Iram's family had all perished in the "war" against the Turks.Only he remained, following the remnants of the "Komala Gang" to Iraq.
War-torn Iraq was far from an ideal place to survive. Even with aid from the local Kurdish guerrillas, the Komala Gang struggled, with members constantly deserting.
Until three months ago.
The gang seemed to have found a major benefactor.
This mysterious backer provided them with weapons and vehicles, asking only that they steal oil from a site called the West Qurna-1 oil field. Even better, the benefactor would pay for the stolen oil.
To Iram, it was a great deal.
Since they had started stealing oil, life for the gang members had significantly improved. They could eat bread and milk again, occasionally even meat. The abandoned village they occupied had even begun housing permanent women.
Last week, for the first time in his life, Iram had tasted the company of a woman—an Iraqi girl named Ichun. She was only seventeen, not particularly beautiful, but docile. Iram liked her very much.
Sometimes, he even fantasized about making enough money to buy her freedom from the brothel and start a family with her.
Well, deep down, he probably knew it was unlikely, but a man needed something to hope for.
Lost in thought, Iram glanced at the gauge on the tanker. In about twenty-five minutes, it would be full.
Just then, he heard a strange noise, seemingly coming from the sky.
Instinctively, he looked up and saw three small black dots rapidly approaching in the distance.
What was that?
Before he could react, Behnam, who was on the tanker, suddenly shouted, "Helicopters! Those are real helicopters! Damn it, why didn't we get a warning? Run, run!"
As he spoke, he started the truck and floored the gas pedal without waiting for Iram.
The hose connected to the tanker was violently torn off, spilling black liquid everywhere.
"Wait for me! Wait!"
Iram frantically waved his arms and ran after the departing tanker. Without Behnam, who knew the terrain, he had no idea how to get back.
At that moment, a strange howling sound reached his ears.
Boom!
The tanker exploded in a massive orange fireball. A huge wall of flame roared toward Iram—debris from the blasted tanker hurtling through the air.
Terrified, he immediately dove to the ground.
Whoosh!
A scorching gust of wind passed over him.
He curled up, covering his head, his body trembling uncontrollably.
According to his training, he should be pulling out his AK and firing at the helicopters right now. But the sheer horror of the explosion had left him paralyzed, unable to react.
A gust of wind spiraled downward, followed by the rapid thuds of approaching footsteps.
"There's a live one here!"
A soldier pointed his rifle at Iram.
Iram didn't understand what he was saying, but he prayed the man wouldn't kill him.
"Don't kill him. We don't know how the other raids went—we need at least one captive to find out their hideout."
Iram was quickly disarmed, his hands cuffed behind his back, and a black hood thrown over his head.
Then, two soldiers hoisted him up and dragged him onto the helicopter.
—
Iram had no idea how much time had passed when the darkness was suddenly lifted.
Instinctively, he squinted against the brightness. It took nearly ten seconds before his eyes adjusted.
Stealing cautious glances, he saw several men with military bearing watching him intently. He shrank back in fear.
"When's the boss arriving?"
"Soon. The other raids went well—we captured five in total."
Iram stared blankly at the two towering men conversing nearby.
At that moment, the door swung open, and an unbelievably handsome young man walked in.
Iram noticed how everyone in the room immediately straightened, their demeanor becoming more respectful.
This man was their leader?!
His expression filled with disbelief.
How could someone so young, who didn't even look particularly formidable, command the respect of these wolves?
He didn't understand.
Because he had never witnessed the power of wealth.
And the man before him was far from weak.
The young man, Martin, sat down, drumming his fingers on the table. "What's your name?"
Iram, who had been secretly observing him, looked up in shock.
This man spoke fluent Kurdish?!
Standing beside Gordon, "Satan" was equally stunned. "I personally saw the boss learning Kurdish with a translator just five days ago… and now he's fluent?! This is insane!"
Gordon wore a peculiar expression. "I've always thought… the boss is a god incarnate."
"You're overhyping him," Satan scoffed, then chuckled.
Gordon shook his head. "I'm not exaggerating. You haven't been with him as long as I have. You don't know the bizarre things he can do."
Then, he gestured toward Iram with his chin. "Take this interrogation, for example. Do you think the boss will get any information out of him?"
"Not likely. Unless he uses torture."
"Then just watch."
A mysterious smile appeared on Gordon's face.
Meanwhile, Iram, hearing Martin speak Kurdish, inexplicably felt a surge of warmth. Before he even realized it, he found himself wanting to answer honestly.
"My name is Iram."
"Where are you from?"
"Komala Gang."
"How many members do you have?"
"About five hundred, maybe more. I'm not sure."
"Where is your hideout?"
"In an abandoned village, three hundred kilometers from Baghdad."
"Which direction?"
"Northwest, I think. Behnam mentioned it once."
"Do you know the exact coordinates? 3.8?"
"No."
The man across from him stopped asking questions and spoke to the two towering figures behind him.
Iram suddenly snapped back to reality.
Why… why had he answered those questions?!
A wave of terror crashed over him.
This man… was he a devil?!
—
"The other prisoners have been interrogated, and the answers match up. The enemy is in an abandoned village northwest of Baghdad, about three hundred kilometers away. Roughly six hundred men, all armed."
"These are just small-time foot soldiers. They don't know who the real backer is. We need to capture the higher-ups of the Komala Gang."
"No time to waste. We move now and finish this quickly."
"Yes, sir!"
Satan snapped to attention, responding loudly.