The view was like a window into Hell. Once, a long time ago, maybe three months or so, this had been a pleasant provincial town where people lived quiet, unremarkable lives. Now it was wreck, populated only by desperate ghosts and people like me. The front of the apartment building opposite had been ripped away and the rooms, still somehow remarkably intact, were open to view, like the dolls house of a particularly destructive child. The top floor was open to the elements, like almost every other building in sight. Some had great holes in them where the artillery shells had struck, others were blackened by the smoke from the fires that had burned for days and the rest were pockmarked by small arms fire. There was probably not a window intact within two miles. Hell.
Ours had always been a fragile country, created by uncaring conquerors in the previous century. They had drawn lines on maps to suit their own convenience without a thought for the ethnic and religious differences that had divided us for centuries or the simmering blood feuds they had created. So we were bundled together, sharing nothing but our mutual hatred and suspicion.
It had all boiled over a couple of years ago when the North tried to break away, taking much of our mineral wealth with them, and join up with their so-called Brothers across the border. It had been coming for decades but their politicians made two crucial miscalculations: the armed forces were controlled by the South and their Brothers were not willing to go to war for them. The rebels had managed to overrun a few barracks, killing the soldiers who would not join them and stealing the guns. But the pilots on the airbases had simply flown south in their priceless fighters. The handful of planes that had to be abandoned on the ground were quickly destroyed in air strikes and the few they managed to get into hardened hangars were useless. You can teach a man to fire an AK47 in a couple of hours, training people to fly or even maintain a jet fighter takes a bit longer.
So, as the outside world fruitlessly called for peace and the UN stood by impotently wringing its hands, the carnage had begun. We had gone from city to city and town to town wiping out the rebels. The civilian population became refuges heading northwards. Only ruined shells were left. It was scorched earth policy, pure and simple. Well simple if not pure.
Yet even here, despite our victory we did not quite have control. There were a few small militia units clinging on and harrying our patrols. So I was still here. The General called us his 'Predators'. Angels of Death whose job was to hole up among the wrecked buildings and pick off the militias at long range, killing their commanders when we could and randomly killing their men to sap morale and drive them out.
Most of the Predators worked in groups of four but I preferred to be alone. I'd been a hunter all my life and I knew all about lying up and keeping quiet and unseen. It was a bit riskier because I couldn't watch all sides at once and had to keep moving around to check all the approaches and to make sue my escape route was still clear. But it also meant there was no one chattering or moving about to give away our position. Some of our so-called 'troops' lacked discipline. Too many of them were 'irregulars', little more than gangsters, out for what they could loot or who they could rape. I preferred to be alone. It felt safer.
I had my own rules and they had kept me alive so fire. I only ever fired one shot. Take them by surprise and give them no clues as to my position by firing again once they were alert. Sometimes I got lucky and took out a commander. Other times I would lie there, looking through my telescopic sights and play God, the cross-hairs moving from face to face as I decided who should live and who should die. They never knew how close they had come to death, how their faraway wives had nearly been widowed.
I had been in this attic for two days and had seen nothing. Perhaps they had finally given up and gone away. But I could not relax yet. I had just checked my exit route again and was planning to move out at dusk, timing my departure for when the gathering darkness would hide me but still leave enough light for me to find my way back to our own base. It was as I put the field glasses to my eyes that I spotted the movement. It was at the end of the street, a Man and a Boy emerging from one house and diving into the next. As they disappeared I quartered the other buildings looking for snipers who might be using them as a decoy. I could see nothing. I repeated the exercise every time the pair moved to a new house and after an hour I decided they were alone, probably scavenging for food in the abandoned houses.
At this rate they would reach the house I was in before I was ready to leave. I packed my little rucksack and watched them. Something wasn't right. Something about the body language between them. I checked the surrounding windows again. Still nothing. As they got nearer I checked them again and realised what it was that was worrying me. And smiled.
As they entered the house next door I made a final check of my exit and the surrounding buildings before I hid my rifle under some old carpet, took my pistol from its holster and settled behind the door.
