Don't like this one.  I think the language is clumsy and the ending telegraphed.  Not sure what to do about it.

The sun that had thrown the shadow of the bush over him through the morning now suffocated him with the afternoon heat. His combats were sticking to his back and legs. The dried sweat on his face prickled. An itch in the sole of his foot felt like a needle stuck into his flesh. But Peterson remained still.

The compound was 200 meters away. The stand of small trees on the side of the hill below Peterson masked all but one corner of the house and an area of the enclosed garden. Even so, there were CCTV cameras and movement detectors that could pick up the smallest movements. The spooks ought to know. They had probably installed them for Papa, back when he was a good guy.

He missed Wacko. Every other mission, identifying targets for air strikes in Afghanistan, eliminating insurgents from the rooftops of Baghdad, his spotter had been there, confirming wind speed, radioing control, but mainly watching his back. But not this time. The captain from Military Intelligence had explained it.

This was a ‘High Risk Operation’. The ‘percentile damage before extraction’ was high. In other words, they didn’t expect him to make it back, and it would be uneconomic to risk two marines. There had been shouting. You stuck with your buddy, you looked out for him, no matter what, knowing with all your being that he would do the same. Wacko had been close to ending in the stockade, demanding to go on the mission as well, but the CO was powerless in this case. MI was running this mission.

There was movement in the garden. Slowly, smoothly, Peterson lifted the field glasses to his eyes. Two men were moving around the garden, looking in the shrubbery, examining the soil. A third walked slowly along the top of the wall, scanning the surrounding area. At one point he seemed to look straight at Peterson, then moved on. Though they were in civilian dress their movements screamed soldier.

The soldiers in the garden seemed satisfied. One of them nodded towards the area of the house hidden from Peterson. An old man walked into view. He wore a plain white tope and headress. Papa, father of his people, didn’t look like one of the most influential men of recent history. Especially as he currently had a brightly coloured plastic ball tucked under his arm. A small girl, dressed in a white dress, maybe three or four years old, skipped behind him, jumping for the ball in his arm. But when Papa spoke, the people of the Middle East listened. He was feted by the West and East alike. He had had an audience with the Pope. He had been consulted by countless heads of state. He had been on Letterman, for Christ’s sake.

The old man dropped the ball onto the lawn, and kicked it towards his granddaughter. She ran to intercept it and kicked it back. The old man was clumsy with age. The small girl was as clumsy with youth. They gently kicked the ball to and fro, running after the ball after each clumsy miss.

Peterson brought the rifle sight to his eye. The wind had picked up to maybe three miles an hour, left to right. The target was 220 metres away. He would only have one shot. A miss would mean the guards in the garden would put the target out of reach before Peterson could get another shot in. They were moving too much at the moment. He would have to wait and hope.

The old man walked towards the garden bench shaded by the garden wall. He sat down and called the girl over. She stood 10 feet from him and kicked the ball. Seated, he trapped the ball and gently kicked it back. To and fro. Grandfather and granddaughter. Terrorist and innocent little girl.

Peterson squeezed the transmit button. ‘Sparrowhawk to Nest. Target acquired.’

His earpiece crackled. ‘Nest to Sparrowhawk, Roger. Wait one’.

Peterson sighted the target between the crosshairs. It would have to be a body shot to ensure a kill at this range.

‘Nest to Sparrowhawk. You are green to go. The mission is go, I say again, the mission is go.’

Peterson squeezed the trigger to the first pressure point. He breathed in, then held his breath. As always at these moments, Peterson’s senses seemed to become superhuman. Time slowed. He was suddenly aware of the backdrop of insect noise. The colours became brighter. He could feel the texture of the fibreglass stock of his M40 against his cheek. As the bringer of death he felt more alive during these seconds than he ever did otherwise.

The target was still, centred in the sights. Peterson smoothly squeezed the trigger harder.

The report from the muzzle broke the spell, time snapped back, and Peterson was back in the real world. He snatched up the field glasses and sought out the target. The girl was laid flat out on her stomach, arms outstretched. There was a red stain on her immaculate white dress in the centre of her back. Papa had dropped from his chair onto his knees, his face a ruin of emotion.

Peterson heard the scream from the old man over the snap of the guards’s guns and the whistle of rounds through the trees. He hit the transmit button again. ‘Sparrowhawk to Nest. Target eliminated. Mission successful, I say again, mission successful.’

He touched the breast pocket holding Sarah’s photograph.