"September 12, 2016”

Sunbeams dazzled through the tiny windows as she sat in the back of the plane. Falling asleep whilst holding up a rifle in your hand was as hard as keeping the chin up in the slumber. If she leaned her head somewhere near the other soldiers' shoulders, some of them could get funny ideas.

Her fists and knees ached as she clenched and moved. There was no more dirt to wash away: only the roughness of the hemp ropes she used to climb. A pain that couldn't be taken away from her; but one that didn't hurt as much as the wounds that couldn't be seen.

A brief gaze on the unit flying that plane and it wouldn't take long to notice. Only a single woman, almost concealed between those men. Taller and wider — forged and born to be stronger. She had to grit her teeth and bite her lips to bleed if she wanted to try to keep it up.

"Special Air Service — S.A.S."

"The first woman to get in."

"Good salary. Stable job."

"But I haven't had time to celebrate yet."

"Grandpa would be proud of me."

Camouflage uniforms and bulletproof vests weighted over her shoulders. Chit-chat whispered among her unit's colleagues. Sometimes, it mentioned her name. Some laughed, some didn't. Some just had that derisive tone which she knew well. But she didn't have to be silent no more. This wasn't her home — the furthest thing from it, actually.

"What's your problem?" she said, lifting her chin. "Never seen a woman before, eh?"

Some of them put themselves in their proper places, whilst others continued with their dismissive debauchery. Natalia rolled her eyes and let out a sigh. One of them, however, was not content with silence:

"Must be your first time out of the country, innit?" said the man seated in front of her.

"And why does it matter?" she answered.

"You still have pretty eyes, lass."

The words that came out of his mouth, however, didn't sound like flattery or impertinent flirtation — like she was used to. He had a husky voice from constant silence. And the creased face of someone who had lived a long time. And the opaque eyes of someone who didn't want to see no more.

He both looked and spoke different from those rookies.

"Reminds me of my daughters'," he continued.

He spoke his words with an impertinent leniency. Natalia went silent again, averting her eyes from the man and clenching her fists once again. A single twitch was enough to feel the wounds burn under the palms of her hands.

"I know that British special forces don't normally allow female soldiers; but if you're here with us, then you mustn't be just any ma'am, am I right?" he pointed out, his heavy gaze dropping to all the men around him.

The rest of the soldiers went silent.

"It's just a pity that a young lady like you has to lose herself here, in the most miserable places of Afghanistan," he continued.

"Don't worry, I'm here because I want to," she replied, looking away. "And I don't ever regret my decisions."

"Don't get me wrong, girl, I don't mean to hurt your pride here." The man weaved a smile. "It's just normal to worry about each other, innit?"

"You… have a good point, Lieutenant."

After living under hostility for so long, Natalia felt a weight lift off her shoulders. The air lightened as her stubbornness waned with that man's complacency.

"He seems like a good person," she thought. "Perhaps I should get to know him a little more."

The whispers ceased — ending her discomfort.

"What is your name?" she said, breaking the silence.

"Henry Henderson. And yours?"

The journey soon resumed with only the noise of the turbines and their murmuring voices.

"Wright," she replied. "Natalia Scofield Wright."

* * *

It only took a week for her to understand. That the courage in her heart wasn't nothing but a mere fear of death. The images she'd imagined couldn't replicate the veracity of the cruel reality — a moment that didn't pass, where an hour aged her seven weeks.

Bodies mutilated and torn apart by gunfire were piling up in the gutters of the slums. Roads stained with blood and dirty with sand.

"Dry."

"Arid."

"Dirty."

"Lonely."

The clatter of the artillery muted her voice. Her injured leg from an early stumble hurt her steps — but she gritted her teeth and swallowed dry. Natalia continued to press the trigger, as she turned her head in the corners and took aim over those faces hidden under a black mask.

The C8 assault rifle weighed a lot more than her grandfather's archaic rifle; but it was enough to give her that same feel. Nostalgia. The marksman rifle L96A1 brought her back the feeling of pulling the bolt and shooting harmless watermelons.

"Would grandpa really be proud of me?"

"Would he?"

"I am protecting peace, so I'm not breaking our promise, am I?"

"I don't have anyone to fight for."

Every now and then, a cutting breeze would pass beside her ear. A fateful wind: the gap between life and death. The thin line of the shots that spared her life. But some were not like her. Many bit the dust on the ground. Many of those who helped or disdained of her.

On another day, she found herself on the verge of death with an ambush.

In yet another, she saw one die after agonizing over his last words.

And yet other, she lit the narrow walls of the ruined cities with the flames of the gun's barrel.

The smell of gunpowder.

Both the cross and the sword.

She held the golden crucifix around his neck and pulled the trigger.

"He was the one who gave it to me."

"The last thing I have of him."

The gap between the beginning and the end was filled with uncertainty. And it had been six months since she'd crossed the hell's gate.

She had few moments to rest, to forget a little about the misery of that endless squalor. The conversation she had with her parents over the phone was short — very succinct — but still, somehow, better than that unwavering silence.

"Who was it?" asked Henderson.

"My parents," Natalia replied, as a subtle half-smile wove on her lips. "I asked them to come pick me up at the airport."

"They must have received instructions from the army, since in a few weeks we'll finally be able to go home."

It's true: the soldiers' return was reported on national television and the army delivered all instructions to the family — date, time and place. She would scatter her glances and get lost in the moment of peace: she couldn't wait to go home at last.

"Are you anxious" he asked.

"I'd be lying if I said no. I'm scared."

"Fear we all have, dear."

"But I don't mean the war."

"What is it, then?"

"My parents never approved my decisions, so I'm a little afraid of what they might think." Natalia looked away.

"But they're your parents, aren't they?" he comforted her. "This place isn't something I would want for my daughters; but if one were to come back right from here, I would certainly celebrate for seven days and seven nights."

"You're right," she replied, crossing her arms and letting out a sigh of relief. "I think you're right."

And she completed the half-smile with the other half, snuggling with that unusual lapse of quietness.

"I think I can show them how far I've come."

* * *

It was the first time she felt that lack of strength. Henderson weighed heavily on her shoulders, almost knocking her to the ground. It would be difficult and she knew it; but she was smart and hadn't joined the special forces on anything but her own merit.

"Use a single leg to support yourself, I'll do the rest," she commanded. "I'm not strong enough to carry you alone."

She was not a combatant who gave in to those who praised her own death. She swallowed the ache that pressed her knees to give up.

"I'm telling you. You're not going to die here," she asserted.

And his withered voice muttered:

"Let go of me at once, girl," he said, mumbling the words between gasps of pain. "You still have a whole life ahead of you."

Natalia smirked.

"Shut up and let me save you."

As she held her gasps of exhaustion.

"You ain't fooling me, old man," she teased him. "I know you want to see your daughters again more than anything. You're always talking about them."

"I was almost accepting death; did you really have to say this to me?" Henderson smiled. "Now you've made it all harder."

"I am saying you won't die. Just trust me for once."

During her words, a bang hit the floor as she walked. A projectile stuck in the sand on the ground. In half a second she knocked him to the side and took cover in an alley wall.

"A single shot, eh?"

"A sniper rifle, maybe?"

"If it was one, we would already be dead."

"But I prefer not to bet against luck."

Experience and training were the hiatus that separated Western special forces from the Taliban. Natalia gazed around. She looked at the ceiling, at the ladders and knew right away.

"Give me your rifle!" she asked, waving her hasty hands. "Fast!"

Of everything he'd advised her, Henderson had been wrong about only one thing: the way he saw her. She wasn't no girl — far from that. Was young; but surely not like his children.

She had the sharp look of someone who knew sin. Under that stern look, he delivered the weapon in her hands, without hesitation.

"Trust me, alright?"

The L96A1 was a perfect fit because she couldn't run. If she fled one way or the other, she would be an easy prey. But predators didn't falter. Predators fought each other. And she was certainly no lamb.

Predators did not flee from those who were weaker than themselves.

It was fighting.

"And winning."

Natalia climbed the ladder to the roof. The deafening silence of the imminence muted every word; nothing more needed to be said there. She crawled over the tiles, hiding in the covering roof topography and preparing the bolt. Laid her cheek on the stock— in the same posture as her grandfather — and peered through the scope with her right eye.

There he was.

Hidden between the windows of an arenite wall

And the target met the girl's gaze again.

"Three."

She put her finger on the trigger.

"Two."

And she hesitated, remembering that hundredfold pain.

"And one."

The loud snap of the shot sounded and the projectile stuck right in the middle of the masked man with her grandfather's precision. An almost perfect shot. And she didn't even forget to pull the bolt to clean the chamber.

"Those who dares wins."

The shudder broke the silence. And Henderson knew in the moment she descended that their lives in that the purgatory was over. And also, when he looked into her opaque eyes, he realized that hell would always live on the edges of her lucidity, haunting her until the last days of her life.

The rescue spoke through the communicators, calling out their names.

It was all, finally, over.

But she, more than anyone, knew it was just the beginning.