The Burnt Child

A burnt child loves the fire

~Oscar Wilde ~

ALEXANDRA

ISLAMABAD

We storm through the compound, heavily armed with a shoot to kill protocol. The sound of a helicopter whirs outside, the repetitive chuff of metal blades acting as our own personal timer. Our senses are isolated, closed to the outside world, our brains fine-tuned to the frequency of the operation ahead.

Simon Haines is at the front. I'm in the middle. Charles McGuire and Wayne Gibbs are on each side. We stalk ahead, carrying HK-53s, standard SAS rifles. Our fingers guard our triggers, ready to react. Haines and McGuire burst into another room, shouting instructions as we encounter multiple women pleading in Arabic. It bothered me at first, but you get used to it after countless ops. After shadowing an explosives technician in Damascus, I've seen what a desperate, pleading woman is capable of. We call out to each other as we assess the threat level and secure the nooks of the large living area, moving around the kneeling women. Haines instructs them to put their hands above their heads. They do as they're told, their suspicious eyes following our movements.

McGuire drops his rifle. 'No sign of target.' He chatters into the radio. 'Room at the end of the hall is the last one.'

We follow him in single file down the hallway, our boots creating synchronised treading sounds against the stone floor. He reaches the door and turns to Haines; Haines nods his head. McGuire uses the tip of the HK-53 to push the door slightly, taking a step forward. We brace to follow his lead, ready to secure the last room with distant shrieks and wailing protests from MI6 detained occupants.

McGuire throws up a fist: he wants us to wait. The target should be somewhere in this compound. We've searched every room and found nothing. This is the last. If he wants us to wait, it means he's seen something unexpected. If it's not the target, then MI6 has bogus intel. Adrenaline pumps through me, my pulse beating to the dull ticking of the helicopter as we stand obediently still, waiting, watching. McGuire peers through the small crack in the door, his body finally exhaling tension as he drops his gun and beckons us forward. Charging through the doorway, he begins the standard process, yelling in Arabic, shouting instructions. But something's off. I can hear it in his voice. This time, it's different. This time, his words aren't the same.

'Step away. Listen to me and step away. We are here now. You don't have to do this.'

I look to Gibbs, who shrugs. McGuire is repeating it. There's no sign of the usual, abrasive tone in his commands. He's trying to appear calm and controlled. He's attempting to reassure someone. I watch Gibbs file in after Haines. I'm the last to go, and finally, as I step through the doorway, I understand. Three young boys are in the middle of the room; not a single one wears any clothes. Their small, trembling bodies are kneeling in front of rows upon rows of dismantled IED equipment. They can't be more than eight years old; bare-skinned, dirty, their hair covered in dust, their lips dried and cracked, they stare up at us, confused and skittish. I drop the rifle, letting it hang across my shoulder, and take out the SIG strapped to the holster around my waist. I train my eyes down at scattered heaps of battery parts, wires, and metal scraps in front of the boys as McGuire describes our findings over comms. Evidence support needs to confirm, but we're all aware of what an explosive kit looks like. Haines crouches down, picking up bits of equipment as he starts questioning the tallest of the three. He asks his name. The boy tells him it's Abeer staring back with wide, startled eyes. Haines shifts position suddenly, and Abeer's hand twitches towards the machete at his bare feet. I step in and point my gun at him, instructing him to stay still, kicking the machete out the way. That's when I'm close enough to get a good look. That is when I finally take stock of the boy's appearance. Every limb: every arm, every leg, each side of his face is covered with burns; some old, some scarred and healed, others bold and standing out, red and blistered. He has one working eye; the other has been so badly burnt it has healed shut, and the skin around his eye socket fused in strange patterns. As we wait for the evidence team to arrive, I turn to the others, running my eyes over the smallest boy. He is missing his left ear and most of the hair on his left side. My eyes flit from one child to the next, each one showing more injuries than the last. Haines steps in; he's asking Abeer if he knows Abu Ahmed. That's the target. Abeer looks at me, his working eye quivering with fear as he starts shaking his head. He doesn't know, he says. He repeats this in broken English as the other two boys tremble beside him, their gaze fixed on Gibbs' weapon. Abeer begins to mumble in Arabic as he rocks on his feet. Haines repeats the question about Abu Ahmed. Abeer continues, and I tell Haines to back off and give him a moment; he's praying.