Prompt: Fara and Peter Quinn go way back.

October 2003, Operation Iraqi Freedom, Kirkuk.

No matter how many times he deployed to the desert: Iraq, Afghanistan… wherever, he would never get used to the heat. Even in the early morning, the sun beat down on them. The hustle of the markets was already underway, happening below him as he looked out on the world from his tower on the FOB. Watching, waiting, thinking about the mission.

They'd had some intelligence that there were important members of the Bathist regime here. Maybe even the big man himself, codename "short-stop", imaginatively put together in reference to the execution he would surely face when found.

Suddenly, his eyes fixed on a small figure in the crowd, coming towards the FOB. She was tiny, maybe 7 or 8, and unusually for that age, wearing the chador. That was the first thing that struck him as odd. Usually it would be only teenagers or adults wearing it, not children. Not unless she had something to hide. He pulled out his telescope. With it, he could make out silent tears rolling down her face, and her hand shaking. Shit.

She was coming straight at the base.

She kept walking.

Shit.

"Place your hands where I can see them," a voice rang out. She didn't move, she was shaking.

The adahn rang out. The sun beat down.

Weapons were pointed at this little girl now, he had to stop this.

He bolted of his seat and ran down, all he could hear was the noise of the market.

"Place your hands where I can see them,"

He pushed past Rob, from the group, knocking his bowl of cocopops from his hand.

"What the fuck man?" Rob said, grabbing his arm in an iron grip.

"Suicide bomber, little girl, front gate, now,"

Rob dropped the bowl, picked up his weapon and followed Peter.

"Place your hands where I can see them or so help me I will shoot," The marine was screaming at the girl who had stopped dead just by the gates.

She moved her hands. The chador fell away just as Peter and Rob got there. The device was instantly visible.

The poor girl was buried in explosives, trigger gaffa-taped to her hand.

"Shit," thought Peter.

There was suddenly screaming, and noise. Shouts for 200m cordon.

The girl was shaking, trembling. Whispering, muttering. Terrified.

Then he realised, with a start. She was whispering in Farsi.

Then he listened. He really listened. It was one of the perks of being trained as he had been, he was really good at zoning out and listening to a single conversation, even far away.

"He made me come here because Papa is here, he said Papa needed to pay. Please don't let Papa die, please. I don't want Papa to die"

He saw a patch of liquid pool under her. The poor girl had urinated herself, she was shaking. She was swaying, her face pale with fear. It was so nosy, the screams of the crowd being jostled away by the Marines, the screams of Marines at her not to move. None of it she could understand. She was speaking Farsi. But why. Why was she here?

Then he clicked. Shit.

Their translator, Sherazi was Iranian. His wife had been Kurdish, killed by the regime. Sherazi had been helping beforehand as part of the joint CIA-Peshmerga operation, in memory of his wife, and now he was assisting up here. He had said his daughter was safe, in boarding school. His clever daughter Fara; the girl that always did what she was told, and loved Maths and was getting the best grades in her class. But he'd bet that wasn't true, he'd bet his daughter was the little girl here. In an instant he made a decision.

He stepped forward.

"What the fuck are you playing at," the Marine in charge of the FOB screamed at him.

He stepped forward again. Hand reaching for his pocket knife. If he was going to do this, it better be good, and it better be fast, and it better be old school. No way would any bomb disposal expert get here in time. He'd made enough bombs in his short special service career. He'd probably be able to dismantle it. Probably. Hopefully. Maybe.

In Farsi he started speaking to her.

"Don't worry, your Papa won't be here. He's likely taking some time to pray at the back of base, we'll make sure you can see him real soon sweetheart ok. We're going to get you out of here. I'm going to get you out of here ok."

The Marine was still screaming at them.

Peter turned around.

"Shut the fuck will you."

He heard Rob shout up,

"Phone signals down Quinn, cordon in place. Get it off her if you can, but please mate. I don't wanna have to watch you get red misted."

Peter crouched down to look at her. He carried on speaking to her in Farsi.

"You're Fara, aren't you. Fara Sherazi?"

She looked at him, wide eyed.

"How do you know my name?"

"Your Papa is really proud of you, and he loves you, and he talks about you all the time. He said you could always do what you're asked. That you're a good girl who always listens to him. He's a good friend of mine, and he'd want you to listen to me now. It's really important that you stay really still. Can you do that for me sweetheart, can you stay still?"

She nods.

"Good girl. Now I'm going to walk around you to have a look at this jacket of yours and work out how we can get it off you ok. Don't move an inch, ok"

Sniffles. No noise.

He walked around her slowly, eyes intent, calculating risks, odds. It was risky with his knife, he'd rather have scissors, shears, anything with a bit more control. But he'd have to make do. He was here to kill terrorists. He was here to kill or capture a man who had committed Genocide. What he wasn't here to do, was to let a little girl die, much less the kid-daughter of a man who had become a close friend out here.

It was complicated, this vest. A thumb trigger, a second, back up device. Wires everywhere, over the shoulders and around the waist so he couldn't just cut it off her. Well he could, but that was a last resort.

It didn't help she was still shaking.

"Am I going to die?" A small voice asked.

"Not if I can help it." He responded.

She was silent for a second as he started making careful incisions here and there.

"Which was is Mecca?" She asked again.

"I don't know little one," He murmured back.

"Can you ask… they said at school people should face Mecca and do Shahadah when they're going to die."

"You're not going to die little one,"

But her small voice had already started muttering it.

"Ashhadu Alla Ilaha Illa Allah, Wa Ashhadu Anna Muhammad Rasulu Allah," over and over again she muttered it.

The sun beat down.

The silence was deafening.

He could hear the blood pounding in his head. Dry mouth.

He went to move, but his foot slipped an inch on the wet ground.

He felt his knife slice through a wire like butter.

He heard the timer engage with a click.

Fast as lightening, the plan B.

Three cuts, 2 cutting the vest from her waist, 1 cutting the trigger from the vest. Pulled it over her head. Threw it as far as he could muster, away from the base, into the space clear of the crowd, screaming "FIRE IN THE HOLE" at the top of his voice as he pushed the girl to the ground, shielding her as best he could with her body.

He was thrown backwards by the blast, keeping his fingers wrapped tight on the girl. The world was silent for a second. Bright lights danced before his eyes. He saw Robs face dancing in front of him, but couldn't hear what he was saying.

The world went dark.