15 years ago, Libya...
The air in the room was a noxious cocktail of stale sweat, fear, and human waste. Eleven oil workers from various countries and an American oil executive were huddled in a space barely big enough for six, the walls damp with condensation and hopelessness. Their clothes were rags, torn and soiled from nearly a month of brutal captivity since the daring raid by ISIS on the Mabruk oil fields. Their eyes held the flat, defeated stares of men who have given up hope and are waiting for death. Any flicker of resilience had been crushed two weeks earlier when their company's designated hostage negotiator was publicly beheaded and broadcast live on the internet, the filming itself celebrated by cheering, masked militants.
Chester Van Buren, a Chevron executive who'd made the unfortunate decision to conduct an impromptu site inspection on the day of the raid, squatted on the dirt floor, his head buried in his hands. He replayed the nightmare in his mind, the helplessness he felt as his company bodyguards were swiftly gunned down as they tried to escape in their armored SUV. He knew the end was imminent. He'd overheard the guards, his limited Arabic was good enough to understand them talking about waiting for a local Emir to arrive so the procession of public executions could begin, all streamed live for the rest of the world to see. He suffered at the thought of his family and fiancé seeing his head fall from his twitching body as it is brutally hacked off by a dull machete.
In the midst of his suffocating despair, a sound sliced through the silence of the compound at night. A soft, wet thud followed by a gurgling, strangled gasp, then a quick, sharp crack. The noise came from beyond the heavy wooden door trapping them inside the room.
Chester lifted his head and stared at the door in morbid curiousity.
The door silently opened inward and a figure stepped into the dim light. He was dressed in full tactical gear, black multicam against the sandy brown walls, his face completely obscured by a fitted balaclava bearing a stark, white skull design. He held an M4A1 rifle at a low ready, his movement silent and authoritative.
"Chester Van Buren, are you here?" The voice was low, professional, and devoid of any accent.
Maybe it was the shock or maybe it was the malnutrition from being starved by their captors, but Chester couldn't open his mouth to speak.
"Chester Van Buren, are you here?" the man repeated, the second time a bit louder, more forceful. He produced a crumpled, printed photograph from a pouch on his chest rig and compared it to the gaunt faces of the hostages.
Chester managed to raise a weak, trembling hand.
The masked man's gaze found him, compared him to the photo, and nodded in satisfaction. He turned his attention to the rest of the huddled men who were anxiously staring at the newcomer.
"Attention, hostages. I am here to rescue this man," he announced, tilting his head in the direction of Chester. "If you wish to try your luck, you may choose to follow us now for a chance at escape. Keep in mind that I will only be protecting Chester. But this chance is better than waiting here to die."
Just as the last word left his lips, a sudden shadow darkened the doorway. An ISIS soldier, drawn by the unusual silence, rushed into the room, his AK-47 raised.
The man did not even turn.
His hand reached down to his thigh, and quickly drew a combat knife that was strapped to his leg. The throw was instantaneous, a blur of blackened steel. The heavy blade spun once, then buried itself with horrifying accuracy and force into the soldier's throat. The man dropped his rifle, his hands flying up to clutch the hilt protruding from his neck, as he dropped to his knees and collapsed backwards. A sickening, wet gurgle escaped his lips as dark blood erupted onto the dirt floor.
So that was the sound, Chester mused, a ghoulish understanding cutting through his fear.
The masked man walked with chilling calm to the struggling militant and briefly hovered a heavy black tactical boot over his neck, before bringing it down with sudden force and crushing it with a final, definitive crack of bone. He crouched and retrieved his knife, swiftly wiping the blade clean on the dead militant's shirt, then slid it back into its sheath with a magnetic click.
"Those who wish to follow and know how to use a rifle can pick this up," The masked man said, gesturing with his boot toward the discarded AK-47. "There is another one outside the door if any of you are interested."
He then dismissed the other hostages and turned back to Chester. "Hey Chester, ready to get out of here? Your family and fiancé wants you home."
Chester managed a weak, tearful nod.
The masked man reached down, grabbed Chester by the waistband of his trousers, and hauled him upright. He held the executive steady, keeping him balanced, before moving toward the door.
"So, any takers?" He asked the group, looking back over his shoulder.
Six Indonesian oil workers stood up grimly, one already carrying the dead man's AK-47. He indicated to the man with the rifle to approach, then pointed out the safety lever and swiftly switched the weapon to semi-automatic. The man nodded his gratitude. He then pointed one of the man's companions to the rifle outside, repeating the lesson on the safety switch.
The masked man took the lead, M4A1 rifle held high, ready for immediate deployment. He spoke softly in flawless Indonesian to the men behind him, telling them to follow closely and keep their eyes open. Their eyes widened in surprise at his command of their native tongue.
They moved through the narrow hallway. As they were about to reach the main door, a side door opened and an ISIS soldier casually stepped out, yawning. His eyes suddenly widening in stunned surprise as he saw the masked figure and the group of former hostages.
Before he could scream the alarm, the masked man's boot lashed out, connecting with the man's chest and sending him staggering back into the room.
"Hati-hati!" (Watch out!) The masked man barked in Indonesian to the men, telling them to guard the hallway. He then swept his M4A1 into the room, firing a disciplined ten-round burst, sweeping his rifle in a small arc. The soldier who stepped out and the rest of the occupants inside the small room collapsed.
"Things are about to get noisy!" The man yelled as he exited the structure, adrenaline flooding the hallway. He told the Indonesians to focus only on following him, emphasizing they must not stop, even if one of them fell. The men exchanged grim looks and nodded their commitment.
Chester felt a wave of icy panic. "Chester, stay behind me at all times. Do not stop for anything. Understand?"
Chester nodded frantically, knowing that this was the last chance he would get at getting out alive.
The moment they stepped out into the dark, open compound, a terrifying symphony of gunfire erupted. The man in front of Chester was a whirlwind of controlled motion, firing in short, three-round bursts as he walked quickly toward the main gate. Behind them, the Indonesians fired wildly, their undisciplined shots serving primarily as a deterrent and keeping any militants from charging in from the rear. The masked man, however, was like the Angel of Death himself, whenever his rifle cracked, a brief flash of light illuminated the night air and an enemy militant collapsed.
Despite the raging, chaotic gunfire exploding all around him, Chester felt a flicker of blinding hope as they steadily advanced.
The man shouted into an unseen comms mic mounted on his balaclava. "Approaching exfil! Willis, hit the charges!"
Suddenly, the compound was engulfed in explosions, night turning into day for a moment. Loud, concussive blasts ripped through the structures. Several parked SUVs vanished in flashes of blinding flame. A nearby weapons storage shack exploded and collapsed onto itself. The watchtower guarding the main entrance tilted violently, then fell like a massive, dying tree. Militants, some on fire, started running in panic across the compound, which the man promptly and ruthlessly cut down.
As they rapidly reached the gaping hole that was the compound's gate, the masked man reached into his pocket and threw a set of keys toward the closest Indonesian man. He pointed toward a parked SUV, partially concealed by a damaged building in the small village just outside the walls. He shouted quick instructions in Indonesian to use the vehicle for their escape. The Indonesian men scrambled toward the SUV, one turning back to shout a choked word of thanks before following his companions.
The masked man turned back to Chester, pointing to a rapidly approaching vehicle kicking up dust on the dirt track. "Our ride's here."
He then turned around and began firing into the compound, gunning down any militants that dared to chase after them. Moments later, the vehicle skidded to a controlled stop in front of them. The masked man half threw Chester into the backseat before effortlessly vaulting into the passenger seat, his M4A1 still spitting controlled bursts of suppressive fire at any visible threat.
Inside the vehicle, a muscular, bald Asian man was driving with the speed and expert precision of a professional race car driver. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a bottle of water and a couple of energy bars, tossing them to the traumatized executive in the backseat.
"Take it easy on the water and the energy bars," the bald man said, his voice calm. "Consume them slowly. Your stomach is going to need time to adjust."
Finally able to speak, Chester gasped out his thanks. "Thank you for the rescue. I really thought I was going to die back there. I don't even know your names."
The bald driver smiled faintly as he expertly steered them out of the small sleepy village. "I'm Willis, and the mysterious man beside me is Khan." He paused, then delivered a line with the dry perfection of a rehearsed commercial. "With regards to the rescue, it's all part of the service. Make sure to leave a five-star review for Aegis Security, the private military contractor you can trust."
Upon hearing the absurd commercial spiel, Chester laughed. A booming, full bodied sound of a man finally rediscovering hope. He was alive and he was going home.