His face is caught in the ghastly light of the command centre's screens. He watches as the team approaches the house through their body and helmet cams. The black figures move quickly and quietly through the avenues of the estate, the failing light painting the cloudless sky in gradients of mauve.
The target must know they are coming. He always seems to know. He exits the front door of the house before the team is in position.
The commander frowns. This should be a moment of gratuity. There is his duty, yes. But he can allow himself a smug smile. This man. This enemy. How much pain has he put into the world? All those lies. Coercion. Manipulation. Turning good folk into monsters. Goading them into committing atrocities. He deserves what comes next.
But, more than that, he has eluded them. He has eluded the commander. Always one step ahead. Always slipping through their fingers. It's an embarrassment. A mockery of order. It cannot be tolerated.
So the commander should allow himself a small smile now, but he can't. Because he's just walking straight into their jaws. He's wearing one of those ridiculous white robes, that flare in the flashlights of the team with all their guns trained on him.
Whatever the target is shouting is lost in the cacophony of the team's voices screaming for him to get down, to put up his arms. The commander leans in, closer to the screens. He turns up the volume. Whatever the target is saying, it's rhythmic. Repeated. Like a chant.
He's walking forward slowly, looking at the sky. At the cloudless sky.
The team are screaming at him to stop. To come no closer. Any moment they will open fire and that will be that. The commander could never have imagined any other outcome. Men like the target can't allow themselves to lose. To be contained. Cowed. If they go quietly, they lose all legitimacy. And that's all they have for their legacy. In that way, the commander supposes, they are alike. But that is where the similarities end, he tells himself.
Then, for a flash, the screens white out. When the apertures adjust, he sees a blazing light where the target once was. The commander asks for a sitrep but before they can answer he can already make out what is happening.
The target is burning. Flames lick up at the cloudless sky. The houses are blacked out behind him. Black creeps down across his white robes.
In the garbled audio coming through the speakers, he hears the yells of his men, the crackling of the flames, and the target, changing as calmly as before.
Then he stops.
Then the audio peaks as the screams begin.
And the commander knows that this isn't an end, but a beginning.
Paddy Dobson
21st February 2022