The Wahhabi watched the battle from a rise several kilometers away. He stood exposed, letting the spirit of jihad pass through him, his robes whipping behind him in the wind. He watched the tracers tear into their target, blowing metal and bone outward in all directions. The checkpoint was martyred. His brothers gave chase but were intercepted by the American drones. The infidels lacked the courage to face them, murdering from the sky.
Flashes of gunfire between the Humvees and mujahideen, bombs falling, their explosions echoing across the desert. By Allah’s will, the Humvees emerged from the plumes of smoke. Then three combat vehicles, unlike any he had seen before, emerged from the bluffs outside Sinjar and gave chase. They fired on the drones, who fired on the rest. Smoke trails danced across the black sky, flashes of light, then distant explosions. It was beautiful.
“Allahu Akbar,” the Wahhabi muttered as he dropped his head and opened his palms to the sky, overcome by the majesty of creation.
“Allahu Akbar,” his driver said, bowing and muttering in prayer.
The Wahhabi turned and seemed to notice the little man for the first time, even though he had been at his side since he arrived at Sinjar, the first of many followers.
He had been like that little man once, as a child. He had been like those men in the desert, an instrument for destruction, killing without conscience. Now he was Allah’s instrument. Trained as an assassin by the kafir Saudi government, he had abandoned that wicked life and even his name. Now he would redeem his past sins by cleansing the Caliphate of infidels, specifically those like the mercenaries, who were worthy of his skill.
The Wahhabi cupped his hands in prayer, and whispered a dua for the dead.
Whoever asks Allah to be killed in His cause sincerely from his heart, Allah shall give him the reward of martyrdom.
And whoever survives, Allah shall give him fame . . . and power . . . and maybe riches, if Allah is wise.
“Daena nadhhab,” he barked. Let’s go.