all his five children, these two were particularly good; well, Layla was just being introduced, and Elijah had been doing this since he was six. And he was learning quickly. But you could see a glow in both pairs of eyes; he could see that glint, that sunray coming from their pupils, every time they watched that wooden butt stock and the closed bolt.

He hung the Mauser around his shoulder in a quick swing; -motion his son would still use at the age of 27, but Mustafa would never know- and started moving towards the fallen prey. The siblings faithfully followed. He was wearing the best stuff he had for the task; old rags of greenish color, in order to camouflage with the vegetation that grew once you got at some height.

His home was further down south; the town had some desert characteristics. They weren't poor, but the current government –the baathists, they called themselves, had imposed some really strict laws upon the Kurdish population. Mustafa was really interested in European history, and he knew that the Nazis had started the Holocaust the very same way: Economical control over the Jews. Not strangely, the Baathists were National Socialists as well.

They crept up to the fallen wolf; it wasn't breathing. He noticed too that it was Male, but that didn't much matter. Again, his daughter only stared, unsurprised, but his son Elijah seemed a bit shocked. He's not by any means a natural killer, his father grinned.

Then he noticed it, and he was sure his children did too. There had been a cracking noise, maybe the wind did it, but it felt like something else... a footstep. Not human, though. Wolves move in packs, and it would be most odd if you found one alone...

"Gur?" Elijah asked, his voice croaky and uncertain.

"Ere..." His father responded coldly. All three of them were silent, and crouched; they wouldn't let the beast find them. Why to stop on one animal to take home, when you could get two? Mustafa scouted the area, barely breathing.

And there it was. Unluckily, the wolf's fur didn't camouflage as Mustafa's rag, so the animal was visible. Some 50 meters away, it stood up, crying and barking for the fellow member of its pack. Mustafa then took the rifle firmly with both hands.

"Elijah... Take the rifle, and kill it." He whispered, staring into his son's wide, blue eyes.

He nodded back. He's a good one, his father said to himself as he gave the heavy, wooden bolt-action rifle. The boy gripped it tightly. He then focused his head on his target –ability not common among 7-year-olds. He had done this a hundred times with rabbits, but this was a different field.

He set his eye, and aligned the reticule. He then started pressing on the trigger, as he aimed to the second wolf's head. Then, he started pulling the trigger, slowly. The shot boomed across the mountains. And Elijah felt truly liberated for the first time.

---

British Airways Flight 671; flying over the Mediterranean Sea; Present Day.

His eyes snapped open. Elijah Mahmoud Slervansk had these dreams: flashbacks from his childhood. His body slowly reconnected, as he stretched his legs at looked at his watch; there were still some five hours until landing. Most of the passengers were already asleep. Surprisingly, the large man next to him was not.

"Eh, how was your nap?" he asked, quite friendly. He was not European, which was for sure. His dark tone of skin screamed he was from the Middle East.

"It's weird; I hardly ever sleep in planes." Or anywhere, the Kurd forgot to add.

"British?" The man in the seat 17-a smiled.

"Nah, I picked up the accent after spending two and a half years in there. I'm quick with that stuff." Elijah felt weird. He wasn't used to being engaged in conversations, but well, he had nothing better to do.

"I'm from Turkey, by the way." He said, while extending his hand. Elijah was done retaking control of his body and did so as well.

"From where in Turkey?"

"I work in Istanbul, but my family lives in Ankara, so I live traveling." The Turk smiled. He was charming. "I guess you are a Kurd, eh?"

"Hole in one." Elijah grinned. "How'd you know?"

"Well, you kind of stalled when I offered my hand, and you really don't look Armenian."

Elijah let off a laugh. Why was he being so friendly? He used to be a loner, then why all of a sudden did he enjoy talking? He was changing.

"Anyway, from where in Kurdistan are you?"

"Iraq." Elijah replied sharply.

"So your flight is not a scaled one." He said.

"What's your business in Iraq?"

"I work in an electric appliances company. We want to start a market in Iraq, before the Shiite clergy takes over."

"What do you mean?"

"Iraq is different that what CBS shows, boy. They want to show a theocratic government, kind of like the one Iran. The south is kind of that way. That's what the Islamic Republic of Iraq is. The Sunni triangle is still in chaos, with the Shiite Militias and Kurdish Peshmerga trying to establish their frontiers."

"So, I won't be killed if I'm caught with my Aerosmith CD's in the airport?" Elijah, for some odd reason, joked. He felt... Relaxed, even though there was still something that called him, he had the delusion of happiness, but that was just a front. He was trying as hard as he could to take his mind of revenge, and maybe that relaxed state was his mind's best defense.

The Turk laughed quite loudly. Most of the sleeping passengers must have resented that.

"Nah, I don't think so. The local police are a joke; as long as you don't bring guns, you won't be arrested. Some even do bring them hidden. They haven't yet bought metal detectors."

"And you are here to fix that, correct?"

"Among other things..." The man said. "So, why are you in Iraq. Visiting your family?"

Elijah's mood was killed instantaneously.

"My family's dead. Killed."

"Oh... I'm sorry. Please, forgive me."

"It's ok; it was a long time ago." Elijah raised his head and changed his own mood.

"So, what are you doing in this sinkhole?"

"Remember my family died a long time ago? Well, let's say I have been stalling the closure for a long time."

---

"Ok, let me get this straight; Roy Campbell revealed secret information to a retired Kurdish militiaman in London, who may or may not be the subject's relative, and then allowed him to take off to the Sunni Triangle, so he could carry out a personal vendetta. Jesus, Roy, what the heck are you thinking?" The Five-Star General Irvine Garret asked.

"Irvine, I was doing what was best. Slervansk was in no way going to accept. I knew it. I had to give him something. That something was Syed Hisdan, person who, I remind you; we were planning his assassination two weeks ago!" Campbell defended himself in that boring, military office, with a man he didn't know and that NSA prick: William Sharp.

"It's not the same, Roy. I respect you, and you are my friend, but you know as well as I do that if Slervansk dies in this Vendetta, a lot of Flak will be going at you and me, and I stress you." Garret was clearly losing his nerve.

"Let's not get excited, General Garret." Sharp said, with a winner smile. "I say this might be an excellent proving ground for Mr. Slervansk. It's a win-win situation. If Slervansk murders Hisdan, which he probably will, he will get a lot of free training, and a lot of information of what Slervansk can do, will be delivered to us. Hisdan's death will also be a most juicy bonus." Sharp, oddly, defended Roy.

"And what if he dies, Colonel Sharp?"

"Then that tells us something." He said, calmly. "Maybe those genes don't mean that lot after all."

"Maybe..." Garret hissed. "What do you know about this Slervansk individual?"

"I have his file right here, sir." The man next to Campbell said.

"Who is this?" Roy dared finally to ask.

"You haven't yet been introduced." Garret said as he started looking for a cigar. "Roy, this is Harold Miller. He's an analyst from the DIA, specialized in profiling. Harry, please."

"Mkay..." The small, kind of nerdy man said. "We've been checking his former employers. He was born near Halabja, Iraq. Then, in 1988, the Baathists attacked them with WMD's, and only him and a younger sister survived. A real character shaper, eh? Not much of him is known from that point onward, but we do know that he joined the University of Tel'Aviv. Why would a Kurd join a Jewish university? Beats me, but from then on he started working for us. He joined the Kurdish Peshmergas. Turns he did really well in there. When the war was over, he joined the London Embassy security detail. "

"So, does this give us any clue on what he might do in Iraq?" Garret enquired.

"It says plenty of things. First, he received US Green Beret training. That makes him deadly, but predictable. Second, he studied languages in Tel'Aviv. He's fluent in Arab, English, Russian and Persian, besides his native Kurdish. He can go through any group in Iraq. Third, he is driven. He will stop at neither us nor the Iraqis. Fourth, if DOD and that Dr. Hunter are right, then he has some serious DNA cocktail on him."

"So, do you think he's a threat to Hisdan?"

"Oh, no sir. I think Hisdan should pray to Allah for a quick death."

"You can't be serious!" Roy interrupted.

"Listen, Roy. I'll take William and Harry's word. Slervansk shall we watched, but not stopped." Garret informed. "Dismissed."

All three of them left the room, keeping their opinion to themselves. Harry in particular walked pretty tensely. The corridors were flooded with the sounds of walking and talking cryptographers, so he knew he wouldn't have to worry if he used his cell phone. It was a Nokia, black and very discreet. The number intended wasn't in its memory: for safety. He raised it to his face.

"Hello? This is JOSHUA." He asked, playing it as business.

"JOSHUA? This is HOUSE OF GOD. Proceed." A voice responded through the other side.

"The Kurd we were talking about; he's already on his way to Iraq."

"Yes... I'll have Syn to watch over him, JOSHUA; you have done a good job. His new denomination is "MEDE"."

"Roger that. JOSHUA out."

---

"This is the plan; we'll take off from Incirlik in a couple of CH-47 "Chinook", each carrying a team of six, their gear, and an HMMVV each. We'll land some thirty odd-miles from Kirkuk, and recon a terrorist foxhole some two miles east. Then, we'll drive south and join the SAS. From there off, we'll take some photos of the advancing troops, we set our motion sensors, and we bug out." Captain Vince Ryan, field commander of the 3rd battalion of the 10th Special Operations Forces group, explained to his team, in the equipment room. "Any questions?"

"Yes, Cap'n." Mitchell Windsor was the driver in the first HMMVV ("Humvee"). "Assuming we get on the field undetected, how can we know the terrorists won't alert their sponsoring government of our presence?"

"In case our teams are detected, private, then we'll eliminate all Ansar troops in the Region."

"Take out the entire organization? Holy shit!" That was the general response.

"I know. And that's why we must remain undetected. We'll use the Humvees for movement across the desert and possible engagements. But I wouldn't be surprised if they are knocked out by enemy RPG's. This mission won't be easy; I expect precision and discipline. Dismissed!"

Vincent was a tough man. Spending his entire youth as a light infantryman was a one-character shaper. He had also gone through one tour in Afghanistan and two tours in Iraq; one even in the deadly city of Fallujah, home of the Iraqi Islamic Revolution, how they would now call it. He knew the IRI as the palm of his hand. Maybe that's why the DOD had chosen the 10th group to perform this recon.

His hair was short, and his eyes were of a pleasant dark green, with a surprising ability of changing from approving and warm from cold and full of anger. No one had ever asked Ryan if he was from any State in the Union; he would probably respond that it didn't matter. He was always committed to his task.

And his troops respected him for it. He knew some of them; namely Lt. Roger McTarant, his second in command, Private Martin Jenkins and Corporal Craig Hernandez had shared their pasts with him, in the 173rd Paratrooper Regiment, fighting in northern Iraq, just like every man in this operation. He also knew Michael Lee and David Hazansky from the sniper team. He had also worked once or twice with Ali Marawki, the Arab translator: the son of an Iraqi political dissident living in Washington DC. Operations in the Middle East are awfully common.

The rest, he didn't know. But they couldn't be too bad, seeing as they were in the Special Forces. He was indeed proud of his position, and he had worked hard for it, and had seen the face of death in both Mosul and Fallujah; and had fought the most ruthless of the ruthless.

It was no surprise that DOD had actually explained to him alone the real porpoise of the mission.

---

Baghdad, Iraq, some hours later.

His operation was running successfully. His car was really expensive, not only of an important manufacturer but also armored. The windows would take up to a .50 Browning machinegun round; the paint was also non-flammable, and the engine was resistant to small explosions. The tires were also made to continue rolling even after pinched.

He had a personal driver and a bodyguard. Of course, a bodyguard was a common thing to have in the Sunni triangle, the no-man's land between the theocratic IRI and the westernized Kurdistan. That proved itself every time he went out into the streets; merchants, women in burkhas, suspected terrorists, all dissolved in an orange mass of people, the heavily populated areas were often out in the air markets,

But he still didn't feel safe. Gun control wasn't exactly big in Arab countries, so it was more than usual to see men packing fully loaded automatic rifles in the streets. To an American like him, this was extremely surprising, so, just for security, his bodyguards were roughly evenly armed. One of them was next to the driver, scouting the surroundings. The dust and the pedestrians made the sight difficult; it was hard to pick up a dangerous gunner coming from the crowds in the streets.

The other one was next to him. He might have been an American, but his quick conversion to Eastern politics forced him to turn to cheaper, often Russian-made weapons. His personal handgun, for instance, was a Yarygin Pya handgun, chambered for 9 x 19mm NATO ammunitions when the Soviet Union broke up.

His phone rang, and there he was, being the boss again.

"We have a situation. We just got called from one of agents. There's a man in the British Airways flight 671 we need to keep an eye on. He's after Syed, but we still don't know why." The voice explained, without greeting. Coldly and professionally, he would say.

It had not been the first time he had been warned by international sources of men entering Iraq that could turn dangerous. It probably wouldn't be the last.

---

Al Sadr international airport, formerly known as Saddam Hussein international airport, outside Baghdad.

The flight ended, breaking Elijah Mahmoud Slervansk's second sleep. The giant 747 trembled as soon as it hit the 12th runway, made of most doubtful materials. As soon as the order of taking off the seatbelts was lifted, everyone was quick to rise and head to the hall of the cockpit.

Elijah tried to evade the human mass. His high spirit was gone. His eyes returned to be sober and half-closed. That heightened spirit during the flight was unexplainable. And he now felt it. Why was he there? The shortest answer would be revenge, but he wasn't sure.

As soon as the human mass started motioning towards the exit, he noticed it; his arm was hurting. He put his hand in order to numb the pain, but... It wasn't pain, exactly. More like a violent sting, now that he thought about it.

He pulled back the sleeve of his suit to look at the wound. He was petrified; a couple of small holes were in the back side of his elbow. They were small enough for him to not notice them until they started healing. The Kurd knew instantly what had caused them.

Needles.

He looked around nervously. He wasn't a drug addict (he had never even tried that shit), and the last shot he had received had been when he joined the London Security Detail, some two years previously. He must have been injected with something...

He started analyzing his surrounding. The shot was in his left arm, so the closest person in that direction was the Turkish passenger in seat 17-a, so he decided to analyze his seat; the first thing he saw was that the seat was slightly higher than his; maybe it was configurable, but Elijah looked at it closely.

That blue seat was highly irregular at a closer inspection. Maybe something was below. Making sure that no airhostess was watching, he grabbed the seat and pulled it up, revealing the steel frame. And the man in seat 17-a's secret.

Two injection syringes lay there, empty. Elijah had the weird feeling that he had been injected with those. Maybe the Turk had left them there so that they wouldn't find them in Customs. Elijah turned to catch his seat partner; but he was gone.

He then decided he would check the needles. The first one had the remains of a transparent fluid, and the tag read clearly: "Dextropropoxyphene". Elijah bit his lip. What the fuck had that asshole injected him with? The second one read "Sodium Pentothal".

Elijah was no chemist, be he had received Green Beret training, and knew what Sodium Pentothal was. Truth Serum, the Kurd told himself. It didn't demand much explanation; that explained why he had been so talkative; that bastard had injected his with the Sodium Pentothal while he was still asleep, so that he would talk.

But why him? How did he know? Paranoia started gripping.

He decided that he would take both needles. But how get those beyond customs? There must have been a way... He started looking for "souvenirs." He looked down. The airhostess had given each passenger a wet cloth, probably with salts in order to calm down nerves.

He then put both needles and rolled them in the wet cloth. But what if the bad guys (Elijah would never see Arabs as "good guys" again in his life) had metal detectors? He remembered the man in seat 17-a mentioning that they had to metal detectors. But then again, it wouldn't be the first time that man had misled him about something.

He rose from his seat, and decided that he wouldn't give up. Ever since that man Campbell had told him Layla was dead, he had become emotionless, numb. But also determined and resourceful.

He started heading towards the door, bumping into fellow passengers and passing through, apologizing with a quick motion of his head and took a glance through the door.

Evidently, the Turk had lied. Again. The first airhostess avoided the metal detector; but some passengers had to go through it, seeing as there was an armed officer in the way out of the plane and into the airport.

Elijah knew he had to sneak those syringes through, so he used what best he had. That English airhostess was now approaching the exit of the 747, making her way through mostly businessmen. Elijah knew this was his chance. While her eyes and mind were focused on getting out, He silently hanged the wet cloth in her belt, action done quickly and efficiently. He, for the first time in his life, wasn't enjoying the thrill of espionage, for his feelings were numbed. The woman walked out, oblivious of the passenger in the seat 17-b's actions. She started walking out. Now, without anything to fear, Elijah headed outside.

The environment was ironic. Leaving the runway, Elijah saw the bunch of businessmen, wearing nice black suits, across the sands surrounding it. The air was dry, something he was missing. He started approaching the metal detector in the entry to the main building. Something kind of smart, in order to not allowed armed personnel into the airport in the first place. These Sunnis weren't so stupid after all.

Elijah was some four feet away from the doorway, when he was stopped. The armed guard, sporting a Kalashnikov, He had a messy beard, opposing Elijah's European look.

"Hey! You!" The Arab shouted. Clearly, they were taught English to deal with these British citizens.

"Excuse me, sir, I really need to go through." Elijah responded, his voice dead, expressionless.

"Decision of the Ayatollah Al Sadr." The guard said. "No one who isn't a contractor in the Islamic Republic of Iraq, or an Iraqi citizen, shall be allowed within the country. You'll be taken back to your country in the next flight."

Elijah's expression started leaning on the nervous side. His eyes automatically started scouting the area; the airhostess with the syringes was just crossing the Metal detector, and she was stopped by a man of similar gear as the man who had stopped him. At least that bought him time. Simultaneously, he could see a large group of businessmen grouping. Maybe they were in the same position as he was.

"Listen, your so called Ayatollah has no power in the Sunni Triangle. It's out of his jurisdiction."

The guard had courtesy of training the AK on the Kurd's stomach. "The government insists that no American or Kurdish citizens are allowed."

"I see what your game is." He said, as he put his hand in his pocket. "Mate, you go and tell your superior I work for the United Kingdom, and that our Prime Minister has been quite vocal about rejection to diplomacy."

"I won' fall in your politics and lies, dog!" He snapped. Elijah was playing with him. That was the signal for the Kurd to drop a dime he had in his pocket, while keeping the guard's sight enclosed in his blue eyes.

The dime fell into the concrete floor, making a noise; following his natural instincts, the guard looked down, and that was the chance given; He quickly grabbed the armed subject, and pulled his head downwards, in a crash course with his knee. After a thump noise, the Iraqi fell unconscious. Elijah had not been spotted. He knew that he had got himself in a fucking lot trouble. He also knew he couldn't take the AK; there was no way he could take on the whole security. He quickly passed the metal detector.

The inside was not interesting; it was a cold civilian airport. Guards armed with sub-machineguns patrolled the outside, while mainly Muslims (Judging by their clothes) sat in their chair waiting for their flight. As soon as the knocked-out guard was found, he knew those SMG's would be raining fire his way. Elijah HAD to get away. Escape was the only option.

He jogged his way to the entryway. Both guards weren't surprised; a blond-haired, blue-eyed man with a suit, it was clear he was a European contractor to them. Or maybe descendant of Europeans?

Eli analyzed the situation, like his Green Beret instructor had taught him to do; the enemy; three to four on-foot enemy personnel, armed with Sa. 26 Czechoslovakian sub machineguns. They didn't seem remarkably well trained, but open-mindedness was always necessary. He then remembered; He needed to get his hands into this syringes.

After a quick recon of that pre-fabricated airport, he spotted the young, British airhostess heading to the bathroom. He knew that once she entered that mainly smaller bathroom, he'd lose; the theocrats wouldn't like men having to bear a circumstance same as women.

Elijah Slervansk advanced among the future passengers and got at some four metres away from the airhostess, and called her attention.

"Ma'am?"

The airhostess smiled. She wasn't used to this most polite behaviour. "Sir, passengers are not allowed now; we'll have to return to Heathrow." She said, again respectful.

"I am extremely sorry, ma'am, but I just got lost. This place is a like a maze... Could you please show me the way back to the runway?" He said, as he approached the young English woman.

She turned her head and finger-pointed the exit. "Over there, sir."

"Thank you. Now, if you excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom. We are allowed to do that, right?"

"I see no problem, sir."

"Thank you!" Elijah faked happiness.

As Elijah washed his hands, he congratulated himself. He had stolen the wet cloth and the syringes with such a skill she had not even noticed it was there. He headed out.

Now he was in Iraq. He was now a hunter. Syed, that murderer, was somewhere out there, and Elijah knew he'd have to track him. Syed had killed what was left of his family. Elijah Slervansk was no family man, but he felt that void everyone spoke about; that sense that told you that you had lost something, and that you'd never fill it. Elijah had always kept his pain drowned; with work, with self-deceit, even. Then why was he suffering so much now? He had thought Layla was dead for so long he didn't even remember how much he loved her. Now, he knew that all that time she had been somewhere... Out there, he really didn't know. But she was alive. And now she was dead again. It would take time to let his wound heal; but he now almost hated himself. He was now out there for vengeance, breaking the law; he had just arrived and he had sneaked drugs into a country and physically attacked a police officer.

Elijah for the first time wondered if had crossed the point of no return. But if there was a return, then he could fix his mistake; of not trying to find out if his own sister was alive. He again considered the possibility that this hunt for Syed was just himself trying to shift the blame to some lice-infested terrorist.

Not having much more to fight for, Elijah decided that facing off that man would take all his dedication; his entire valour. Was he fighting for revenge or was he fighting to keep something like that from happening again? Maybe another renegade, within 20 years...

---

"Where do you think he is right now?" Mohammed asked, casual, to his bodyguard.

"Probably just landed, sir." Ibrahim informed. "But you don't need to worry. It will probably be just a westernized funeral service, or something."

"But I do need to worry." The Ambassador said, sharply, while raising a letter in expensive paper. "It just came from the US military attaché. Turns the Department of Defence has sponsored his resignation."

"And you think it's real...?" Ibrahim asked. "...Sir?"

"To be fair, Ibrahim?" Mohammed asked, tired. "Neyi."

"Sir, I really feel pain by seeing Elijah go. But, he's a grown man. He can take care of himself." The bodyguard was trying to convince his boss.

"Don't you understand this? Slervansk got himself into something; something we ought not to know. Now, I don't want to get this Embassy into not necessary conflicts. It is our mission to maintain peace, remember always, Ibrahim."

"Peace with the British, I might add."

"No, Ibrahim. Peace. The peace with the British we accomplish today might mean friendship, and friendship with the British might mean peace with the Scandinavians, and so fourth."

"Sir, what do you think the Americans want with Elijah?"

"It is not our problem, my friend." Muhammad shook his head. "He was a good man. It's just like my son; I hate to see him go, but I know I'll only hurt him if I keep him."

"Wise words, Ambassador." The protection expert frowned. "However, I feel something's wrong. Do you think he was called for some sort of mission?"

"Don't be a paranoid, Ibrahim."

---

Two miles away from the Vatican, Rome, Italy.

He called himself Syn, but that, of course, was not his real name. He would fight to keep his name secret, all for his cause. He was now an adult, but the faith he acquired during his youth was unbeatable; He was a Roman Apostolic Catholic, currently residing in Italy, despite his British origin. He had gone out of favour with the Catholic Church of his country, considering him "Too extreme", to say the least, "Fundamentalist" at best.

To him it was no surprise; a mainly Anglican nation (A variation of that Satanic Cult they called "Protestantism") would never respect a man of his conviction. Only in Italy, Rome to be more precise, he would be able to live in prosperity. Well, maybe with others, but with himself? He might have been a priest, but he had the heart of a warrior.

It was his secret from fellow priests; that, behind that faithful, old-fashioned man, lived a modern day crusader. If the laic voices already called him a "fascist" and a "catholic fundamentalist", then he would be a fully-fledged "Nazi" and "Murderer" if they knew what he did instead of preached. Of course, the commandment "You shall not kill" didn't apply to those animals; Muslims, Jews...

But, orders were orders. His group of enlightened men's leadership had sent him a mission; to watch over a young Muslim, a Kurd, who was apparently, of interest by the atheist empire (The United States of America) and who might prove useful to "their" cause.

Naturally, he wouldn't disobey. The Kurd's denomination was "Mede", which up to a point glorified the Islamic infidel. The Medes were a Mesopotamian people who fought against Nebuchadnezzar, a Babylonian king in the Old Testament. Of course, that made some sense. The Medes were from the Zagros Mountains, same as nowadays' Kurds.

Syn was used to war. To every small crusade, he took his Italian-made Tangfolio Force, chambered for the heavy .45 ACP caliber. It was rough looking and dark. He had obtained it legally; but the ammunitions were usually given by his contact in the brotherhood. The Italian government was always careful with the ammunition buying.

His plane was soon to leave; he hid the handgun in a small, radiation-resistant briefcase in order to not allow metal-detectors to catch it, took the mission's funding. (A lot of cash, split between American dollars, Euros, Iraqi dinars and some previous-issue dinars still used in Kurdistan)

---

Incirlik, US Air Force base, Southern Turkey.

They had landed in the early morning and had immediately boarded the CH-47 "Chinook" helicopters. The fuckers had a capacity of 5000 lbs, and capable of cruising at 165 mph, quite fast considering its capacity. That was achieved through twin rotors, and a powerful diesel engine. Anyway, he was already aboard that monster.

The HMMVV was hanging from a plastic rope. He didn't exactly like having more than three tons of Metal hanging from a rope, but the flight was short; Incirlik was in Southern Turkey and after a quick pass through Syrian airspace, they should be in Iraq.

Not that would be pretty. The Syrians, although not openly at war with the USA, always enjoyed harassing planes with outdated SAM missiles. Of course, Navy F-14 Tomcats and F-18 Hornets were fast enough to dodge those, -but it was always best not having to deal with the tension of flying over hostile territory.

The Chinooks, on the other hand, flew low and steady. Low enough to be invisible to SAM launchers, anyway. Small arms were another story. Usually, extremists would fire some two magazines (usually courtesy of the family's Kalashnikov, even though those bastards some times had anti-material sniper rifles on their side) every time the CH-47's passed by. They must have got tired of being mowed down by those Ma Deuce, Howler thought. A couple of M2HB caliber 12.7 x 99mm Browning machineguns were set to the sides of the massive helicopter. It was not an exaggeration to say that no human being could withstand more than one of those bullets without dying in a blaze of gore.

"You know, Sarge, this isn't going to be easy." Mitchell Windsor, of the Bravo Team of the 3rd Battalion of the 10th Special Forces Group, addressed Howler.

"Ain't kiddin'." Howler said, both his arms holding the M4A2 SOPMOD, aiming to the floor of the helicopter.

"So, sir? Are we really just looking? I mean... we could use satellites or something." Windsor asked from one seat to the other.

"That's not really a possibility, Private." Di'noffrio woke up from his dream. "High, irregular ground; satellites go blind with Iron quarries." He explained.

"Okay, ladies, listen up. Here's the configuration of our HMMVV. Windsor, you drive. Di'noffrio, you'll be the gunner of the Ma Deuce. Bannad, you go in the back with the Sniper team."

"Lee and Hazansky?" Asked the Kurdish translator, assigned to team Bravo.

"Exactly."

"That's a lot of weight in our ride, sir. You, me, Windsor, Bannad, Lee and Hazansky. Not to mention Lee's Sniper Rifle is just Gargantuan." Di'noffrio mentioned.

"Six of us, eh?" Hazansky, the Sniper Team's spotter, asked. "Ryan, Clark, and Marawki are going in the other one, eh? Who's with them?"

"Let me think..." Howler made a pause. "I think Jenkins and Hernandez. Oh, and what was that guy's name? McTarant!"

"I bet Hernandez will be handling that TOW, right, Di'noffrio?" Windsor commented.

"Yep. Heavy weapons training, courtesy of Fort Benning," The Italian-American laughed. "Just like yours, eh, Mike?"

"Don't mess around, boy." Lee, a half-Oriental man, sneered. "This is a true beauty; The Barret M95 Anti-Material Sniper Rifle. It uses a modified version of the same ammo used by the Ma Deuce. I can pop a Fundamentalist's cap from 1600 meters with this babe. "

"Sure. Give us grunts a fuckin' five-five-sixer, and give the Jap a bloody Anti-tank rifle! Then talk about racism in the military."

"Stop whining!" The Sergeant Demanded. "I don't want to hear a thing from you in the next three hours!"

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