by Conrad Jones
The cameras panned to the Westbrook explosion and the subtitle at the bottom of the screen turned red. The title `breaking news` scrolled across the screen.
“We have news just in from the Cheshire Constabulary that the victim of the road side bomb attack at Westbrook, a suburb of Warrington in Cheshire, was in fact Mrs Rashid Ahmed, the wife of the disgraced bank mogul Rashid Ahmed,” the reporter said.
He rubbed his knee and the pain shot through him. It was strange that he always had an incredible itching sensation at the back of his calf, even though it had been blown off over a year ago. He winced, not sure whether it was the pain in his missing limb, or the news that he had killed the wrong member of the Ahmed family.
“It is believed that Mrs Rashid Ahmed had been called out by her alarm company to a firebomb attack at their Warrington branch, and her vehicle was targeted as she made her way to the incident. The police are connecting the two scenes as being part of an elaborate plot, which the police assume would have targeted Mr Rashid Ahmed, and at this point the police can only speculate as to who the perpetrators would be,” the reporter continued.
“It has been a black forty eight hours for Warrington, however the police have ruled out any connection between the Westbrook incident, and the shootings at the Turf and Feather public house in Locking Stumps.” The camera images changed to show the shattered windows of the public house, surrounded by flapping yellow crime scene tape.
He emptied his can of Stella Artois and hurled it at the television, bouncing it off the screen and spraying the wall behind with remnants of Belgian lager. It certainly wasn’t the first time that he`d been involved in an operation that had killed the wrong target, and it probably wouldn’t be the last, despite his condition. As long as he had a breath in his body he would fight against the invading hordes, who were not here to integrate, but were only here to bleed it dry while they plotted against the state. There was no way he was going to sit back and allow Islamic Jihad to be fuelled and supplied from within his own country, no way, not ever.
He reached underneath a small coffee table which was to the right of his chair, and removed a folder that he compiled over his long months in hospital. Inside were the details of suspect individuals and organisations that he had categorised as legitimate targets. He had researched the details of companies, and individuals that were accused of supporting Afghan Taliban fighters and Iraqi extremists. There was list as long as his arm of sympathisers of Kashmiri separatists in Pakistan, and Sri Lanka`s Tamil Tigers, not to mention groups that ran charity shops raising money for the insurgents in Iraq. He fumbled through his files looking for the details which related to Rashid Ahmed. His files were organised into alphabetical order, and he flicked through searching for domiciles.
Rashid Ahmed had nearly a dozen properties in his portfolio, but only four were situated in the United Kingdom. He had to assume that the investigation into his arms dealing and financial donations to the Taliban rebels by the British government had resulted in his passport being confiscated. Rashid must therefore still be in one of his British properties, hiding from the media spotlight while his business interests were put under the microscope.
The first address was Ambleside, in the Lake District, which is a stunning tourist town set in the Windermere valley, at the north shore of the lake. The banks of the valley rise sharply to the east, and are spotted with beautiful slate built bungalows which all have a glorious view across the lake to the breathtaking mountains beyond. Rashid was a keen walker, and a lover of the mountain districts, probably a throw back to his years in Afghanistan. The address he had listed included a telephone number. He picked up the handset and punched in the prefix numbers 141, which withheld the caller`s identity, and then dialled the number listed as belonging to Rashid`s property. The line clicked into life as the number connected. He let it ring for nearly ten minutes before cutting the call off. There was no one at the Ambleside property.
Brighton was the second property on the list, a Victorian coastal resort on Britain`s south shores, that had become the home of the rich and famous because of its close proximity to London. He repeated the process using the prefix to camouflage his call. The number rang out six times and then clicked straight to a voice mail facility, which declared that it was full and there was no room for any more messages. The media frenzy surrounding Rashid meant that the paparazzi were hunting him down twenty four hours a day, trying desperately to attain the first interview with him since his wife had been assassinated. He held the receiver to his head and thought about the situation. If he had found the details of his properties then the determined press would have reporters outside of every single one of them. The information was in the public domain, available to anyone that could be bothered to look at the land registry. Rashid Ahmed had spent decades in the arms business, ducking and diving, making an art form of concealing his actions as well as his whereabouts.
It occurred to him that it would be far too easy to find him at one of his holiday homes. There must be something else in his files that could indicate a less obvious refuge. He referred back to his files, and flicked from the domicile section to commercial properties. There was a four page list which contained the addresses and contact details of every bank and associated business that Rashid Ahmed owned. There were hundreds of properties listed. He grabbed a yellow highlighter pen from the coffee table next to him and studied the lists. Most of them were clearly identified as branches of Blackstallion bank, others appeared to be offices or administration centres connected to them. It wasn’t until he reached properties which began with the letter `N` that he noticed an unusual listing. It was listed as a storage facility called Montserrat, which was situated at a vaguely familiar place called North Stack, Holyhead, on the Island of Anglesey, which is situated off the North West coast of Wales. The facility had no company name attached to it, only the name of the building, which was usually unique to residential properties.
He was very familiar with the Welsh port, a frequent holiday destination from his childhood days, and the name North Stack echoed in his memory. It was a place he had heard of but never visited because of its remote location, therefore a place of mystery and intrigue to his young mind at the time. He gripped the arms of his chair and used his incredibly strong arms to lift himself over the side and plonked himself down in his wheelchair. When he was in the service he was renowned for his awesome prowess in the gymnasium, seventy dips in a minute was a walk in the park for him. His injuries hadn’t detracted from his remarkable upper body strength.
He flicked off the brakes and pushed the chair across the sparsely furnished room to his computer. He typed in the web address for Google earth, and then entered the details of the property at North Stack. The computer programme displayed an aerial view of the port. The satellite picture zoomed into the area. Holyhead has a huge international deepwater harbour, servicing tankers from all over the world carrying aggregates used in the manufacture of aluminium at a foundry close by, on the edge of the town. The port spreads east to a manmade marina, which is protected by a mile and a half long seawall know as the `breakwater`, an ingenious piece of Victorian engineering.
From the marina the shore rises steeply and meets the craggy slopes of Holyhead Mountain. The mountain stands over a thousand feet tall, and the opposite side of the mountain runs into sheer cliffs, which drop precipitously into the Irish Sea. North Stack was situated on the edge of the cliffs to the north of the mountain, an uninhabited desolate place, which was high enough to look across Holyhead and the island of Anglesey, to the snow capped mountains of Snowdon beyond.
The picture showed one isolated property situated on the shoulders of the cliffs, overlooking the sea. He zoomed into the building to get a better look at it. There was a large white house with a slate roof, adjacent to three smaller outhouses; all surrounded be a low dry stonewall. Tall wooden telegraph poles carried power lines and communication cables from the port to the house, provided at huge expense by the o
riginal owner. A narrow path ran from the garden across fern covered headland, before it dropped sharply and twisted its way down the mountain to a disused quarry. There the ancient stone quarry`s service roads joined the main coast road about a mile away.
There was no helicopter landing pad near the house, he guessed the winds up there were too perilous to risk that particular mode of transport. The path leading down the mountain side was far too steep and narrow to navigate, even for the most powerful four wheel drive vehicles. That meant that the occupants of the house either walked, or had another mechanised option. Perhaps scrambler bikes or all terrain cycles, maybe high powered quad bikes.
It was the ideal hideaway. He turned the wheelchair around and guided it back to his armchair. He picked up the handset and dialled direct enquiries services.
“Hello direct enquiries, how can I help you?”
“I`m looking for the number of Montserrat House, North Stack, Holyhead please.”
“Do you have the name of the resident?”
“Try Rashid Ahmed.”
“I`m sorry sir, that number is ex-directory.”
“Fine, but is it listed to Rashid Ahmed?”
“I`m sorry sir but I can`t give out that information.”
“I realise that you have a protocol to follow but it is a matter of life and death.”
“I see, I can`t give you any information I`m afraid, but it isn’t registered to that name.”
“Oh dear, would it be registered as Blackstallion bank?”
“As I said earlier it is ex-directory, and it isn’t registered to that name either, I`m very sorry.”
He stabbed at the off button and ended the call, convinced that he had found Ahmed`s bolthole. The chair span as he wheeled it quickly back to the computer. The terrain was difficult for a fully able bodied soldier, almost impossible for a man who walks on prosthetic legs, but where there`s a will there`s a way. He would have to plan thoroughly to take out Rashid Ahmed in his cliff top hideaway, but there was no going back now.
There was a short sharp knock on the door before it opened, and the nurse entered with his evening meal.
Chapter Thirty Two
Salford Towers
Omar dived forward as the windows exploded into a million deadly shards. The nine millimetre bullets from his Mach 10 machinegun had blown the windows out, at the same time as Brendon had smashed them in with his sledgehammer. Omar dived for cover as the Brigade man opened fire with his Uzi. Large chunks of plaster were scattered across the room as bullets peppered the walls. The maelstrom of bullets subsided momentarily, and Omar took the opportunity to retaliate. He rolled toward the settee and sprayed bullets toward the flapping curtains, long strips of material were ripped from drapes and floated down toward the car park in the darkness. Muzzle flashes lit the room, revealing the cables of the maintenance cradle outside the window. Omar grinned in the darkness as he emptied his machinegun, and his gold teeth twinkled, reflecting the flame from the barrel.
The Mach 10 clicked empty as the firing pin hit an empty chamber. Omar dived for the living room doorway, rolling over as he tried to escape the killing zone. He smashed into the doorframe, which stunned him for a second, pain shot through his shoulder and he dropped the Mach 10 on the floor. Suddenly there was a dull thumping sound, followed by something rolling across the room. Omar`s eyes widened in realisation. He threw himself into the hallway slamming the door behind him.
“Grenade!” he shouted. The Somalis crouched behind the kitchen doorframe, and waited for the imminent explosion.
The noise of the explosion inside the flat prompted a new barrage of machinegun fire from the Brigade men on the landing outside. The front door disintegrated beneath the shattering force of the high velocity rounds. The metal gate now took the brunt of the gunfire, and the tower block echoed with sound of ricocheting bullets. Omar stood away from the living room door, anticipating the attacker`s next move. High velocity bullets ripped through the flimsy interior door, and a pattern of bullets holes snaked up the wall as Brendon fired the Uzi from inside the room.
Years of guerrilla warfare had taught Omar that patience and restraint would always overcome blind force, and he waited calmly for the telltale clicking sound of his enemy`s weapon running out of ammunition. He discarded his empty magazine, twisted it over and clicked a full clip into the Mach 10. A huge chunk of the door was blasted away by Brendon`s Uzi, and then he heard it click empty. Omar crossed the hallway in a flash and pulled the trigger. He could see his enemy silhouetted through the gapping ragged hole in the door.
Brendon was struggling to reload his machinegun in the gloom, not a real soldier with years of experience like his brother. He was thinking back to his brother`s tales of stripping down and reassembling weapons blindfolded. It had seemed like a pointless exercise at the time of listening, but now he understood the benefit of being able to reload a machinegun in the dark. He looked up and saw the momentary muzzle flash of a weapon in the dark hallway, but he didn’t live long enough to hear the gunshot because the round hit him in the teeth ripping his tongue off, before drilling an upward spiral through the roof of his mouth into his brain, blowing the top of his head off as it exited. His knees buckled and he collapsed in a bloody heap on the living room floor, his brains spilled onto the carpet from the gaping rent in his skull.
Omar listened to the noises around him, and assessed the situation. The machineguns outside had stopped firing and were replaced by a cacophony of shouting and screaming from numerous floors in the tower block. In the distance he heard the wail of sirens. He ran to the shattered window frame and looked over the city, blue lights were heading this way, but they were still a few miles away. Omar knelt down next to the Brigade man`s body and quickly patted him down. Two unused grenades were clipped to his belt. He took them and ran into the hallway.
“Get in here,” Omar whispered to his two affiliates, and they moved swiftly from the kitchen into the wreckage of the living room, hesitating slightly at the sight of Brendon`s brains pooling on the carpet.
“Cover him up,” Omar instructed one of them, “get into that maintenance platform and see if it can be operated manually, there should be a winding handle somewhere.”
The two Somalis sprang into action. The first ripped down the remaining pieces of tattered curtain, and threw them over the ruined head of the dead Brigade man. The second man vaulted the window ledge without fear or hesitation, and scrambled into the cradle searching for a winding mechanism, which would be fitted in case of emergencies. Omar returned to the reinforced metal gate and placed his ear to it, listening for signs of the enemy lurking outside. He heard harsh whispered orders, and panic was present in their voices. The combination of the residents of the tower block waking, and the approaching sirens was putting the Brigade men in a precarious position. They were running out of time. Omar decided to speed up their thought process. He pulled the pins from both grenades, and then slid open the metal plate in the gate, quickly dropping the explosive devices into the darkened landing beyond. Immediately machinegun bullets began to rake the door, but he was completely safe, and the gunfire had covered the noise of the grenades landing on the tiles.
Instinctively Omer kept low and ran down the hallway to the bedroom. He banged on the door.
“Gemma, open the door, it`s me,” he said.
The door opened just as the grenades exploded on the landing, causing a deafening blast, despite the armoured gate, and there was total silence for at least ten seconds, as the tower block residents were shocked into silence. Then there was a wall of sound as injured men began screaming outside the front door, and the population of Salford Towers became a hysterical.
“Oh my god, what was that?”
“Shut up and get into the living room.” Omar moved quickly, and grabbed a fleece top and black baggy jeans, he pushed his bare feet into Nike training shoes.
“Where are we going?” she asked incredulously.
“Out of the window babe
, init,” he answered smiling at her widely and the streetlights made his gold teeth glint in the dark.
Jay had followed Brendon up to the roof after killing the power to the tower block. He sent the remaining two men to back up the guys on the fourth floor. Jay looked over the roof parapet into the darkness below just as the grenades exploded on the fourth floor.
“Shit! What`s happening down there Dano?” he hissed into a two way coms unit, set up between him and Dano.
“That dipstick Brendon must have gone down. The Yardies have just tossed a couple of grenades through the door onto the landing.”
“Any casualties?”
