Bosnia, 1996
Children with empty eyeswere a dime a dozen in war zones. But this one? This one was special.
I spotted him through the morning haze, perched on a chunk of bombed-out concrete. The air reeked of smoke and rot, the aftermath of mortar fire from the night before. Distant gunshots punctuated the eerie quiet, but the boy didn't flinch at the sound. He sat motionless, all bones and pale skin, a human gargoyle surveying his domain. Five, maybe six years old, tops. Too small for the bloodstained t-shirt hanging off his shoulders like a shroud.
What caught my eye wasn't his stillness, or the dried blood caked in his hair. It was the makeshift knife in his tiny fist. It was little more than a shard of metal wrapped at one end with electrical tape. His knuckles were bruised and bloody, his nails rimmed with dark crescents. Fresh kills left traces.
"Dobro jutro," I called out in Bosnian, keeping my distance. The rubble crunched under my boots, sending pebbles skittering down the concrete slope. The kid had survived this long for a reason, and cornered animals bit. "You got a name, kid?"
The boy tensed, knife raising. His eyes darted to my security detail, counting them, measuring threats. His gaze calculated angles, escape routes, weapons. Smart. So damn smart.
"No closer," he warned, voice surprisingly steady. No tremor, no childish pitch. He spoke like a soldier.
I raised my hands, palms out. The winter cold bit at my exposed skin, but I didn't shiver. Couldn't show weakness. "I’m not here to hurt you. Just want to talk."
His head tilted. A predator assessing prey, though he had it backward. "You're American."
"Good ear." No point hiding the Boston accent that clung to my words like tar.
He pointed with his knife. "You have the American flag on your shirt."
I glanced at the little brass pin I'd forgotten about. Cold metal against the wool of my overcoat. The kid had an eye for detail. "So I do."
Behind me, my guide muttered about schedules and danger zones, his breath clouding in the frigid air. I silenced him with a look. Some opportunities you don't pass up.
The boy's ice-blue eyes locked onto mine. Not the vacant stare of shock I'd seen in other child survivors. These eyes were calculated. Cold. Perfect.
"You can call me Prometheus." I pulled out my tin of fancy French pastilles. Not the cheap candies my men used to bribe local kids. The good stuff, each candy wrapped in wax paper worth more than a day'swages here. I popped one in my mouth first, letting the sharp sweetness bloom on my tongue. Universal sign for "not poisoned."
"Want one?"
He slid off his perch silently, muscles moving with unusual coordination for a child so young. The knife remained ready, his small body coiled tight as he circled to maintain escape routes. I gestured for my security to step back. Men with automatic weapons retreated from a child with a scrap of metal. Kid had balls.
He selected a candy with his free hand, never lowering the knife. Only after I'd eaten mine did he try it, eyes widening slightly at the explosion of flavor. His cracked lips parted in surprise. Probably his first sweet in months.
"Family?" I asked as he carefully folded the wrapper one-handed, creasing it with his thumb.
"Gone." No emotion. Just facts. He pocketed the wrapper square.
“How long have you been alone?”
He counted on his fingers and held up three.
"You've been alone for three weeks?"
His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the dirt on his cheek.
My guide stepped forward. Snow crunched under his boots. "Sir, the convoy—"
I shut him up with a gesture. "That blood on your shirt. Not yours?"
The boy shook his head. "The man who tried to take me." Matter-of-fact. He gestured with the knife, the blade leaving a silver arc in the air. "This worked better than I thought."
My skin warmed despite the cold. Such potential in those small hands.
"Your parents in there?" I nodded toward the collapsed building, concrete dust still floating in shafts of weak sunlight.
He pointed to what used to be the third floor, now pancaked concrete and rebar. "Soldiers came at night. Killed them. Ana and I hid in Papa's crawl space."
