It was hard work. Even a small village created problems. There were always hiding places. Places the children knew. And children were difficult. It was easy to miss children. The instructions were clear. All. Every one. No witnesses.
Fine for them in their well guarded compounds to say such things. Let them try it.
He found an old woman in one house. She said she could not move so he shot her where she sat.
They got most of them to gather by the post office. He got sick after a while. There wasn't a one of the crew would wade through those bodies looking for signs of life. The boy was crying and vomiting all over his gun. He'd get over it.
One more sweep of the village. A child just walking looked up at him through the back of a chair in an empty kitchen. He turned his back. Mission accomplished.
He left after that. No special reason. Just a weariness. Fear. The UN are coming, the papers said.
A few years later he was in Paris, sitting in a cafe near St Menard church. He drank a beer and watched the children in the play area that overlaid the bodies of the long dead.
Two men in suits were approaching him, watching him. Right hands in pockets. So. This was the moment then...
But the men walked on, discussing a soccer game.