The Operative looked around. This was what he had been trained for, all those long years, learning how to use every conceivable weapon, how to use any conceivable thing as a weapon. Learning how to take a life with no question because he’d been told to. Learning how to stifle any conscience he might have, or better yet to lose it. But here, standing in the midst of the carnage he had wrought, the death and destruction he’d rained down on this small community, he questioned.

He didn’t know why they wanted her, to what end this need had forced such desecration, nor what they would do to her once they had her. But he believed it was what he had to do, because he had been told to. He was the hunter, she the prey. And he would do everything that was necessary to run her to ground.

A noise, a sound, and he moved like a ghost, silent through the smoke to the source. A man, not yet dead, but dying from the wounds he had sustained. The Operative stood over him, raising his weapon, about to perform the coup de grace that would send him with finality to the hereafter.

The man looked up at him, pain-filled eyes that fastened on his own. That held him, with no intention of letting go. Then the dying man smiled.

The Operative lowered his arm and moved closer, kneeling in the man’s lifeblood as it seeped into the ground.

“Who are you?” he asked, leaning forward.

“My name … isn’t important,” the man said, the breath catching in his throat as if he didn’t want to release what may be his last. “I was a Shepherd …these, my family. Why have … you killed us?”

“Orders. I was told to find her.”

"She isn't here."

"No."

"Yet you still ... did this. Why?"

"I have to obey."

The man reached up, grasping the Operative by the arm. “But I can see the indecision in you, my son.” He looked deep into the Operative’s eyes. “This is … not your way.”

“It is. This is what I am.”

“Perhaps. But not … who you are.” The man coughed, a little blood at his lips. “I can see …compassion in your soul.”

“I have no soul, Father. I sold it a long time ago.”

“It may be damaged … fragile … but I feel it in you. Don’t let them … do this to you.”

“I …” The Operative stopped, gazing down at the dying man. “I can’t save you,” he said, wishing he could.

“Then save yourself.” He coughed again, then reached up with a bloody hand to grasp the Operative’s face. “Believe you can.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes. You must.” He looked deeper, trying to see past the Operative’s defences. “What is your name?” he asked.

“I don’t have one,” the Operative said.

“Everyone has … a name.”

“It’s been too long. I don’t exist anymore.”

“You do,” the Shepherd said, his strength failing him, falling back into the dirt, his hands clasped over the wound in his belly. “Because I believe …” His voice faded and his eyes dimmed, then there was only silence amid the smoke and dust.

The Operative looked down at the dead man, his task completed, then lifted his hand to his face, feeling the bloody handprint congealing on his cheek.

“Book,” he said softly. “My name is Derrial Book.”