---------- The Desert Wolf ----------
March 27, 2013
Iraq, Somewhere inside the Sinjar mountains

    He lies there in his dimly lit cell, the only light a flickering lantern set into the wall. The shadows it causes dance around the room of the cavern like dark entities; taunting him in the final hours of the mans life. The rocky floor makes for an uncomfortable bed. The damp walls and ceiling of stone are suffocating him, as though they will collapse; a fate far better than what awaits. Pondering the choices and decisions that led the man to this outcome, his mind begins to wander. What might have been if he hadn't said yes to that recruiter, if he had just settled down and started a family? Would he have been happier? How many kids would he have, what would they be like? He isn't sure that he ever wanted kids, or to settle down. That's what pushed him into joining the U.S. Army. 

     Voices echo down the corridor, faint but growing louder as their speakers draw nearer. The haggard POW bolts up right, the heart in his heaving chest beating so hard it could nearly burst. The fear and reality of what is to soon follow gripping every inch of his conscious. Two men round the corner of the narrow tunnel, looking right at him with pure malice and disgust in their eyes. They move to the cell door, one unlocking it while the other levels an AKM, barking orders in Arabic and broken English to turn around and raise his hands.

     "Hands up, American scum!" he screams, the fury in the terrorist's voice dripping like venom. "Tueal 'iilaa huna! Come here." He complies, the jihadi with the keys now bringing his hands down and behind, securing them with thick rope. The fear in the pit of his stomach makes him nauseous, but he hides the fact not wishing to give the terrorists the satisfaction.

	 "Where are we going?" the man asks, feigning ignorance. He doesn't want to acknowledge the truth, yet he knew full well what lay in store. "More torture? More beatings? You sadistic, cowardly-" The butt stock of the AKM slams against his skull and  white flashes blinds him, and he crumples to the ground. He wallows on the floor, the throbbing ache pushing everything else out, and he's unable to focus on much else. 
    
    "I'll enjoy severing your head filth," he spits, turning to his help and ordering him to drag the prisoner outside, to "the square". The infantryman knew of the horror that awaited outside, on that sandy patch of forsaken earth, stained the color of a sanguine liquid from the brutality of what his captors did to prisoners such as him. 'This is it,' he thinks to himself, 'this is how I die.'
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														Chapter 1
												   Into the Wolf's Jaws
Three weeks earlier
March 6, 2013
PFC Jason Winters
Combat Patrol, Near Sinjar city

     Jason stares out the window of the Humvee, focused on every minute detail of the landscape and the surrounding area. He drew the short stick and wound up assigned to patrol near the Sinjar area along with a platoon sized force. Everyone was on edge, there had been reports of a dozen or so insurgents moving through the town of Sinjar and brass wanted it checked on for validation. The convoy chugged down the road, keeping at a steady methodical pace. No forces had seen combat in this area of the country yet, but the threat of dozens of extremist fighters in the area had the whole patrol on alert. Jason looked down and checked his M4A1 for the fifth time, assuring himself there is a round in the chamber and the mag is fully seated into the mag well. The soldier in the driver seat looks at him for a second then turns his attention back to the road.

     "You nervous rookie? How many times you gonna check your rifle?" Corporal Jones says poking fun at Jason, his Georgia accent washing over his speech. Jones was a good guy, head strong and confident to the point of cocky, but the both of them got along well. Jason flips him the bird while smirking, still keeping his eyes focused on the terrain.

     "Yeah, and you aren't Jonesy?" he retorts, giving him a friendly punch in the shoulder.
Truth was, Jason was sweating bullets from the anticipation of an ambush or firefight that hadn't broken out yet. Luckily, no one could tell, because the sweltering heat and humidity of Iraq had everyone sweating gallons. "And don't give me that gung ho Rambo crap."

     Jones chuckled as the convoy bounced down the rough, pot hole riddled stretch of dirt that passed for a road in this part of the world. "Nah man, when you're as tough, and unbeatable as I am, what you got to be afraid of hmm?" remarks Jones. 

	 Jason just rolls his eyes and adjusts himself in the Humvee, the bumping and jarring doing a number on his tailbone. He was sure of himself, that much was certain.

    A hand taps Jason on the shoulder, and he turns to acknowledge Spc. Mark, the squads SAW gunner. "This isn't your first time on patrol, is it Private Winters?" Mark had been reassigned to the squad after his had sustained casualties in a firefight with Islamic State forces a week ago. He was still torn up about it, and he took his frustration out on Jason if there weren't any unfortunate jihadists around. Take it with a grain of salt Jason would tell himself.

     "No, not my first rodeo," he replies, not being offended. Jason was transferred to replace Specialist Rhodes, who'd died from an IED last month. No one was happy to see him at first, not that he could blame them. Losing a friend in combat isn't something one simply just comes to terms with quickly, and having someone show up to replace them just rubs salt in the wound. But despite being the the FNG, the hazing was kept to a minimum. Most were simply concerned with his ability to hold his crap together when it all hit the fan. Jason had been on patrol before with his old platoon, but it had been in a quiet part of the country. He hadn't even popped his first insurgent yet.

     Jones opened his mouth to poke fun at Mark, when he was cut off by sudden radio chatter. The lead driver in the convoy had spotted movement just around the bend in the road where the platoon was headed. Something about a couple of goats? Had he heard that right? The convoy slowed to a crawl as they all rounded the been, soldiers manning the Browning .50 cals mounted to the top of the vehicles as a precautionary measure.

     "Heads on a swivel, stay alert guys," Jones orders the squad as they near the turn in the dusty dirt road. "Be ready to rain down hell if stuff goes sideways. You good Winters?"

     "Yeah, I'm fine Jonesy, never been better," Jason answered. It was a lie, he was as nervous as could be. Not knowing what lie around the corner allowed his mind to come up with several horrible situations in a matter of seconds. The others in the Humvee with him adjusted their rifles in case they had to open fire at a moments notice.

    Rounding the corner, the platoon is met with the sight of an old man, a shepherd from the looks of him. His flock of goats milling about in the middle of the road, making it impossible to pass. No one dared to take their chances off road and risk triggering a mine or I.E.D.

    "You gotta be kidding me," Mark spits. "All that wide open field to graze his dumb goats and he has them right in the middle of the road."

    "Chill out Mark, there ain't nothing to worry about as long as you got me!" Jones says, reaching back to pat mark on the leg. Jason just rolls his eyes yet again and smirks. Would he ever get over himself? 

    The lead driver, Hawkins, dismounts from the Humvee, rifle at low ready. He approaches the goat herder with his interpreter in tow and tells his aid to politely ask the old man to move his goats off the road so that the convoy could pass. Everyone is holding their breath, waiting for the old, time weathered Arab to pull an AK out from his robes and open fire. It's a sad thought that the people you were here to help couldn't be trusted any more than the insurgents the US Army was here to fight against. The tension lay heavy and thick in the air.

    But to the platoons relief, the old man walks to his heard and coerces them to move off the road out into the open field, prodding a few with his crook. Once all the herd animals are clear of the road, the old shepherd returns to Hawkins extending his hand. Jason watches from three vehicles behind Hawkins' Humvee as he extends his hand to shake the old mans.

    "See guys, nothing to worry about, just like I said." Jones goes to reach for his can of dip on the console.The old man says something while still shaking Hawkins hand. Jason tries to eyeball his mouth, to read his lips.

    "Hey guys, ...did he just say Allah hu akbar?" Jason realizes to late what has happened. He watches as Hawkins jerks away from the old man and turns to yell something at the platoon. But he never gets his chance.

    A massive explosion emanating from the suicide vest strapped beneath the old Arabs robes sends a crushing shock wave rippling through the air. The intense heat and deafening roar combined with the blinding flash of the ignition disorients Jason and the remaining crew. Hawkins and his interpreter are vaporized instantly, their Humvee torn to shreds by the attack. Shrapnel from the bomb and chunks of metal, rock and dirt rocket through the area, shattering windshields, killing the driver and front passenger in the second vehicle. Jason's own Humvee is rocked and hit with the splash of the blast, shattering the windshield and flinging shards of sharp glass at his face as he raises his hand to shield his eyes. What was going on?

    "Ambush, contact front!" Jones yells, alerting the remaining platoon to insurgents popping up over the rock out cropping about two hundred yards away to the northeast. Jason lowers his hand to catch a glimpse at the enemy. Oh God, there were dozens of them, all running toward the stalled convoy. Smalls arms fire rakes the area, peppering the vehicles causing him and Jones to duck down in the Humvee. There is a dull thud in the distance, and second later the rear most transport takes a near direct hit from an enemy mortar round. The Humvee bursts into a ball of flame, effectively locking the convoy into a death trap. Jason could hear shrill, horrid screaming coming from the twisted flaming mass. Not everyone must have died instantly from the mortar round, left instead to burn to death inside the metal casket. It was a fatal decision to get bunched up when they all stopped. The I.S. fighters were closing in now. More rifle fire, the distinct chatter of AKs and the thumping of the Ma Deuce sounding like rolling thunder and bolts of lightning.

    "Carlton! Get on the M2 now!" Jones barks at Carlton, who has already crawled up the hatch and is manning the heavy machine gun. "Everyone else bail out and return fire!" Jones gets on the radio and begins to yell orders at the dazed troops. "Convoy! Contact front, multiple hostiles! Weapons free, I repeat weapons free!" Mark bails out of the back of the Humvee and sends a short stream of full auto fire down range towards the tangos with his M249 SAW, raking the hostiles with 5.56.  

    "Or-orders sir!" Jason stammers out, looking like a deer in the headlights and not knowing what to do. He was shaking as if it were thirty below outside, the adrenaline pouring into his body making him a wreck.

    "Shoot private, shoot for God's sake!" Jones screams, dismounting the transport and shouldering his rifle and letting a burst rip from his M4A1. Jason dismounts the Humvee, wide eyed and not believing this is really happening. A flick of the thumb sets his own M4A1 to semi, and he lets loose four rounds towards one of the hostiles about sixty five yards out, dropping him in his tracks. Way too close for comfort he thinks to himself. But he presses on, shouldering and firing his weapon at anything not resembling American personnel.

    The gunfire all around him is deafening. The shock waves and explosions from the grenades and mortars roar fiercely through the valley. This barrage of sounds partnered with the report of the rifles and Browning .50 cal all mix in the air and assault his senses, sounding like a panicked cacophony from hell. 

    From the left side of the vehicle Jason hears Mark scream out. Both Jones and Jason rush over and see him sprawled out on the dirt road, a large entry wound in the lower left side of his throat. Blood pooling around the ground, staining his uniform and the sand alike with a wash of red. Jones and Jason knew he wasn't going to make it, but they weren't going to leave him to die. Jones starts giving medical aid to Mark, a futile effort but done never the less. Turning to return fire at the Taliban, Jason sees it on the ground six feet away. A hand grenade.

    "Grenade!" Jason shouts, tucking into a ball, having time to do little else before it detonates. The blast is deafening and he feels something slash through the outer side of his left thigh. The searing red hot pain spreading through the length of his leg and into his groin. Jason blacks out, the pain too much for him to contend with.

    A foreign voice brings him back to the world of the living, barely a whisper in his assaulted ears. He was still alive, reassured by the horrendous pain in his thigh and the ringing in his ears. Not thinking of the danger, he unstraps his helmet and allows it to fall from his head, its weight feeling like a metric ton. It's quiet now though, far too quiet for a war zone. Why wasn't anyone shooting? Where was everybody Jason thinks to himself. Trying to raise up to get a look at his surroundings, Jason sees the scattered and lifeless bodies of his former comrades. Their lifeblood pooling around them in dark crimson puddles. The smoldering, burned out husks of what used to the Humvees puffing black smoke into the dusty afternoon sky. 

    Turning, he sees a woman dressed in black robes and pants, a red and white checkered shemagh tied around her waist. She's simply standing over him, with an expression mixed of both sorrow and anger. She didn't even seem to be armed.  What on earth was she doing in the middle of a battlefield? He didn't think the insurgents let women fight alongside them. She was cute, he thought, with rich black hair flowing from the wrap on her head, lightly tanned skin tone... and is that a tail? The bizarre addition to her form poking out through a slit in the back of her robes. Jason is bewildered at the sight for a brief moment, unable to speak or even move. The woman reaches behind her and unslings a rifle from her back utilizing the same style of shemagh for a sling; it seemed to materialize from thin air. Without saying a word, she raises it and butt strokes Jason along the side of the head. The sharp pain spreads like a wildfire throughout his skull, and everything goes black once more.