One Way Out

by A. A. Dhand

  Mustafa Khan, the escapee, had been taken straight to hospital. The sniper had missed the critical shot, hitting him in the shoulder, taking him down, not out. He was the only earner in his family, with a pregnant wife and elderly parents. The pressure had got to him.

  This was going from bad to worse. The reality was, as the deadline diminished, there would be more incidents like this.

  ‘You tried the tunnels, Frost.’ The voice was disguised, just like before. ‘How did you like our little surprise down there for your men?’

  Frost said nothing. There were four other departments listening in, he couldn’t put a foot wrong.

  ‘And now this. Is the one who escaped dead?’

  Frost had a decision to make. The Patriots wanted to hear Mustafa was dead but he couldn’t guarantee his organization was without leaks.

  ‘Serious injury. The prognosis as yet unknown,’ he said.

  ‘You made the right call. Otherwise we may have had to act on it ourselves.’ The voice paused. ‘Do you have the four leaders of Almukhtaroon?’

  ‘It is an ongoing operation.’

  ‘You have three hours.’

  The line went dead.

  EIGHTY-ONE

  Inside the mosque, everyone who had been sleeping was now awake. An hour since the boy had been shot and everything appeared to be fracturing.

  The gunshot had caused a ripple of hysteria.

  The army were about to storm the mosque and everyone would die.

  Because someone had escaped, the bomb would detonate.

  Saima watched in horror as a surge of people, maybe two dozen strong, tried to storm the foyer from the grand hall. It sounded like they were being rebuffed and the doors were slammed shut.

  Maria removed her phone and hurriedly typed a text.

  Saima tried to get the phone from her. Had the enormous room not been so chaotic, someone might have seen the women engage in a struggle.

  Maria swept Saima to one side and, before she knew it, Saima crumpled to the ground, unable to breathe. She hadn’t even seen the blow.

  Unable to move, she could do nothing except watch Maria’s fingers dance across her phone before answering a call. As more people headed out of the room, Saima couldn’t hear Maria’s words. The phone was replaced, then Maria sat down on the floor beside Saima and said calmly, ‘If they leave, this ends.’

  As if the death of over a thousand people was routine.

  Imam Hashim’s voice boomed across the speaker system now, pleading for quiet and saying he had urgent news he needed to share with everyone.

  Saima, her breath recovered, heard raised voices outside. The doors of the grand hall opened. The people who had tried to make a run for it returned, clearly irate. There were more people keeping leavers in than trying to leave themselves. For how much longer, Saima didn’t know. She focused on the stage.

  Hashim didn’t mince his words. ‘This is very simple,’ he said, hands raised, tone aggressive – a different approach from before. ‘If we break up in here and fall apart, we will lose. Do you not think these people want us to escape? So they can kill us all? So far we have stood together. Now, as we enter the final three hours of this standoff, we cannot – we must not – fail!’

  Hashim had a remote in his hand and used it to turn on the large screen behind him, a live feed from an Arabic news channel covering the ten-thousand-strong crowd in Forster Square, candles held high – one enormous sea of light.

  ‘Our friends did not return home when they were able. No. They are with us and the security services outside this building are doing everything they can to end this siege. We must play our part!’

  A dissenting voice from the crowd interrupted. ‘Doing everything they can – killing an innocent man!’

  There were wide-reaching murmurs of agreement.

  ‘Nobody has been killed. The boy who fled was not seriously injured. We are not the only ones under extreme pressure. We have a chance here – but if we give in and leave, then we each seal our own fate and that of everyone in this room. Quite simply, we all die. At least give yourselves the best chance you can.’

  He pointed to the screen again. ‘Have you ever seen such a coming together of our people? Are they trying to storm the mosque in outrage? Are they engaging in fights with those Far Right protesters behind them? No. They pray for us and with us.’

  Saima didn’t think his words were having the impact they needed. For the first time, he looked tired and uncertain. Moreover, the congregation was now clearly divided.

  Saima felt that the closer they got to 6 a.m., the greater the chance of a mass exodus.

  And for the first time she started to think of having her own shot at leaving.

  EIGHTY-TWO

  Harry’s ribs hurt. He was forced to take slow, shallow breaths of air.

  He’d checked his face in the car mirror. Cut eye, bust lip, blood-crusted nose. It was a long time since Harry had been in a fight like that. He flicked his eyes to the rear-view mirror and saw Abu-Nazir and Amelia staring at him.

  What now?

  Isaac had asked him twice. Truthfully, Harry didn’t know. Every mile he put between himself and Saville Tower should have brought some peace but he knew he was heading towards the unknown. It could all be about to get a whole lot worse.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Isaac.

  ‘Back to Azeez.’

  ‘And then?’

  Harry didn’t reply. He swallowed, gagging at the taste of blood in his mouth.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Isaac’s voice was uncertain.

  ‘Marvellous.’

  He didn’t know how to talk to the kid just now. The Patriots wouldn’t care that Isaac wasn’t a true extremist. They wouldn’t want to hear his story.

  ‘You’re worried about what happens to me now?’ Isaac asked.

  Harry’s head was starting to pound.

  As he entered Bradford, Harry pulled off the main road, once again using the side streets to reach the football stadium.

  The Patriots’ words were replaying in his mind.

  Sacrifices must be made.

  Difficult decisions undertaken.

  Harry glanced at Isaac, conflicted.

  Sacrifice.

  EIGHTY-THREE

  Back inside the football stadium, Harry pushed Abu-Nazir and Amelia into the prison cell. They’d given up protesting through the tape over their mouths by now.

  Azeez sat delirious in a pool of water, the ice bag just visible underneath him.

  Harry took a photo of all four of them together, Isaac holding a copy of today’s newspaper they’d found dumped by the food stands in the concourse. He could hardly believe he had them all. Isaac joined him outside the cell and Harry closed the door, locking it and handing the keys to Isaac. He trusted him fully now.

  ‘Stay here and keep an eye on this lot for me.’

  Harry made his way back to the concourse and found an exhausted-looking Ben standing by his car. Harry nodded towards the large metal gates.

  ‘On the way in, saw a first-aid sign in the window next to that exit.’

  Ben nodded. ‘Player treatment room.’

  Harry doubled over as a bolt of agony shook his insides.

  ‘Christ, Harry, are you OK?’

  He took a moment, the world going a little dizzy. He wondered just how many ribs Joe might have cracked.

  ‘Any painkillers in that place?’

  ‘I reckon so.’

  Harry moved towards the room, keeping his breathing short and shallow. Ben unlocked the door. Harry scoured the room, seeing a small metal cabinet fixed to the wall. It had a sticker on it: Controlled drugs.

  ‘You got the key to that?’

  Ben shrugged, looking a little sheepish.

  ‘Do you?’ asked Harry, more insistently.

  ‘Only supposed to open it when the team doctor’s present. Laws and all that.’

  ‘You can say I forced you.’

  Ben seemed to understand the ur
gency. He flicked through his keys, found the right one and opened the cabinet, stepping aside. ‘I’ll have to say you made me do it, Harry.’

  ‘You do that.’

  Harry found several boxes of tablets and a bottle of liquid. He snatched at the bottle. Morphine solution 10mg/5ml. He had heard Saima speaking about the drug so many times, a common painkiller in A&E. There was also a small book in the cabinet: Record of Administration. He scanned it, seeing multiple entries – players’ names and the same dose repeated time and time again: 10mg/5ml, with only one entry saying 20mg/10ml.

  Hell with it. He unscrewed the top. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ben looking grave. ‘I know what I’m doing,’ said Harry.

  He swigged a mouthful, reckoning a tad over 10ml. He was a big lad and the pain in his chest was killing him.

  ‘What have you heard about what’s happening out there?’ said Harry, closing the cabinet and sticking the bottle of morphine in his pocket.

  Ben looked unimpressed.

  Harry waited for an answer.

  ‘Whoever got shot outside the mosque isn’t serious. Media reported on it a few minutes back.’

  That was smart, thought Harry. If it were true. Quicker they dispelled the notion of a dead worshipper, or a dead terrorist, quicker the heat got taken out of this.

  ‘Them Muslims are in Forster Square. Holding candles.’

  Harry heard the disapproval.

  ‘Far Right reckon they are making a stand too. Fucking city is going to hell.’

  Sitting alone in the dugout, Harry stared into the emptiness of the stadium. The morphine was starting to kick in, the edge taken off his pain.

  He had 4 per cent battery left on his phone and dialled Saima. Straight to voicemail. Again.

  Harry put his phone away and removed the burner unit, needing to call Tariq. Only thing was, Harry didn’t want to hand over control of Almukhtaroon. With the shooting outside the mosque and the enormous crowd of Muslim worshippers in Forster Square, everything was primed for anarchy. Would it change Tariq’s resolve? Would he be compromised by all of this? Harry didn’t trust politicians at the best of times and the Home Secretary had proved to be a slippery son-of-a-bitch. Harry wanted to speak to the Patriots himself. Christ, he’d done all the work thus far, he’d be damned if he just handed it all over. For him, this was about Saima. He dialled Tariq, who answered immediately.

  ‘Secure?’ Harry said.

  ‘Yes. Where are you?’ replied Tariq, voice shaky.

  ‘Close. I need to speak to the Patriots. Right now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I said so.’

  The line went silent.

  ‘Bradford’s unravelling. If it kicks off, we all lose. Time to end this, no compromises. You’ve got three minutes to get me the number or I walk into a police station with all four of these bastards and end this right now. Make it a much larger headache – four dead or a thousand?’ Harry hung up.

  There was nothing more to say.

  It was a bluff. No way had he come this far just to hand Almukhtaroon over to the police.

  The phone in his hand started to ring. Harry rejected the call and typed a hurried text.

  Two minutes now. Send the number.

  How could he know if he was doing the right thing? How could he know Saima would come home safely? He couldn’t. And he hated it.

  Harry’s phone beeped a text message. A phone number. Harry didn’t hesitate. He called the Patriots.

  An international dial-tone.

  ‘I have what you need,’ he said, wincing as a sharp bolt of pain stung his ribs.

  A pause.

  ‘Civilian or security?’ The voice was disguised.

  ‘Civilian,’ said Harry, afraid if he said he was on the force it might complicate things.

  ‘We require photographic proof.’

  ‘I have it.’

  Harry was given another number to text the picture to and did so quickly.

  The call disconnected.

  He closed his eyes, focusing on the pain – his face, his ribs, his hands, anything not to think about Saima and what was happening inside the mosque.

  He jumped at the noise of his phone ringing.

  ‘Are you willing to kill them?’

  Harry considered his response. ‘I—’

  ‘Either they die or everyone inside the mosque dies. If you won’t decide, we’ll put it to the people. You have ninety minutes.’

  The line went dead.

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  It all came down to this. Four lives against a thousand. Just as Tariq Islam had said it would.

  Harry had wanted control. Now he had it.

  Isaac was the problem here. A choice between the other three and a thousand inside the mosque was no choice at all.

  He couldn’t sit here and think about it, a decision had to be made. He walked reluctantly back towards Isaac.

  Harry heard noises coming from the cell, two voices.

  But they were bound and gagged. Everyone but Isaac.

  Was he …

  Harry rounded the corner, saw the cell door open, keys in the lock, Isaac crouched beside Amelia. He squeezed inside the room.

  ‘I had to take the tape off Amelia,’ Isaac said. ‘She was throwing up, would have choked if I hadn’t done it.’

  Amelia was drained of all her colour, eyes closed.

  ‘Shame you didn’t leave it five minutes,’ replied Harry. It would have made at least one decision easier for him.

  ‘There’s a complication.’ Isaac dropped his gaze to the floor. Fidgeting with his hands.

  Harry looked at Amelia again. Pale. Vomiting. The realization hit him.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, energy draining from his body.

  ‘She’s pregnant,’ said Isaac.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  Ninety minutes before the deadline and ACC Frost had a nightmare on his hands – either a nightmare or a lifeline, depending on how he could swing it.

  A picture had emerged on Twitter of the four leaders of Almukhtaroon, secure, alive. None of them looked to be in a good way but somebody had them.

  It seemed the photo had been posted by the Patriots themselves. It was followed by something else. Frost had stared down at his phone.

  We, the people of this great country, will decide the fate of Bradford. Take back control!

  4 leaders of Almukhtaroon dead? 96%

  1000 innocent people dead? 4%

  3,650,863 votes

  It was increasing every minute, the early morning hour no deterrent. The world continued to watch Bradford.

  The photo had inspired another raft of calls to the Gold Command hotline. Sightings of the Almukhtaroon leaders right across the city. No way Frost’s men could act on them before deadline.

  Most would turn out to be dead ends.

  Right now, in a small room on the second floor, no windows, no glass panels, locked away from eager ears and prying eyes, Frost, Tariq Islam and Commander David Allen were deep in conversation.

  ‘Can we get this vote pulled?’ Tariq Islam paced the floor.

  ‘We’re looking into it but it isn’t a quick thing to do,’ Frost responded. He hated that Tariq was in the room.

  ‘What else?’ Tariq asked.

  ‘We try to find them,’ Frost said. ‘We’ve got people analysing the photo now. We find them and we bring them into custody. We can’t sit by and let the masses vote on an execution like this.’

  The social media vote could not be ignored. With each passing second thousands were voting, baying for blood.

  If Frost apprehended Almukhtaroon, that would be the end of the matter. They would be put into safe custody. They had not broken any laws.

  The three most powerful people in this operation had one simple decision to make.

  To uphold the rule of law.

  Or to break it.

  EIGHTY-SIX

  Harry had Hauled Amelia out into the main concourse by the food stands, freed her hands
and given her some water. Isaac had followed behind.

  ‘Easiest way for you to get out of this is to play the pregnancy card.’

  She’d been crying, eyes blood-red, blonde curls stuck to her face.

  ‘My phone,’ she said meekly.

  Harry removed it from his pocket.

  ‘Turn it on. The pin is 300979. Access my diary. Thirty-first of July. Midwife appointment. In my photos, go back a week or so – you’ll find a picture of me holding a positive pregnancy test. That’s how I told him, Abu-Nazir. If you need more, my latest orders on Amazon will tell you the rest.’

  It was all there.

  ‘You’re not even three months and you’re buying baby things?’

  ‘It’s my first. I’m excited.’ Her voice was flat.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Harry, slamming her phone on the counter. ‘Fuck me!’

  Isaac slumped in a chair.

  ‘Take us to a police station. Let us walk inside. Wash your hands of this,’ said Amelia.

  ‘My wife’s inside that mosque.’

  ‘Is she pregnant?’

  Harry didn’t reply.

  ‘Call her. Ask her what she would do.’

  All he wanted was to hear Saima’s voice. He swayed a little on his feet, exhausted.

  ‘Hands,’ said Harry, gesturing for Amelia to raise them.

  ‘Who cuffs a pregnant woman?’

  ‘Says the bitch who put us all here.’

  She suddenly exploded from her seat and slapped him, hard.

  It shouldn’t have hurt. The blows Harry had taken from Joe had done real damage. Her slap sent a thunderbolt through Harry’s jaw into his brain. She went for it again but this time Isaac intervened before Harry could. They tussled and Harry grabbed for her, twisting one hand behind her back and slapping the cuffs on.

  ‘This is your half brother or sister,’ she screamed at Isaac. ‘Can you live with yourself knowing you condemned them to die?’

  She tried to lash out again. Harry wasn’t sure if she wanted to get to him or to Isaac but he stopped her.