Her face went grim. Through her AN/AVS-6 vision goggles she scanned her field of view. The Reaper searched the night streets of downtown Mosul seeking a particular evil.
A lock of her straight black Asian hair came loose from her pony tail, flopping in front of her face. She took a moment to fix her pony tail, wipe her brow and sip some of her ginger tea. She remembered one particular girl, Julie, who had described the behaviour of these Daesh bastards in Sinjar after the Iraqi-Peshmerga soldiers had abandoned their posts and run away, the cowards. They were misbehaved in their time in Sinjar as well but nothing like the invading Islamic State who were more brutal rapists but also bloodied butchers of humans.
The Reaper continued to guard from overhead the building she laid upon. It was full of medical workers who provided health care and shelter for hundreds of ethnic minorities in Mosul; people outlawed by the Islamic State, officially not allowed to live.
Sitting on the roof there is no break. She wants none. There is only one thing she wants, so she waits like the sniper that she is for a moment of triumph. If the security guys get this bastard, that is fine, but he will not enter her zone without his life being taken.
There has been a horrible series of war crimes against women and children but this one has shaken her. The Daesh commander who rewarded his fighters with many girl prisoners including one who had become the Reaper’s friend, is in town. She winced. Friends are not allowed in this work. He is a rapist of young girls in the Shingal region–that’s enough reason to end him. She wiped a tear for Julie from her cheek. No friends allowed because nothing matters but the mission.
She will get him, ending the misery his existence on this earth has brought.
The Reaper remembers hearing from another rape survivor how he stunk. Groan. K. (How can you not feel those women’s pain?) K. No friends allowed, no emotions, because nothing matters but the mission.
Her mind drifted for a fleeting moment back to Cambodia. She saw her sister’s face and shook her head hard. No feelings allowed, no emotions, because nothing matters but the mission. Sadness is too familiar but rage can help sharpness. She sucks up the wish to cry. Thank God the pain still comes back. She is not really a Reaper, she is a baby girl sold as a sex slave and raped throughout a childhood she never had. She is that little girl but she got bigger. Now she has a better gun and the highest skills honed to use it well. She threw her arms around herself–the hug her sister would have given her– she squeezed. More solid than ever. Back to work.
The Reaper looks hard with a furrowed brow and sharp eyes.
Single minded now in her approach, she has watched for him, knowing he has been bunked in an abandoned house within her range. Most of his moves have been tracked by everyone she could get help from including some of the nurses in the hospital and from other ‘watchers’.
He is supposed to show tonight after touring around the city.
The Reaper lurks overhead always, where nobody knows her presence save a small few of her protectorate.
The rapist has no idea that he is being watched, observed, and targeted. (C’mon you skumbag, show yourself. The Reaper awaits you, c’mon asshole.)
She waits, her heartbeat like a dark, soft, silent energy source ready to operate at military maximum effort.
The Daesh Commander is a Child Rapist, Easy to Hate
His beard hides an ugly face covered with scars from a fire bomb exploding too close in 2010 when an American made mortar caught him sleeping in that hut. He was lucky to get out alive. The other eight guys bit the dust that night. He was badly hurt but he survived thanks to a Syrian doctor who would have been his next victim of torture had it not been for the doctor being his instrument of survival. But, he continues to pay it back, if not the doctor—someone else.
He tortured, beat and raped those terrorized Yazidi girls the reaper had sat and listened to as the nurses fussed over the escapees her fellow soldiers had rescued. She had not let the tears come but shoved the emotion into her gut–anger stored for later use. Plenty of anger.
The fat bastard Daesh boss had loved it when the girls squirmed with excruciating pain; the fear on their faces excited him; praising Allah as he took their prepubescent bodies and man handled them one after the other until they were both dead. He got up and walked away like he forgot something in the other room, no remorse, no guilt, just the relieved feeling of expelling his built up seed. If Allah was pleased— and he was—then he was pleased. He praised Allah thinking unworthy thoughts, of how the Prophet enjoyed the nine year old Aisha, in his bed of glory. But he wipes that from his mind.
All that history comes to an end tonight.
(“I have something for you,” the Reaper mutters under her breath.)
The Reaper’s sleek, hard but feminine body registered a slight tremor; she remembered hearing the story of those Yazidis who lived through their ordeal with him. One of the kids, he took her twelve times over a five day torturous period, and then turned her over to his friends. The kid wanted, begged for death. Once rescued the nurses had watched her like hawks as she tried everything possible to kill herself during her convalescence. At one point they sedated her heavily and fed her intravenously. Yes, she wanted to be dead as many of the Daesh rape survivors do. The nurses had become skilled at dealing with traumatized kids. It’s not like their training. Nothing can prepare you to fathom this severity of agony. The nurses who couldn’t cut it were long gone. The ones who survived and learned are perfect angels.
The Reaper’s mind flashed back to a childhood memory. She shook her head hard–put it aside. She, like those Yazidi girls who survived their ordeal with these brutal inhumane thugs had fought and fought hard to live.
Vengeance for the many children and young women raped by this evil Daesh rested on a bipod, it’s lethal cold steel mechanisms cradled in the Reaper’s two hands. Yes, vengeance and the termination of a scourge of inhumanity would come tonight.
The Reaper’s face is grim.
(“Where is that bastard. If I can’t do it tonight I may fail until next he returns to Mosul.”)
The Reaper: My Weapon is my Life – My Life is My weapon
She puts down the vision goggles and checks her weapon, rubs her eyes to help refocus. The sleek clean tool of killing, she caresses it skillfully, breathing in unison, tuning her senses with the electronics of the rifle’s accessories, melding her lithe body with the great length of the rifle, finding oneness with its power.
50 Cal. Killer Rounds
I am it, and it is me.
(“I will end your stinking life of crime against children, you fucking pervert.”) She checks the focus of the scope, verifies the range and azimuth and confirms the chambered full bore 50 caliber killer round waiting to sing her song. A faint smile. Her NATO 7.62 rifle was ready on her north-facing side. The 50 faced East toward the Tigress River.
(“It’s a cool thing my Barrett, the muzzle break, the 25R magazine capacity, my X10-Mod scope. Yes, I can bring down a lot of Daesh with this sweetheart.”)
The Barrett wants him too.
A sound drifting up the street; a car approaches the Daesh Commander’s quarters in the distance. She gazed through the rifle scope, altered the azimuth slightly in anticipation of who might exit a now stopped vehicle .
(“Be there, be there.”)
The Reaper sees the car door slowly open and watches–her hand caresses the grip, finger poised across the outside of the trigger guard.
Bodies are moving around inside the vehicle as if they are getting gear to take out of the car. She observes, one leg seemingly ready to exit, but it sways back and forth like the owner is picking something up, revealing the ridiculous look of an old worn western-made loafer with no socks on calloused dirty feet; incongruity with his Arab attire.
My beautiful Barrett.
Her body tightens slightly as she waits. Waiting is her thing. Her patient steady breathing melds with her long weapon. He moves her finger inside the guard and hovers it over the sensitive gun trigger.
Two men emerge from the vehicle into view, not him. And—then , there! There he is wrapped in his headdress and white Daesh commander issue, his fat belly filling his clothes like an over-stuffed trash can.
(“This is it Mr. Scumbag. Now is the time to say your prayers to Allah, because you’re not going to him, I am sending you to hell.”)
She checks cross-hairs slightly ahead; waits for him to walk in the death zone.
She fired head on, first to his groin for pain and effect, (“as I promised that girl you pedo-fuck”), severing his dick and scrotum, the parts falling inside bloodied white clothes.
He doubles over and spun to the right.
As she had just rehearsed in her head she moves the long barrel fractionally to his stomach area, a side shot, because that’s what nurse Bonnie told her through clenched teeth would bring the most amount of pain of any gunshot wound. The bullet enters the near side of his gut, rips through stomach and intestine, exiting his bloated body the other side removing part of his kidney.
He falls, writhing. She leaves him to suffer and swings the barrel half a degree or less and picks up the back of another’ Daesh’s head and pressures the trigger to send the large round screaming through the air. 600 Meters travel was quick but before the round took half the driver’s head off she was sighting the third man out, softly touched the trigger and ending him.
She turned back to the fat rapist writhing in front of the building, doubled up in pain. She paused and reflected . She remembered the twisted, weeping baby face of one of his victims. Her screams and cries in the middle of every night as the nurses tried to bring her brain back from that death. A small tear rolled across her cheek. Two men burst out of the building and whirled toward the car and the downed Daesh she had just killed. One turned and looked in her direction and she killed him with a shot to his face. The other she brought down by completely removing the back of his head with a side shot.
(“Yes, you assholes you can go with him, none of you deserve to breathe my air. And now finally, back to you.”)
The Reaper ended the writhing fat rapist with a shot that sent the round into his skull from under his jaw, pushing bone, teeth and cartilage fragments through the center of his cerebrum splitting his skull in two and splattering blood and gray matter across the side of the building to the right of the door. Dead Daesh.
She wiped what must have been a tear for each of the Yazidi girls–a flood–from her young cheeks. She had never shown anyone in her life that she knew how to cry, except maybe one special guy.
She surveyed the scene. Five bodies. No newcomers. All was quiet.
Satisfaction rolled over her whole being, like a cozy warm blanket on a cold night.
She reached into her blouse and pulled out a lollypop, slid it out of its wrapper and pushed it between her lips. Sweet. The Reaper slowly looked up to the stars. (“That’s for you to, sis. I love you, baby.”) She would radio her soldier guys to clean up the mess.
After making the call she shifted her mind to the next target.
Her face went grim.
Women warriors killing Daesh. The IS’s worst nightmare.