Danial had gone to buy milk when the drone struck his building. Only one woman survived. She lost both her legs.
Years later, Danial stood at the courthouse. He was suing the government for killing his family. He knew he’d never win; that his family’s lives, who’d lived millions of miles away in a foreign country meant nothing, but he was still adamant.
“Sorry Danny,” said his lawyer soberly, as they left the courthouse.
It took Danial another two years to get the name of the man who’d ordered the strike.
He stood outside the restaurant, watching his family’s killer with his teenage daughters and wife.
With a stoic expression he walked inside, ignored the maitre d’ and marched straight up to his target.
Danial’s hand slid inside his coat pocket.
“This is my wife and daughter,” he said loudly, holding up a half burnt photograph.
“To you, they were just collateral damage. No sir, they were not. You played God with their lives and others. Your justifications are meaningless. You sir, are a murderer and a coward.”
Silent eyes followed Danial out of the restaurant, then turned towards the stunned family.
As his daughters looked at their father with a horrified expression, for the first time, the man who’d served his country so proudly, felt ashamed.