by S A Tameez
Whilst he was putting the items in the trunk of the car, he noticed a shop that sold paintball guns. This gave him a superlative idea. The lights were on and he could see a man inside. He opened the heavy glass door and walked in. The spot lights in the ceiling were bright and Ahmed’s eyes stung. It was cold inside, as if the air conditioning was on at full blast. Why would someone have aircon on in weather this cold? The man behind the counter was holding a clipboard and making notes.
“Sorry… we’re closed.”
“I just need a paintball gun and some paint ball cartridges, and I will be right out of here.”
“Hey, we closed a few hours ago… I can’t really…” the man stopped in his tracks as Ahmed removed a handful of notes, “I… I suppose I could sort you out with a couple of things.” He threw the clip board onto the counter and walked to the display area of his most premium products. They were the products that everyone would look at, but no one would purchase.
“What you after? You a Rambo-type and want to go crazy? Or are you like one of those silent assassin types?” the man asked excitedly, making the relevant gestures. Must be a paintball fanatic, Ahmed thought.
Ahmed pointed to the long sniper gun, “I’ll take that one!” Ahmed had no idea which one to pick, but he definitely knew he wasn’t the Rambo type and he certainly had no intentions of using the paintball gun to shoot at people. Especially not those mean looking men at the factory. They were probably heavily armed with real guns. Wouldn’t really be much of fight.
“Good choice… you look like the silent assassin type.”
If only you knew… Ahmed thought.
The man opened the glass cabinet and handed Ahmed the gun.
“That’s three-ninety-five,” the man said. “And it comes with a hundred paintballs,” he added. Ahmed handed him five-hundred Euros and smiled, “thanks… keep the change,” and walked towards the exit.
“Sir, you sure? You know you just handed me five-hundred? Right?”
“Right,” Ahmed replied, and walked out of the door as fast as he could. It didn’t make much difference to him, he could have paid triple that. Money meant nothing to him. Especially this money, money that was linked to such evil.
Ahmed drove back to where he parked earlier, close by the card factory. He felt flustered and warm chills rippled through him. He knew what he was about to do was insane and the chances of him actually pulling it off were even more ludicrous.
He removed the items from his trunk and sat in the back seat of the car. Conveniently, the back windows on the car were smoke-tinted, this along with the dark sky made it easy for Ahmed to not be seen. This was a crucial element when making a bomb.
Ahmed paused for a moment and fell into deep thought. He hated being viewed as a ‘terrorist’ or an ‘Islamic extremist’ — he was neither of them, he knew that for sure, even if the entire world were to disagree. He wasn’t here for a political or religious war, he had no intentions of hurting innocent people and yet here he was, sitting in the back of a car, on dark street building a bomb.
His hands trembled as he put the ingredients together. And although, theoretically, it should go off flawlessly, anything could go wrong. It was the sort of risk that was expected when making an illegal homemade explosive. He had heard about people attempting to make this sort of thing and blowing themselves up in the process. They, of course, were labelled as alleged suicide bombers. Idiots, was what Ahmed thought of them. Most of them had as much knowledge of why they were making the bomb as they did on how to make it. Brainwashed into committing mass murder by people who sat back and enjoyed the show.
In a short while, Ahmed was watching from behind a brick wall, as the car headed at speed towards the building. From his position some yards away, Ahmed could tell that the guards were startled by the way their heads turned this way and that. The car looked as though it was not going to stop until it crashed into the building. Ahmed had put a brick on the accelerator pedal and released the handbrake. It roared and then crashed into the side of the factory. The impact was intense. The entire front of the car was crushed. It was the sort of thing you would expect with light weight performance cars, the bodies were made with light materials to enable them to go faster — when you hit a solid wall, the cars ended up like crushed tinfoil. Bricks on the factory wall crumbled with the impact, but the toy car was no match for an old, well-built factory wall. Not that Ahmed’s plan was to drive through the building.
One of the men guarding the entrance, took out a radio and shouted into it, whilst his comrade removed a handgun from his pocket and moved towards the car. The other chap followed seconds later, his own gun outstretched and pointing at the car. They approached the car cautiously, holding their weapons out in front of them. From the manner that they conducted themselves and the way they held their weapons, there was no doubt that they were trained professionals.
They stared at the car, dumbfounded. No driver.
They looked around. The street was empty, except for the two men sitting in the car, who, strangely as Ahmed thought, didn’t get out of the car to investigate. Must be some kind of protocol, Ahmed thought.
The men put their weapons away and peered into the smashed windows of the car, but within a few seconds, the car suddenly exploded, sending the two men flying. A large cloud of fire erupted with flames that were at least three times the height of the car. Bits of glass and nails flew out like bullets from a machine gun. Some went as far as the other car in which the men sat inside, smashing the back windscreen, making them duck for cover. The entire street lit up and filled with smoke.
The explosion and the flames were much bigger than Ahmed had anticipated, I might have used too much bleach, he thought as he crept towards the building. He had the rucksack tightly strapped on his back and the paintball gun in his hands. He watched as the men from the car got out and rushed to the scene.
Thank Heaven the brick on the accelerator trick worked. Ahmed wanted to leap up and down, and punch the air, but there was no time for that, plus, this was not a game — it was a deadly exercise. Ahmed had doubted his plan would work. So many things could have gone wrong, he could have blown himself up while making the bomb, the car could have gone off course, the bomb might not have detonated. Yet it worked perfectly, almost perfectly, he thought as the stared at the inferno.
Two more men rushed out of the building, leaving the door open. Perfect! Ahmed ran toward it, praying that the men wouldn’t spot him. He shot the paintball gun at the CCTV cameras facing the door, covering the lenses with bright pink paint. His aim was spot on and although fear and adrenaline was rushing through his body, he was enjoying it.
Inside, the building was dim and dingy. The walls were dark and Ahmed’s nostrils were met with the strong acrid smell of damp.
Creeping stealthily along the corridor, Ahmed passed by doors that lined a long corridor. All was dark under the doors, except for one of them which had light escaping from the bottom. If he was going to take any guesses on which one to open, it would be that one. He paused for second, knowing that anything could be behind it. The image of tall, strong men, armed with automatic weapons sprung to mind. But he knew that Malik could also be behind this door, he had to open it, even if it killed him. He also knew that putting too much thought into doing something stupid might prevent him from doing something stupid. And so far, stupid had been working. He put the paintball gun down and took out his real gun, the one he had taken from the dead lorry driver. He hated this gun. The paintball gun represented excitement and fun, whilst this signified pain, suffering and, most of all, murder.
He mumbled a little prayer and kicked the door as hard as could. He barged in, waving the gun, expecting to be surrounded by huge, ugly men, ready to shoot him dead. But what he saw in the room was worse. Far worse. The room was filled with long tables and small chairs and each chair had a small terrified child sitting on it. They were all wearing white masks over their faces, like those worn by surgeons in an operation
theatre. They were packing little bags with white powder, which Ahmed guessed was illegal drugs. They looked terrified, so terrified that although they jumped when Ahmed barged in, they didn’t stop working. They tried not to make eye contact and continued packing. They were like tamed animals, subjected to so much fear that they dared not stop following their orders.
This must be why Boreas is abducting the children… to do his dirty work… Ahmed glanced over the children, “please take off your masks.” He asked softly. They all immediately stopped and took off their masks.
He looked at all their faces but to his great disappointment, Malik wasn’t among them.
This is disgusting, how could someone treat children like this? Using them like machines, they’ve probably been sitting here in this dingy, cold room all day. Have refugees become so “less human” that people can treat them like machines? I am sure when these children came to seek refuge from war, they didn’t expect to come to hell… living the dream…Living the nightmare more like!
Ahmed’s heart filled with rage.
He removed his rucksack off his back and took out his phone and the black book that he took from the truck. He remembered seeing the telephone number for the local police department.
He knew that the authorities would not want to deal with all these children, they would look to try to deport them back to their war-torn countries. They were probably better off deported anyway. This was not living. They might as well be dead than be enslaved like this. He didn’t have a choice.
“Police.” A confident voice answered.
“I am in the Town Card Factory,” Ahmed said, “you know the place?”
“Yes… what is the problem?”
“The problem is that instead of cards, the factory is full of children, kidnapped children.”
“Who is this?”
“Who am I? That’s the wrong question. The right question is how long will it take for the media to get here and expose this little setup? Yes, that’s right, I called the media and promised them that will get the story of their lives if they get here before the police do.”
“What is this?”
“A race, I guess.” Ahmed hung up the phone.
He looked towards the door as he heard voices. He put the rucksack back on, pulling the straps tightly. He glanced over at the children, “Quick, put the masks back on and get back to doing what you were doing.” The children did as they were told, as if they were used to reacting fast to instructions. They looked forward and began working in filling the bags like little machines. Looking around, it was a factory, it didn’t make cards, instead it packed smuggled drugs. And it didn’t have machinery. Instead it held lost, unaccounted for refugee children, that the world had forgotten, as its apparatus. But it was certainly a factory.
Ahmed stood by the side of the door and waited for it to open. The horrific sight that he was witnessing consumed him with anger. Adrenalin began to pump and the fear fled from him. He didn’t care about who was about to walk into the room. And if he died trying to save these children, then so be it.
Two men walked in and Ahmed found himself directly behind them. It wouldn’t take long for them to notice him. I could just shoot them in the back, God knows they deserve it. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, the price his conscience was paying for what he’d done already was too high. He could have opened the door and snuck out without them noticing but he couldn’t leave the children with these two. Lord only knew what they would do to the children when they discovered that the police were on their way. Instead, he leapt forward and struck one of the men in the back of the head with the gun, knocking him to the ground, unconscious. Ahmed cringed. It was a hard hit, hopefully not too hard.
He then pointed the gun directly at the other man, who stood there staring in shock. Ahmed looked at the sprinklers on the ceiling and was struck with an idea. Another stupid idea, but Ahmed was beginning to be convinced his ideas were so prosperous, they worked. He then looked back at the man who must have seen him looking at the sprinklers and shook his head. Ahmed pointed the gun at the sprinkler and fired a shot. Ahmed was shocked that his aim was accurate, especially considering his trembling hands and his lack of experience. Allah was definitely on his side, he thought. Instantly, all the sprinklers went off and water showered down like heavy rain. The man looked around angrily at the white powder turning into slush.
“Are you insane!” the man yelled. “Do you know who this belongs to? You are a dead man!” Ahmed didn’t respond, being a dead man was something he had become accustom to. He should have been dead long ago. The fact that he had gotten this far was a miracle.
Ahmed smiled as he heard sirens in the distance. It was like the sound of sweet music. He peered over at the children, their eyes filled with fear. Some, upon hearing the sirens, took off their masks. Expressions of both and fear and hope pasted on their little faces.
He began walking backwards to the exit, still pointing the gun in the man’s direction.
“Who the hell are you?” the man asked. “Are you one of one of Dimitris’ men?”
Ahmed thought for a second, feeling like he owed the man a response. He did after all just ruin a factory full of drugs — probably millions of euros worth. “My name is Goldstein,” he said with confidence and a sinister grin. A befitting title for himself he thought.
“Well, Goldstein… you have just signed your death warrant.”
“I signed that a while ago,” replied Ahmed. “A dead man has nothing to fear.” Ahmed smiled to himself. The whole already being dead thing helped him to become somewhat intrepid. After all, you couldn’t kill someone who was already dead.
Ahmed began to move backwards, pointing the gun at the man’s face. “Don’t try to follow me, or I’ll blow your face off.” Once out the door, Ahmed raced to get out of the building as quickly as he could.
Outside the building the car in which the two men sat had disappeared. Ahmed sighed in relief. He had not relished the idea that he would be faced with two more armed professionals.
He ran and hid behind the wall where he had hidden before. Four police cars came speeding, skidding into the precinct to a halt. Three armed police officers got out of each car and kicked and battered their way into the building. Ahmed sighed in relief. He couldn’t believe that he had pulled it off. He had gotten into the building, destroyed the drugs and, hopefully, saved those poor children from the evil clutches of those men. With a bit of luck, the man that he struck with the gun would be ok. It would take more than luck for the two men that were hit by his explosive, however. They were probably goners. And although, Ahmed believed they deserved it, he knew that he was not the judge, jury, and executioner. They deserved a fair trial and what they got was far from fair.
Ahmed caught sight of the man being taken out in handcuffs. He was protesting, shouting, and cursing. Presumably, the other man would need an ambulance or a body bag.
I hope those kids will be ok, Ahmed thought as he hightailed it into the dark. He knew that he couldn’t hang around. He couldn’t risk getting spotted and he still had to find Malik, who may be going through the same traumatic experience as these kids, or maybe even worse. The thought was making him want to scream. He couldn’t stop to think about it, he was afraid that he would have a panic attack and collapse.
He walked through alleyways to avoid too much exposure. Especially now, as everyone was after him, the good, bad and the ugly. He removed the rucksack and dropped it on the floor and stretched his back. It felt like a heavy burden had been lifted. His jaw didn’t feel right, it had shifted out of place again and regardless of how hard he tried to realign it, it wouldn’t budge. It now clicked every time he opened and closed his mouth. It was cold and he felt colder with soaking clothes.
He took out the piece of paper, which had the list of Boreas’ businesses on it, and crossed the card factory off the list. Although he was heart-broken that Malik wasn’t there, he was satisfied that he brought that revolting opera
tion down. All the children in that dungeon once had a father, a father that would have given his life for his child in a heartbeat. To Ahmed, they were all Malik.
The next building on the list was a textiles warehouse. He could only imagine what was going on in there. He was certain that there wouldn’t be any textiles.
He knew that time was of the essence. The longer he took, the weaker his chances of finding Malik. He walked out of the alleyway anxiously. His feet were begging him to stop for a few more moments. The large blisters had burst. And the dead skin that had scabbed over on his knees, had begun to peel around the edges. It was now getting caught on the inside of his trousers and tugged painfully. But he couldn’t stop.
He stood by the road and managed to flag down a taxi, which was lucky considering the late hour. But just like everything else that had been occurring, it all happened almost automatically. And again, he felt like he was watching himself as opposed to actually doing it. He felt a sense of detachment, none of it seemed real.
He got into the foul-smelling taxi and kept his head down, hoping that the taxi driver wouldn’t recognise him from his TV celebrity status. As he sat back in the seat, a tear in the leather upholstery caught his hand. It would be daylight soon and he had no clear plan, except that he had to do whatever it took to free his son from these beasts.
11
Boreas sat in a large leather chair behind an old oak desk. His head rested against the cushion, eyes closed as he imagined himself somewhere lush, and far away. Haunting orchestral music played from an old vinyl record player, inducing him into a paradise of greenery and blue water. A faint crackle in the well-played record gave Boreas a sense of charm to the overall effect of listening to classics on an old vinyl player. His head moved gently with the music, his fingers lightly playing imaginary keys. He had listened to this record so often that he was well-rehearsed with every note.
